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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", 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"and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. 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"rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including including checks, online payments and credit card\ndonations. To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Where does Longinus lead the legions?", "tokens": [ "Where", "does", "Longinus", "lead", "the", "legions", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Into the desert", "tokens": [ "Into", "the", "desert" ] }, { "text": "He leads them into the desert", "tokens": [ "He", "leads", "them", "into", "the", "desert" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", 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"and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What was Sempronius's daughters name?", "tokens": [ "What", "was", "Sempronius", "s", "daughters", "name", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Julia", "tokens": [ "Julia" ] }, { "text": "Julia", "tokens": [ "Julia" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What are Roman forces attempting to build on the riverbank of the Euphrates?", "tokens": [ "What", "are", "Roman", "forces", "attempting", "to", "build", "on", "the", "riverbank", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "A fort", "tokens": [ "A", "fort" ] }, { "text": "a fort", "tokens": [ "a", "fort" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "In what kingdom do the Roman and Parthian forces fight?", "tokens": [ "In", "what", "kingdom", "do", "the", "Roman", "and", "Parthian", "forces", "fight", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "The kingdom of Palmyra", "tokens": [ "The", "kingdom", "of", "Palmyra" ] }, { "text": "kingdom of palmyra", "tokens": [ "kingdom", "of", "palmyra" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Who is the governor of Syria?", "tokens": [ "Who", "is", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Longinus", "tokens": [ "Longinus" ] }, { "text": "Longinus", "tokens": [ "Longinus" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What is Artaxes relationship to Vabathus?", "tokens": [ "What", "is", "Artaxes", "relationship", "to", "Vabathus", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Artaxes is Arbathus' son", "tokens": [ "Artaxes", "is", "Arbathus", "'", "son" ] }, { "text": "he is the son of vabathus", "tokens": [ "he", "is", "the", "son", "of", "vabathus" ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including including checks, online payments and credit card\ndonations. To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.net\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What is Balthus' relationship to Vabathus?", "tokens": [ "What", "is", "Balthus", "'", "relationship", "to", "Vabathus", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Balthus is Vabathus' son", "tokens": [ "Balthus", "is", "Vabathus", "'", "son" ] }, { "text": "Balthus is one of Vabathus's sons.", "tokens": [ "Balthus", "is", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "s", "sons", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", "proof", "that", "the", "governor", "of", "Syria", ",", "Longinus", "was", "planning", "to", "use", "the", "Syrian", "legions", "to", "usurp", "the", "Emperor", "Claudius", ".", "During", "their", "time", "in", "Antioch", ",", "Crisups", ",", "a", "Roman", "legionary", ",", "murders", "an", "auxiliary", "leading", "to", "Crispus", "'", "execution", ",", "much", "to", "the", "chagrin", "of", "the", "legionaries", ".", "A", "Parthian", "convoy", "arrives", ",", "delivering", "the", "head", "of", "Centurion", "Castor", ",", "the", "soldier", "who", "commanded", "the", "Euphrates", "fort", ",", "and", "warns", "of", "Parthian", "intervention", ",", "should", "Rome", "continue", "to", "be", "seen", "to", "be", "annexing", "Palmyra", ".", "Shortly", "thereafter", ",", "a", "Roman", "soldier", "arrives", "at", "the", "behest", "of", "Lucius", "Sempronius", ",", "a", "Roman", "ambassador", "to", "Palmyra", ",", "informing", "Longinus", "that", "Palmyra", "has", "descended", "into", "civil", "war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fcf054d6d27b3d344e27d5be2f5518035cf09d8d", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29566.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 38444, "word_count": 7034, "start": "Produced by Juliet", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " During the 1st century AD, a force of the Parthian Empire destroys a vexillation of a Roman auxiliary cohort sent to construct a fort on the banks of the Euphrates in the Kingdom of Palmyra. The garrison is slaughtered. Meanwhile, with tensions rising between Rome and Parthia, the Legio X Fretensis, Legio III Gallica and the Legio VI Ferrata are drilling for war in Syria. Prefect Macro and Centurion Cato are drilling the Second Illyrian, an auxiliary cohort, attached to the Legio X Fretensis for the looming war.\nCato and Macro were sent to Syria by Narcissus to gather proof that the governor of Syria, Longinus was planning to use the Syrian legions to usurp the Emperor Claudius. During their time in Antioch, Crisups, a Roman legionary, murders an auxiliary leading to Crispus' execution, much to the chagrin of the legionaries. A Parthian convoy arrives, delivering the head of Centurion Castor, the soldier who commanded the Euphrates fort, and warns of Parthian intervention, should Rome continue to be seen to be annexing Palmyra. Shortly thereafter, a Roman soldier arrives at the behest of Lucius Sempronius, a Roman ambassador to Palmyra, informing Longinus that Palmyra has descended into civil war.\nArtaxes, the son of Palmyran king Vabathus, has raised an army and laid siege to the Palmyran loyalists in the Royal Citadel. Fearing the Parthians will arrive before the Romans can, Longinus sends the Second Illyrian and a cohort of the Legio X Fretensis to reinforce the loyalists. Along the way, the Roman force is aided by Prince Balthus, who covets the Palmyran throne, despite not being Vabathus' first born. The Romans and Balthus' men fight their way through to the city and manage to reinforce the loyalist troops, mainly composed of Greek mercenaries. Following a banquet to celebrate the successful defence of a rebel assault, Amethus, one of Vabathus' sons is found murdered, with Balthus being the prime suspect. Meanwhile, Cato meets Sempronius' daughter, Julia, and the two fall in love after an uneasy start.\nAfter a rebel bombardment, the loyalist food stores are all but destroyed. Cato attempts to bluff Artaxes into standing down, however before Artaxes can respond, Longinus arrives with two legions and several auxiliary units. Longinus privately reveals to Cato and Macro that they were never meant to reach Palmyra, and were meant to die in the desert, removing Narcissus' spies that had frustrated his plans. Against the advice of Cato, Longinus leads the legions into the desert, determined to destroy Artaxes and his Parthian allies. During a night attack, Longinus panics, orders a retreat and leaves the army at the mercy of the Parthian horsemen. On the suggestions of Cato, the army manages to trap the Parthians, destroying their army. Balthus orders his brother, Artaxes, killed, leaving him the sole heir to Vabathus' throne.\nBack in Palmyra, it is revealed Balthus had ordered his slave, Carpex, to murder Amethus. Balthus is arrested to be put to death. With no heir, Sempronius reveals that the empire will annex Palmyra and absorb it into the province of Syria. Macro and Cato are released from Narcissus' employment, ending their posting in the East. Sempronius later gives Cato his consent to marry his daughter, Julia.", "tokens": [ "During", "the", "1st", "century", "AD", ",", "a", "force", "of", "the", "Parthian", "Empire", "destroys", "a", "vexillation", "of", "a", "Roman", "auxiliary", "cohort", "sent", "to", "construct", "a", "fort", "on", "the", "banks", "of", "the", "Euphrates", "in", "the", "Kingdom", "of", "Palmyra", ".", "The", "garrison", "is", "slaughtered", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "with", "tensions", "rising", "between", "Rome", "and", "Parthia", ",", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", ",", "Legio", "III", "Gallica", "and", "the", "Legio", "VI", "Ferrata", "are", "drilling", "for", "war", "in", "Syria", ".", "Prefect", "Macro", "and", "Centurion", "Cato", "are", "drilling", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", ",", "an", "auxiliary", "cohort", ",", "attached", "to", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "for", "the", "looming", "war", ".", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "were", "sent", "to", "Syria", "by", "Narcissus", "to", "gather", 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"war", ".", "Artaxes", ",", "the", "son", "of", "Palmyran", "king", "Vabathus", ",", "has", "raised", "an", "army", "and", "laid", "siege", "to", "the", "Palmyran", "loyalists", "in", "the", "Royal", "Citadel", ".", "Fearing", "the", "Parthians", "will", "arrive", "before", "the", "Romans", "can", ",", "Longinus", "sends", "the", "Second", "Illyrian", "and", "a", "cohort", "of", "the", "Legio", "X", "Fretensis", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalists", ".", "Along", "the", "way", ",", "the", "Roman", "force", "is", "aided", "by", "Prince", "Balthus", ",", "who", "covets", "the", "Palmyran", "throne", ",", "despite", "not", "being", "Vabathus", "'", "first", "born", ".", "The", "Romans", "and", "Balthus", "'", "men", "fight", "their", "way", "through", "to", "the", "city", "and", "manage", "to", "reinforce", "the", "loyalist", "troops", ",", "mainly", "composed", "of", "Greek", "mercenaries", ".", "Following", "a", "banquet", "to", "celebrate", "the", "successful", "defence", "of", "a", "rebel", "assault", ",", "Amethus", ",", "one", "of", "Vabathus", "'", "sons", "is", "found", "murdered", ",", "with", "Balthus", "being", "the", "prime", "suspect", ".", "Meanwhile", ",", "Cato", "meets", "Sempronius", "'", "daughter", ",", "Julia", ",", "and", "the", "two", "fall", "in", "love", "after", "an", "uneasy", "start", ".", "After", "a", "rebel", "bombardment", ",", "the", "loyalist", "food", "stores", "are", "all", "but", "destroyed", ".", "Cato", "attempts", "to", "bluff", "Artaxes", "into", "standing", "down", ",", "however", "before", "Artaxes", "can", "respond", ",", "Longinus", "arrives", "with", "two", "legions", "and", "several", "auxiliary", "units", ".", "Longinus", "privately", "reveals", "to", "Cato", "and", "Macro", "that", "they", "were", "never", "meant", "to", "reach", "Palmyra", ",", "and", "were", "meant", "to", "die", "in", "the", "desert", ",", "removing", "Narcissus", "'", "spies", "that", "had", "frustrated", "his", "plans", ".", "Against", "the", "advice", "of", "Cato", ",", "Longinus", "leads", "the", "legions", "into", "the", "desert", ",", "determined", "to", "destroy", "Artaxes", "and", "his", "Parthian", "allies", ".", "During", "a", "night", "attack", ",", "Longinus", "panics", ",", "orders", "a", "retreat", "and", "leaves", "the", "army", "at", "the", "mercy", "of", "the", "Parthian", "horsemen", ".", "On", "the", "suggestions", "of", "Cato", ",", "the", "army", "manages", "to", "trap", "the", "Parthians", ",", "destroying", "their", "army", ".", "Balthus", "orders", "his", "brother", ",", "Artaxes", ",", "killed", ",", "leaving", "him", "the", "sole", "heir", "to", "Vabathus", "'", "throne", ".", "Back", "in", "Palmyra", ",", "it", "is", "revealed", "Balthus", "had", "ordered", "his", "slave", ",", "Carpex", ",", "to", "murder", "Amethus", ".", "Balthus", "is", "arrested", "to", "be", "put", "to", "death", ".", "With", "no", "heir", ",", "Sempronius", "reveals", "that", "the", "empire", "will", "annex", "Palmyra", "and", "absorb", "it", "into", "the", "province", "of", "Syria", ".", "Macro", "and", "Cato", "are", "released", "from", "Narcissus", "'", "employment", ",", "ending", "their", "posting", "in", "the", "East", ".", "Sempronius", "later", "gives", "Cato", "his", "consent", "to", "marry", "his", "daughter", ",", "Julia", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Centurion_(novel)", "title": "Centurion (novel)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net\n\n\nTitle: The Centurion's Story\n\nAuthor: David James Burrell\n\nRelease Date: August 1, 2009 [EBook #29566]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE\nCENTURION'S\nSTORY\n\n\n\nDAVID JAMES BURRELL\n\n\n\nAMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK\n\nCOPYRIGHT, 1892 and 1911,\nBy AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY\n\n\n\n\nTHE CENTURION'S STORY\n\n\nI am an old man now; the burden of fourscore years is resting upon me.\nBut the events of a certain April day in the year 783 A.U.C.--full\nhalf a century ago--are as fresh in my memory as if they had happened\nyesterday.\n\nAt that time I was stationed with my Hundred on garrison duty at the\nCastle of Antonia, in Jerusalem. I had been ordered to take charge of\nthe execution of a malefactor who had just been sentenced to death.\nAccordingly, on the morning of the day mentioned, I selected twelve\nof my men, such as were hardened to bloody deeds, and with them I\nproceeded to the PrÃ¦torium. All was hurry and excitement there. As\nit was the time of the Jewish Passover, the city was thronged with\nstrangers. A multitude of people had assembled and were clamoring for\nthe death of this man. On our arrival he was brought forth. He proved\nto be that Prophet of Nazareth whose oracular wisdom and wonder-working\npower had been everywhere noised abroad. I had heard much about him.\n\nHe claimed to be the Messiah for whose advent the Jews had been looking\nfrom time immemorial; and his disciples believed it. They called him by\nsuch well-known Messianic titles as \"Son of Man,\" \"Son of David\" and\n\"Son of God.\" He spoke of himself as \"the only-begotten Son of God,\"\ndeclaring that he had been \"in the bosom of the Father before the world\nwas,\" and that he was now manifest in human form to expiate the world's\nsin. This was regarded by the religious leaders as rank blasphemy and\nthey clamored for his death. He was tried before the Roman court, which\nrefused to consider the charge, inasmuch as it involved a religious\nquestion not lying within its jurisdiction; but the prisoner, being\nturned over to the Sanhedrin, was found worthy of death for \"making\nhimself equal with God.\"\n\nI remember him well as he appeared that day. From what I had heard I\nwas prepared to see a hard-faced impostor or a fanatic with frenzy in\nhis eyes. He was a man of middle stature, with a face of striking\nbeauty and benignity, eyes of mingled light and warmth, and auburn hair\nfalling over his shoulders. It was not strange that he looked pale and\nhaggard; for he had passed through three judicial ordeals since the\nlast sunset, besides being scourged with the _flagellum horrible_ and\nexposed to the rude buffeting of the midnight guard. He had been\nclothed in the cast-off purple of the Roman procurator and wore a\nderisive crown of thorns. But, as he issued from the Hall of Judgment,\nsuch was his commanding presence that the multitude was hushed and\nseparated to make way.\n\nThe cross, constructed of transverse beams of sycamore, was brought and\nlaid upon his shoulders. About his neck was suspended a titulum on\nwhich was inscribed, _Jesu Nazaret, Rex JudÃ¦orum_. I was told that\nthe Jewish leaders had objected to his being called their King; but\nPilate, by whose orders the titulum was prepared, was for some reason\ninsistent and answered them shortly, \"What I have written, I have\nwritten.\" It was easy to see, however, that they bitterly resented it.\n\nAt the accustomed signal my quaternions fell into the line and the\nprocession moved on. I rode before, clearing the way. The people\nthronged the narrow streets, crying more and more loudly as we\nproceeded, \"_Staurosate! Staurosate!_ Crucify him!\"\n\nThe Nazarene, weak from long vigils and suffering, bowed low under his\nburden. A woman in the company, by name Veronica, pressed near and\nwiped the dust and blood from his haggard face. It was reported that\nthe napkin when withdrawn bore the impress of his face, marred, but\ndivinely beautiful. Whether this be true or not I cannot say.\n\nAs the multitude surged onward toward the Jaffa gate, a cobbler named\nAhasuerus, as if moved by a malignant spirit, thrust his foot before\nthe prisoner, who stumbled thereat and fell. In punishment for that\ncruel deed he is said to be still a wanderer upon the earth with no\nrest for his weary feet. This, too, is a mere legend; but certainly I\nhave found, even in the grim business of a soldier, that retribution\nlike a fury pursues all pitiless men.\n\nWe passed through the Jaffa gate and entered upon the steep road\nleading to the place of execution. The sun flamed down upon us; we were\nenveloped in a cloud of dust. The prisoner at length, overborne by his\ncross, fell beneath it. We seized upon an Ethiopian who chanced to be\nin the throng and placed the burden upon him. Strange to tell, he\nassumed it without a murmur; insomuch that by many he was suspected of\nbeing a secret follower of Jesus.\n\nAs we surged on with din and uproar a group of women standing by the\nwayside rent the air with shrill lamentations, on hearing which Jesus\nsaid, \"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but for yourselves and\nyour children; for behold the days come when they shall say to the\nmountains, Fall on us! and to the hills, Cover us!\" It was a weird\nprophecy, and ere a generation passed it was to the letter fulfilled.\nThere were those in that company who lived to see the Holy City\ncompassed about by a forest of hostile spears. Its inhabitants were\nbrought low by famine and pestilence, insomuch that the eyes of mothers\nrested hungrily on the white flesh of their own children. On the\nsurrounding heights crosses were reared, on which hundreds of Jewish\ncaptives died the shameful death. Despair fell upon all. And in those\ndays there were not a few who called to mind the ominous words of the\nNazarene, \"Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your children\nafter you!\"\n\nThe road we journeyed has since been known as Via Dolorosa. It led to\nthe round knoll called Golgotha, from its resemblance to a skull. As we\ndrew nigh we perceived two crosses, already reared, on which two\nthieves of Barabbas' band had been suspended in agony for some hours.\nTheir twisted bodies stood out grimly against the sky. Our prisoner, as\nan added mark of obloquy, was to be crucified between them.\n\nOur spears and standards were lowered, and Jesus, being stripped of his\nouter garments, was laid prostrate upon his cross. A soldier approached\nwith hammer and spikes, at sight of whom the frenzied multitude ceased\ntheir revilings for the moment and pressed near. The prisoner preserved\nhis calm demeanor. A stupefying draught was offered him; but he refused\nit, apparently preferring to look death calmly in the face. He\nstretched out his hands; the hammer fell.\n\nAt the sight of blood the mob broke forth again, crying, \"_Staurosate!_\"\nBut not a word escaped the sufferer. As the nails tore through the\nquivering flesh his eyes closed and his lips moved as if he were\nholding communion with some invisible One. Then with a great wrench the\ncross was lifted into the socket prepared for it.\n\nAt this moment the first word escaped him. With a look of reproach and\nan appealing glance to heaven, he cried, \"Father, forgive them; they\nknow not what they do!\" It was as if he were covering our heads with a\nshield of prayer. In this he did but practise his own rule of charity\nand doctrine of forgiveness, \"Love your enemies, bless them that curse\nyou, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully\nuse you.\"\n\nHis prayer, however, seemed but to rouse anew the fury of his enemies.\nThey cried out in mockery, \"Come down! come down from thy cross. Thou\nthat boastest of destroying the Temple and rebuilding it in three days,\nsave thyself!\" The priests and rabbis, standing by, joined in the\nmockery, saying, \"Aha, he saved others, himself he cannot save! Let him\ncome down if he be the Messiah, the chosen of God!\" My soldiers\nmeanwhile disputed as to the apportionment of his garments; I noted the\nrattling of dice in the brazen helmet wherein they were casting lots\nfor his seamless robe.\n\nThe thieves on either hand joined for a time in the mockery; but\npresently a change came over the one upon the right, whose name was\nDysmas.\n\nThis man, like his fellow, had belonged to a notorious band of robbers\nwho infested the road to Jericho. His life had been passed in bloody\nwork; but the patient demeanor of Jesus touched his heart and convinced\nhim that He was indeed the veritable Son of God. The other thief joined\nin the mockery, but Dysmas remonstrated with him, saying, \"Dost thou\nnot even fear God? We indeed are condemned justly, receiving the due\nreward of our deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.\" Then\npresently, turning his pain-racked eyes toward Jesus, he entreated,\n\"Lord, remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom!\" The Nazarene\nstraightway turned upon him a look of compassionate love, saying,\n\"To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise!\"\n\nAn hour later this robber's head sank upon his breast; but in death his\nface wore a look of indescribable peace. The time came when the word of\npardon addressed to this man was a message of hope and comfort to other\ngreat sinners. He who saved Dysmas in the article of death, plucking\nhim from the edge of the abyss, was thenceforth believed by His\nfollowers to be able to save even unto the uttermost all who would come\nunto Him.\n\nNot far from the cross stood a company of women wringing their hands in\nhelpless grief. Among them was the mother of Jesus. When her infant son\nhad been brought to the Jewish Temple, an old priest took him from his\nmother's arms and prophesied, \"This child is set for the fall and rise\nof many in Israel\"; then looking upon the mother, he said: \"A sword\nshall pass through thine own soul also.\" At this moment his word was\nfulfilled; the iron entered her soul. Her dying Son beheld her, and,\nwith his eyes directing her to one who was known as his favorite\ndisciple, he said, \"Woman, behold thy Son!\" and this disciple thereupon\nbore her fainting away.\n\nIt was now noon, clear, scorching, Syrian noon. But a singular mist was\ngathering before the sun. Shadows fell from the heights of Moab; and as\nthey deepened more and more the gleam on shield and helmet faded out.\nNight rose from the ravines, surging upward in dark billows,\noverwhelming all. A strange pallor rested on all faces.\n\nIt was night, an Egyptian night at high noon! What meant it? Manifestly\nthis was no eclipse, for the paschal moon was then at its full. The\nJews had ofttimes clamored for a sign, a sign whereby they might test\nthis sufferer's Messianic claim. Had the sign come? Was nature now\nsympathizing with her Lord? Were these shadows the trappings of a\nuniversal woe? Was God manifesting his wrath against sin? Or was this\ndarkness a stupendous figure of the position in which the dying\nNazarene stood with respect to the deliverance of the race from sin?\n\nOnce in a Jewish synagogue I heard a rabbi read from the scroll of\nIsaiah a prophecy concerning the Messiah; that he was to be \"wounded\nfor our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities; that by his\nstripes we might be healed.\" It was predicted that when this Messiah\ncame he should, bearing the world's burden of sin, go into the outer\ndarkness in expiatory pain. Was it at this awful moment that he carried\nthat burden into the region of the lost? Did he just then descend into\nhell for us?\n\nHark! a cry from his fever-parched lips, piercing the silence and the\ndarkness, \"_Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?_ My God, my God, why hast Thou\nforsaken me?\" Save for that terrific cry of anguish the silence was\nunbroken for three mortal hours.\n\nI have known other victims of the cross to vent their rage in impotent\nwrath, to spit their hate like asps, to harangue the crowd with\nhelpless protestations, or to beg for the death-stroke; but this Jesus\npreserved a majestic silence. The people also seemed wrapped in a weird\nterror. Naught was heard but the rattling of armor as some soldier\njostled his comrade, or the sobbing of women or the dropping of blood.\nThus until the ninth hour of the day.\n\nIt was now the time of the evening sacrifice, and the darkness began\nslowly to lift. Then the Nazarene uttered his only word of complaint:\n\"I thirst.\" Whereupon a strange thing happened. One of my soldiers,\ntrained in the arena and in gladiatorial contests--a man who had never\nbeen known to spare a foe, delighting in the sack of cities, looking on\nunmoved when children were dashed against the stones--this man dipped a\nsponge in the sour wine which was provided for the guard, and would\nhave raised it to the sufferer's lips. But the Jews cried out, \"Let be,\nlet be! Let us see if Eli will come to help him!\" For a moment the\nsoldier hesitated, even joined in the cry; then giving way to the more\nmerciful promptings of his heart, lifted the sponge and assuaged the\nthirst of the dying man. It was the only deed of kindness I noted on\nGolgotha that day. In return for it the Nazarene cast upon his\nbenefactor such a look of gratitude that he was ever after a different\nman. His nature seemed to be transformed by it.\n\nThen Jesus cried with a loud voice, \"_Tetelestai!_ It is finished!\" Did\nthis signify that his pain was over? Well might he, after such anguish,\nutter a sigh of relief. Or was it that his mission was accomplished? So\nhave I seen a laborer turn homeward from his day's work with pleasant\nanticipation of rest. So have I seen a wayfarer quicken his footsteps\nas, at eventide, he came in sight of the village lights. So have I seen\na soldier, weary with the stress of conflict and wounded unto death,\nbear the standard aloft as he climbed the parapet and with his last\nvoice shouted for victory!\n\nAnd then the last word. It was spoken softly, as if from the threshold\nof the other world, \"Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit!\" Then,\nas he yielded up the ghost, a look of surpassing peace fell upon his\nupturned face, which lingered even after death had put its rigid seal\nupon it. Thus he fell on sleep. I have ofttimes since been reminded of\nthat look when I have seen an infant lulled in its mother's arms, or\nwhen, walking through a Christian cemetery, I have noted upon the\ntombstones of martyrs the word \"_Dormit_: He sleeps.\"\n\nThe supernatural darkness had now given way to a calm twilight. The sky\nwas covered far toward the zenith with a golden splendor crossed with\nbars of crimson light. It looked as if heaven's gates were opened; and\none gazing through could almost seem to see the flitting of superhuman\nshapes and hear far-away voices calling, \"Lift up your heads, O ye\ngates; even lift them up, ye everlasting doors, and the King of Glory\nshall come in!\"\n\nAt that moment the earth rumbled under my feet; a shudder seemed to\npass through nature. It was said that as the high priest was kindling\nthe lamps in the Holy Place of the Temple, in connection with the\nevening sacrifice, the great veil hanging before the Holy of Holies was\nrent from the top to the bottom as if by an unseen hand. This happened\nat the instant when the Nazarene yielded up his spirit, and his\nfollowers are wont to say that when he passed from earth to resume his\nheavenly glory a new and living way was opened up for penitent sinners\ninto the Holiest of All.\n\nThe execution being over, the people slowly dispersed to their homes.\nTwilight settled down on Golgotha. A group of wailing women lingered\nfor a while, then went their way. Against the sky stood forth the three\ncrosses. On the uplifted face of Dysmas the moonlight showed the look\nof ineffable peace that had settled upon it. The face of the other\nrobber was fallen upon his breast. In the midst Jesus looked upward,\ndead but triumphant! Long and steadfastly I gazed upon him. The events\nof the day crowded fast upon my mind and my conviction deepened that\nthis was no impostor, no fanatic, no common man. My conscience was sore\nsmitten; my heart was inexpressibly touched by the memory of the things\nwhich I had seen; and, with scarcely an intention, I said aloud, but\nsoftly, \"Verily, this was a righteous man.\"\n\nThen I reined my horse and rode down the hill. The lights were kindling\nin Jerusalem; the beacon on the Castle of Antonia was beginning to\nglow. At a little distance I drew rein and looked back at Golgotha. His\ncross was there outlined against the sky. I felt myself in the grip of\na mighty passion of doubt and wonder! Who was he? Who was he? I would\ngo back and see!\n\nI dismounted beneath his cross and gazed upward, unmindful of the\nstrange looks which my soldiers cast upon me. Tears came to my eyes,\nold campaigner though I was, tears of grief, of penitence, of dawning\nfaith. I knelt; I prostrated myself before the Christ who hung dead on\nthat accursed tree. I rose again and saw him. Dead? Nay,\nliving!--living evermore in the glory which he had with the Father\nbefore the world was! The truth went surging irresistibly through my\nsoul; until at length, able to restrain myself no longer, I cried,\ncaring not though the world heard me, \"Verily, this was the Son of\nGod!\"\n\n * * * \n\nI am old now, and the end draws near. For half a century I have loved\nand served Him. I have known trials and sorrows not a few, but His\npresence has upheld me. The promise he gave his disciples the night\nbefore his death has been my mainstay: \"Lo, I am with you alway!\" In\nthe faith of that promise I have seen men and women die with the light\nof heaven on their faces, heroic amid the flames, triumphant before the\nlion's eyes. I have heard them once and again protesting with their\nlast breath, \"_Christianus sum!_ I am a Christian!\"\n\nI, too, am a Christian, and humbly proud of it. The cross in my time\nhas been transformed from an emblem of shame into a symbol of triumph.\nAnd the Christ who suffered upon it has been made unto me wisdom and\nrighteousness and sanctification and redemption. He is my first, my\nlast, my midst and all in all. I have learned somewhat of the meaning\nof his life and death and glorious resurrection. Many wonderful hopes\nhave I; but the best is this, that I--the soldier who had charge of his\ncrucifixion--may yet behold his face in peace; that I, who bowed that\nnight with broken heart beneath his cross, may some day look upon the\nKing in his beauty and fall before him, crying, \"My Lord and my God!\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Centurion's Story, by David James Burrell\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CENTURION'S STORY \n\n** This file should be named 29566-8.txt or 29566-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/5/6/29566/\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What year did Champagne disappear?", "tokens": [ "What", "year", "did", "Champagne", "disappear", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "1982", "tokens": [ "1982" ] }, { "text": "He disappeared in 1982.", "tokens": [ "He", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How long did the Coast Guard search for Champagne?", "tokens": [ "How", "long", "did", "the", "Coast", "Guard", "search", "for", "Champagne", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "13 hours", "tokens": [ "13", "hours" ] }, { "text": "13 hours.", "tokens": [ "13", "hours", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How took out an insurance policy of Champagne?", "tokens": [ "How", "took", "out", "an", "insurance", "policy", "of", "Champagne", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "His brother", "tokens": [ "His", "brother" ] }, { "text": "His brother", "tokens": [ "His", "brother" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Which identity did Champagne assume?", "tokens": [ "Which", "identity", "did", "Champagne", "assume", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Harold Stegeman", "tokens": [ "Harold", "Stegeman" ] }, { "text": "Harold Stegeman", "tokens": [ "Harold", "Stegeman" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What state did Champagne live in under his assumed idenity?", "tokens": [ "What", "state", "did", "Champagne", "live", "in", "under", "his", "assumed", "idenity", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Washington", "tokens": [ "Washington" ] }, { "text": "Idaho.", "tokens": [ "Idaho", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Who was Harold Stegeman in reality?", "tokens": [ "Who", "was", "Harold", "Stegeman", "in", "reality", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "An 8 year old boy who died", "tokens": [ "An", "8", "year", "old", "boy", "who", "died" ] }, { "text": "Phil Champagne", "tokens": [ "Phil", "Champagne" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What was Champagne's plea in court?", "tokens": [ "What", "was", "Champagne", "s", "plea", "in", "court", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Guilty", "tokens": [ "Guilty" ] }, { "text": "Guilty", "tokens": [ "Guilty" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How long was Champagne in federal prison?", "tokens": [ "How", "long", "was", "Champagne", "in", "federal", "prison", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "21 months", "tokens": [ "21", "months" ] }, { "text": "21 months.", "tokens": [ "21", "months", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How old was Champagne when he died?", "tokens": [ "How", "old", "was", "Champagne", "when", "he", "died", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "52", "tokens": [ "52" ] }, { "text": "His presumed death occurred when he was 52", "tokens": [ "His", "presumed", "death", "occurred", "when", "he", "was", "52" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Where was Champagne sailing when he disappeared?", "tokens": [ "Where", "was", "Champagne", "sailing", "when", "he", "disappeared", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Olympic Peninsula", "tokens": [ "Olympic", "Peninsula" ] }, { "text": "Off the Olympic Peninsula", "tokens": [ "Off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What year did Champagne disappear?", "tokens": [ "What", "year", "did", "Champagne", "disappear", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "1982", "tokens": [ "1982" ] }, { "text": "He disappeared in 1982.", "tokens": [ "He", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How many years did Champagne live before being caught?", "tokens": [ "How", "many", "years", "did", "Champagne", "live", "before", "being", "caught", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "10 years", "tokens": [ "10", "years" ] }, { "text": "10 years.", "tokens": [ "10", "years", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What was Champagne arrested for?", "tokens": [ "What", "was", "Champagne", "arrested", "for", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Counterfeiting", "tokens": [ "Counterfeiting" ] }, { "text": "Champagne was arrested for counterfeiting U.S. currency in an Idaho garage.", "tokens": [ "Champagne", "was", "arrested", "for", "counterfeiting", "U.S.", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How much time did Champagne serve in prison?", "tokens": [ "How", "much", "time", "did", "Champagne", "serve", "in", "prison", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "21 months", "tokens": [ "21", "months" ] }, { "text": "21 months", "tokens": [ "21", "months" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What were Champagne's official charges?", "tokens": [ "What", "were", "Champagne", "s", "official", "charges", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Passport Fraud and counterfeiting", "tokens": [ "Passport", "Fraud", "and", "counterfeiting" ] }, { "text": "Counterfeiting and passport fraud", "tokens": [ "Counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How much was Champagne's life insurance policy?", "tokens": [ "How", "much", "was", "Champagne", "s", "life", "insurance", "policy", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "1.5 million", "tokens": [ "1.5", "million" ] }, { "text": "His life insurance policy was for $1.5 million.", "tokens": [ "His", "life", "insurance", "policy", "was", "for", "$", "1.5", "million", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Who originally took out the insurance policy?", "tokens": [ "Who", "originally", "took", "out", "the", "insurance", "policy", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Champagnes brother", "tokens": [ "Champagnes", "brother" ] }, { "text": "Phil's brother, co-partner in their construction firm", "tokens": [ "Phil", "s", "brother", ",", "co-partner", "in", "their", "construction", "firm" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Who would benefit from Phil's death?", "tokens": [ "Who", "would", "benefit", "from", "Phil", "s", "death", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Phil and whoever getting cash", "tokens": [ "Phil", "and", "whoever", "getting", "cash" ] }, { "text": "His brother and family would benefit from his death.", "tokens": [ "His", "brother", "and", "family", "would", "benefit", "from", "his", "death", "." ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How much was the insurance policy offering?", "tokens": [ "How", "much", "was", "the", "insurance", "policy", "offering", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "1.5million dollars", "tokens": [ "1.5million", "dollars" ] }, { "text": "$700,000", "tokens": [ "$", "700,000" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Where was Phil the time of death?", "tokens": [ "Where", "was", "Phil", "the", "time", "of", "death", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Olympic Peninsula", "tokens": [ "Olympic", "Peninsula" ] }, { "text": "On a 45 ft yacht off Olympic Peninsula", "tokens": [ "On", "a", "45", "ft", "yacht", "off", "Olympic", "Peninsula" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Donations are accepted in a number of other\nways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.\nTo donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate\n\n\nSection 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic\nworks.\n\nProfessor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm\nconcept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared\nwith anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project\nGutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.\n\n\nProject Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed\neditions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.\nunless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "What year did Phil die?", "tokens": [ "What", "year", "did", "Phil", "die", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "1982", "tokens": [ "1982" ] }, { "text": "1982", "tokens": [ "1982" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "How did Phil go to prison?", "tokens": [ "How", "did", "Phil", "go", "to", "prison", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "Counterfeiting U.S. currency in an Idaho garage", "tokens": [ "Counterfeiting", "U.S.", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage" ] }, { "text": "When he was arrested for counterfitting", "tokens": [ "When", "he", "was", "arrested", "for", "counterfitting" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. PENDLETON'S FOUR-IN-HAND\n By Gertrude Atherton\n Author of \"The Conqueror,\" \"The Splendid Idle\n Forties,\" etc.\n\n * * * \n\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 66 Fifth Avenue, New York\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\n END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n** This file should be named 24584-8.txt or 24584-8.zip *\nThis and all associated files of various formats will be found in:\n http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/5/8/24584/\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions\nwill be renamed.\n\nCreating the works from public domain print editions means that no\none owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation\n(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without\npermission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily\nkeep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.\n\n\nMost people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:\n\n http://www.gutenberg.org\n\nThis Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,\nincluding how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary\nArchive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to\nsubscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.\n" }	{ "text": "Why did Phil go to prison?", "tokens": [ "Why", "did", "Phil", "go", "to", "prison", "?" ] }	[ { "text": "He went for counterfeiting and passport fraud", "tokens": [ "He", "went", "for", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud" ] }, { "text": "Counterfeiting U S currency", "tokens": [ "Counterfeiting", "U", "S", "currency" ] } ]
{ "id": "fee64a7ee5b0427d78d666770c064213f245884a", "kind": "gutenberg", "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24584.txt.utf-8", "file_size": 111316, "word_count": 23255, "start": "Produced by Bruce", "end": "new eBooks .", "summary": { "text": " Champagne, a construction developer, disappeared in 1982 while aboard a 45-foot yacht that was sailing off the Olympic Peninsula. He was presumed dead after a 13-hour search by the U.S. Coast Guard.\nA $1.5 million life-insurance business policy, taken out by his brother as co-partner in a construction firm with Champagne, paid out $700,000 to his grieving family.\nAfter the accident when Champagne realized everyone thought he had drowned, he stole the identity of Harold Stegeman, an 8-year-old boy who died in 1945. Champagne lived as Stegeman, a Washington restaurateur, for the next 10 years until his arrest for counterfeiting US currency in an Idaho garage. Champagne pleaded guilty to giving false statements during a bankruptcy hearing, a loan application and passport application. In addition, he served 21 months in federal prison for charges of counterfeiting and passport fraud.\nBarer, an Edgar Award winner, profiles Champagne in Man Overboard. The first page of the book includes a synopsis of how the new identity began:\n\"Phil Champagne died Aug. 31, 1982, in a tragic boating accident off Lopez Island, Washington. He was 52. Champagne was survived by his wife of 28 years, four grown children, an octogenarian mother and two despondent brothers. Phil didnât know he was dead until he read it in the paper. All things considered, he took it pretty well.\"", "tokens": [ "Champagne", ",", "a", "construction", "developer", ",", "disappeared", "in", "1982", "while", "aboard", "a", "45-foot", "yacht", "that", "was", "sailing", "off", "the", "Olympic", "Peninsula", ".", "He", "was", "presumed", "dead", "after", "a", "13-hour", "search", "by", "the", "U.S.", "Coast", "Guard", ".", "A", "$", "1.5", "million", "life-insurance", "business", "policy", ",", "taken", "out", "by", "his", "brother", "as", "co-partner", "in", "a", "construction", "firm", "with", "Champagne", ",", "paid", "out", "$", "700,000", "to", "his", "grieving", "family", ".", "After", "the", "accident", "when", "Champagne", "realized", "everyone", "thought", "he", "had", "drowned", ",", "he", "stole", "the", "identity", "of", "Harold", "Stegeman", ",", "an", "8-year-old", "boy", "who", "died", "in", "1945", ".", "Champagne", "lived", "as", "Stegeman", ",", "a", "Washington", "restaurateur", ",", "for", "the", "next", "10", "years", "until", "his", "arrest", "for", "counterfeiting", "US", "currency", "in", "an", "Idaho", "garage", ".", "Champagne", "pleaded", "guilty", "to", "giving", "false", "statements", "during", "a", "bankruptcy", "hearing", ",", "a", "loan", "application", "and", "passport", "application", ".", "In", "addition", ",", "he", "served", "21", "months", "in", "federal", "prison", "for", "charges", "of", "counterfeiting", "and", "passport", "fraud", ".", "Barer", ",", "an", "Edgar", "Award", "winner", ",", "profiles", "Champagne", "in", "Man", "Overboard", ".", "The", "first", "page", "of", "the", "book", "includes", "a", "synopsis", "of", "how", "the", "new", "identity", "began", ":", "Phil", "Champagne", "died", "Aug.", "31", ",", "1982", ",", "in", "a", "tragic", "boating", "accident", "off", "Lopez", "Island", ",", "Washington", ".", "He", "was", "52", ".", "Champagne", "was", "survived", "by", "his", "wife", "of", "28", "years", ",", "four", "grown", "children", ",", "an", "octogenarian", "mother", "and", "two", "despondent", "brothers", ".", "Phil", "didnât", "know", "he", "was", "dead", "until", "he", "read", "it", "in", "the", "paper", ".", "All", "things", "considered", ",", "he", "took", "it", "pretty", "well", "." ], "url": "http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man_Overboard_(book)", "title": "Man Overboard (book)" }, "text": "ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man Overboard!, by F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with\nalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or\nre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included\nwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org\n\n\nTitle: Man Overboard!\n\nAuthor: F(rancis) Marion Crawford\n\nRelease Date: February 12, 2008 [EBook #24584]\n\nLanguage: English\n\n\n* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN OVERBOARD! \n\n\n\n\nProduced by Bruce Albrecht, Roberta Staehlin, Grinnell\nCollege Library and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from\nscanned images of public domain material from the Google\nPrint project.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Man Overboard!\n BY\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n AUTHOR OF \"THE UPPER BERTH,\" \"CECILIA,\"\n \"THE WITCH OF PRAGUE,\" ETC.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n New York\n THE MACMILLAN COMPANY\n London: Macmillan & Co., Ltd.\n 1903\n\n _All rights reserved_\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1903,\n BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.\n\n * * * \n\n Set up and electrotyped April, 1903.\n\n Norwood Press\n J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.\n Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n Portrait of F. Marion Crawford _Frontispiece_\n\n FACING PAGE\n \"He let go of the knife, and the point\n stuck into the deck\" 54\n\n \"One of his wet, shiny arms was round\n Mamie's waist\" 92\n\n\n\n\nMAN OVERBOARD\n\n\nYes--I have heard \"Man overboard!\" a good many times since I was\na boy, and once or twice I have seen the man go. There are more\nmen lost in that way than passengers on ocean steamers ever learn\nof. I have stood looking over the rail on a dark night, when\nthere was a step beside me, and something flew past my head like\na big black bat--and then there was a splash! Stokers often go\nlike that. They go mad with the heat, and they slip up on deck\nand are gone before anybody can stop them, often without being\nseen or heard. Now and then a passenger will do it, but he\ngenerally has what he thinks a pretty good reason. I have seen a\nman empty his revolver into a crowd of emigrants forward, and\nthen go over like a rocket. Of course, any officer who respects\nhimself will do what he can to pick a man up, if the weather is\nnot so heavy that he would have to risk his ship; but I don't\nthink I remember seeing a man come back when he was once fairly\ngone more than two or three times in all my life, though we have\noften picked up the life-buoy, and sometimes the fellow's cap.\nStokers and passengers jump over; I never knew a sailor to do\nthat, drunk or sober. Yes, they say it has happened on hard\nships, but I never knew a case myself. Once in a long time a man\nis fished out when it is just too late, and dies in the boat\nbefore you can get him aboard, and--well, I don't know that I\never told that story since it happened--I knew a fellow who went\nover, and came back dead. I didn't see him after he came back;\nonly one of us did, but we all knew he was there.\n\nNo, I am not giving you \"sharks.\" There isn't a shark in this\nstory, and I don't know that I would tell it at all if we weren't\nalone, just you and I. But you and I have seen things in various\nparts, and maybe you will understand. Anyhow, you know that I am\ntelling what I know about, and nothing else; and it has been on\nmy mind to tell you ever since it happened, only there hasn't\nbeen a chance.\n\nIt's a long story, and it took some time to happen; and it began\na good many years ago, in October, as well as I can remember. I\nwas mate then; I passed the local Marine Board for master about\nthree years later. She was the _Helen B. Jackson_, of New York,\nwith lumber for the West Indies, four-masted schooner, Captain\nHackstaff. She was an old-fashioned one, even then--no steam\ndonkey, and all to do by hand. There were still sailors in the\ncoasting trade in those days, you remember. She wasn't a hard\nship, for the old man was better than most of them, though he\nkept to himself and had a face like a monkey-wrench. We were\nthirteen, all told, in the ship's company; and some of them\nafterwards thought that might have had something to do with it,\nbut I had all that nonsense knocked out of me when I was a boy. I\ndon't mean to say that I like to go to sea on a Friday, but I\n_have_ gone to sea on a Friday, and nothing has happened; and\ntwice before that we have been thirteen, because one of the hands\ndidn't turn up at the last minute, and nothing ever happened\neither--nothing worse than the loss of a light spar or two, or a\nlittle canvas. Whenever I have been wrecked, we had sailed as\ncheerily as you please--no thirteens, no Fridays, no dead men in\nthe hold. I believe it generally happens that way.\n\nI dare say you remember those two Benton boys that were so much\nalike? It is no wonder, for they were twin brothers. They shipped\nwith us as boys on the old _Boston Belle_, when you were mate\nand I was before the mast. I never was quite sure which was which\nof those two, even then; and when they both had beards it was\nharder than ever to tell them apart. One was Jim, and the other\nwas Jack; James Benton and John Benton. The only difference I\never could see was, that one seemed to be rather more cheerful\nand inclined to talk than the other; but one couldn't even be\nsure of that. Perhaps they had moods. Anyhow, there was one of\nthem that used to whistle when he was alone. He only knew one\ntune, and that was \"Nancy Lee,\" and the other didn't know any\ntune at all; but I may be mistaken about that, too. Perhaps they\nboth knew it.\n\nWell, those two Benton boys turned up on board the _Helen B.\nJackson_. They had been on half a dozen ships since the _Boston\nBelle_, and they had grown up and were good seamen. They had\nreddish beards and bright blue eyes and freckled faces; and they\nwere quiet fellows, good workmen on rigging, pretty willing, and\nboth good men at the wheel. They managed to be in the same\nwatch--it was the port watch on the _Helen B._, and that was\nmine, and I had great confidence in them both. If there was any\njob aloft that needed two hands, they were always the first to\njump into the rigging; but that doesn't often happen on a\nfore-and-aft schooner. If it breezed up, and the jibtopsail was\nto be taken in, they never minded a wetting, and they would be\nout at the bowsprit end before there was a hand at the downhaul.\nThe men liked them for that, and because they didn't blow about\nwhat they could do. I remember one day in a reefing job, the\ndownhaul parted and came down on deck from the peak of the\nspanker. When the weather moderated, and we shook the reefs out,\nthe downhaul was forgotten until we happened to think we might\nsoon need it again. There was some sea on, and the boom was off\nand the gaff was slamming. One of those Benton boys was at the\nwheel, and before I knew what he was doing, the other was out on\nthe gaff with the end of the new downhaul, trying to reeve it\nthrough its block. The one who was steering watched him, and got\nas white as cheese. The other one was swinging about on the gaff\nend, and every time she rolled to leeward he brought up with a\njerk that would have sent anything but a monkey flying into\nspace. But he didn't leave it until he had rove the new rope, and\nhe got back all right. I think it was Jack at the wheel; the one\nthat seemed more cheerful, the one that whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" He\nhad rather have been doing the job himself than watch his brother\ndo it, and he had a scared look; but he kept her as steady as he\ncould in the swell, and he drew a long breath when Jim had worked\nhis way back to the peak-halliard block, and had something to\nhold on to. I think it was Jim.\n\nThey had good togs, too, and they were neat and clean men in the\nforecastle. I knew they had nobody belonging to them ashore,--no\nmother, no sisters, and no wives; but somehow they both looked as\nif a woman overhauled them now and then. I remember that they had\none ditty bag between them, and they had a woman's thimble in it.\nOne of the men said something about it to them, and they looked\nat each other; and one smiled, but the other didn't. Most of\ntheir clothes were alike, but they had one red guernsey between\nthem. For some time I used to think it was always the same one\nthat wore it, and I thought that might be a way to tell them\napart. But then I heard one asking the other for it, and saying\nthat the other had worn it last. So that was no sign either. The\ncook was a West Indiaman, called James Lawley; his father had\nbeen hanged for putting lights in cocoanut trees where they\ndidn't belong. But he was a good cook, and knew his business; and\nit wasn't soup-and-bully and dog's-body every Sunday. That's\nwhat I meant to say. On Sunday the cook called both those boys\nJim, and on week-days he called them Jack. He used to say he must\nbe right sometimes if he did that, because even the hands on a\npainted clock point right twice a day.\n\nWhat started me to trying for some way of telling the Bentons\napart was this. I heard them talking about a girl. It was at\nnight, in our watch, and the wind had headed us off a little\nrather suddenly, and when we had flattened in the jibs, we clewed\ndown the topsails, while the two Benton boys got the spanker\nsheet aft. One of them was at the helm. I coiled down the\nmizzen-topsail downhaul myself, and was going aft to see how she\nheaded up, when I stopped to look at a light, and leaned against\nthe deck-house. While I was standing there I heard the two boys\ntalking. It sounded as if they had talked of the same thing\nbefore, and as far as I could tell, the voice I heard first\nbelonged to the one who wasn't quite so cheerful as the\nother,--the one who was Jim when one knew which he was.\n\n\"Does Mamie know?\" Jim asked.\n\n\"Not yet,\" Jack answered quietly. He was at the wheel. \"I mean to\ntell her next time we get home.\"\n\n\"All right.\"\n\nThat was all I heard, because I didn't care to stand there\nlistening while they were talking about their own affairs; so I\nwent aft to look into the binnacle, and I told the one at the\nwheel to keep her so as long as she had way on her, for I thought\nthe wind would back up again before long, and there was land to\nleeward. When he answered, his voice, somehow, didn't sound like\nthe cheerful one. Perhaps his brother had relieved the wheel\nwhile they had been speaking, but what I had heard set me\nwondering which of them it was that had a girl at home. There's\nlots of time for wondering on a schooner in fair weather.\n\nAfter that I thought I noticed that the two brothers were more\nsilent when they were together. Perhaps they guessed that I had\noverheard something that night, and kept quiet when I was about.\nSome men would have amused themselves by trying to chaff them\nseparately about the girl at home, and I suppose whichever one it\nwas would have let the cat out of the bag if I had done that.\nBut, somehow, I didn't like to. Yes, I was thinking of getting\nmarried myself at that time, so I had a sort of fellow-feeling\nfor whichever one it was, that made me not want to chaff him.\n\nThey didn't talk much, it seemed to me; but in fair weather, when\nthere was nothing to do at night, and one was steering, the other\nwas everlastingly hanging round as if he were waiting to relieve\nthe wheel, though he might have been enjoying a quiet nap for all\nI cared in such weather. Or else, when one was taking his turn at\nthe lookout, the other would be sitting on an anchor beside him.\nOne kept near the other, at night more than in the daytime. I\nnoticed that. They were fond of sitting on that anchor, and they\ngenerally tucked away their pipes under it, for the _Helen B._\nwas a dry boat in most weather, and like most fore-and-afters was\nbetter on a wind than going free. With a beam sea we sometimes\nshipped a little water aft. We were by the stern, anyhow, on that\nvoyage, and that is one reason why we lost the man.\n\nWe fell in with a southerly gale, south-east at first; and then\nthe barometer began to fall while you could watch it, and a long\nswell began to come up from the south'ard. A couple of months\nearlier we might have been in for a cyclone, but it's \"October\nall over\" in those waters, as you know better than I. It was just\ngoing to blow, and then it was going to rain, that was all; and\nwe had plenty of time to make everything snug before it breezed\nup much. It blew harder after sunset, and by the time it was\nquite dark it was a full gale. We had shortened sail for it, but\nas we were by the stern we were carrying the spanker close reefed\ninstead of the storm trysail. She steered better so, as long as\nwe didn't have to heave to. I had the first watch with the Benton\nboys, and we had not been on deck an hour when a child might have\nseen that the weather meant business.\n\nThe old man came up on deck and looked round, and in less than a\nminute he told us to give her the trysail. That meant heaving to,\nand I was glad of it; for though the _Helen B._ was a good vessel\nenough, she wasn't a new ship by a long way, and it did her no\ngood to drive her in that weather. I asked whether I should call\nall hands, but just then the cook came aft, and the old man said\nhe thought we could manage the job without waking the sleepers,\nand the trysail was handy on deck already, for we hadn't been\nexpecting anything better. We were all in oilskins, of course,\nand the night was as black as a coal mine, with only a ray of\nlight from the slit in the binnacle shield, and you couldn't tell\none man from another except by his voice. The old man took the\nwheel; we got the boom amidships, and he jammed her into the wind\nuntil she had hardly any way. It was blowing now, and it was all\nthat I and two others could do to get in the slack of the\ndownhaul, while the others lowered away at the peak and throat,\nand we had our hands full to get a couple of turns round the wet\nsail. It's all child's play on a fore-and-after compared with\nreefing topsails in anything like weather, but the gear of a\nschooner sometimes does unhandy things that you don't expect, and\nthose everlasting long halliards get foul of everything if they\nget adrift. I remember thinking how unhandy that particular job\nwas. Somebody unhooked the throat-halliard block, and thought he\nhad hooked it into the head-cringle of the trysail, and sang out\nto hoist away, but he had missed it in the dark, and the heavy\nblock went flying into the lee rigging, and nearly killed him\nwhen it swung back with the weather roll. Then the old man got\nher up in the wind until the jib was shaking like thunder; then\nhe held her off, and she went off as soon as the head-sails\nfilled, and he couldn't get her back again without the spanker.\nThen the _Helen B._ did her favourite trick, and before we had\ntime to say much we had a sea over the quarter and were up to our\nwaists, with the parrels of the trysail only half becketed round\nthe mast, and the deck so full of gear that you couldn't put your\nfoot on a plank, and the spanker beginning to get adrift again,\nbeing badly stopped, and the general confusion and hell's delight\nthat you can only have on a fore-and-after when there's nothing\nreally serious the matter. Of course, I don't mean to say that\nthe old man couldn't have steered his trick as well as you or I\nor any other seaman; but I don't believe he had ever been on\nboard the _Helen B._ before, or had his hand on her wheel till\nthen; and he didn't know her ways. I don't mean to say that what\nhappened was his fault. I don't know whose fault it was. Perhaps\nnobody was to blame. But I knew something happened somewhere on\nboard when we shipped that sea, and you'll never get it out of my\nhead. I hadn't any spare time myself, for I was becketing the\nrest of the trysail to the mast. We were on the starboard tack,\nand the throat-halliard came down to port as usual, and I suppose\nthere were at least three men at it, hoisting away, while I was\nat the beckets.\n\nNow I am going to tell you something. You have known me, man and\nboy, several voyages; and you are older than I am; and you have\nalways been a good friend to me. Now, do you think I am the sort\nof man to think I hear things where there isn't anything to hear,\nor to think I see things when there is nothing to see? No, you\ndon't. Thank you. Well now, I had passed the last becket, and I\nsang out to the men to sway away, and I was standing on the jaws\nof the spanker-gaff, with my left hand on the bolt-rope of the\ntrysail, so that I could feel when it was board-taut, and I\nwasn't thinking of anything except being glad the job was over,\nand that we were going to heave her to. It was as black as a\ncoal-pocket, except that you could see the streaks on the seas as\nthey went by, and abaft the deck-house I could see the ray of\nlight from the binnacle on the captain's yellow oilskin as he\nstood at the wheel--or rather I might have seen it if I had\nlooked round at that minute. But I didn't look round. I heard a\nman whistling. It was \"Nancy Lee,\" and I could have sworn that\nthe man was right over my head in the crosstrees. Only somehow I\nknew very well that if anybody could have been up there, and\ncould have whistled a tune, there were no living ears sharp\nenough to hear it on deck then. I heard it distinctly, and at the\nsame time I heard the real whistling of the wind in the weather\nrigging, sharp and clear as the steam-whistle on a Dago's\npeanut-cart in New York. That was all right, that was as it\nshould be; but the other wasn't right; and I felt queer and\nstiff, as if I couldn't move, and my hair was curling against the\nflannel lining of my sou'wester, and I thought somebody had\ndropped a lump of ice down my back.\n\nI said that the noise of the wind in the rigging was real, as if\nthe other wasn't, for I felt that it wasn't, though I heard it.\nBut it was, all the same; for the captain heard it, too. When I\ncame to relieve the wheel, while the men were clearing up decks,\nhe was swearing. He was a quiet man, and I hadn't heard him swear\nbefore, and I don't think I did again, though several queer\nthings happened after that. Perhaps he said all he had to say\nthen; I don't see how he could have said anything more. I used to\nthink nobody could swear like a Dane, except a Neapolitan or a\nSouth American; but when I had heard the old man I changed my\nmind. There's nothing afloat or ashore that can beat one of your\nquiet American skippers, if he gets off on that tack. I didn't\nneed to ask him what was the matter, for I knew he had heard\n\"Nancy Lee,\" as I had, only it affected us differently.\n\nHe did not give me the wheel, but told me to go forward and get\nthe second bonnet off the staysail, so as to keep her up better.\nAs we tailed on to the sheet when it was done, the man next me\nknocked his sou'wester off against my shoulder, and his face came\nso close to me that I could see it in the dark. It must have been\nvery white for me to see it, but I only thought of that\nafterwards. I don't see how any light could have fallen upon it,\nbut I knew it was one of the Benton boys. I don't know what made\nme speak to him. \"Hullo, Jim! Is that you?\" I asked. I don't know\nwhy I said Jim, rather than Jack.\n\n\"I am Jack,\" he answered. We made all fast, and things were much\nquieter.\n\n\"The old man heard you whistling 'Nancy Lee,' just now,\" I said,\n\"and he didn't like it.\"\n\nIt was as if there were a white light inside his face, and it was\nghastly. I know his teeth chattered. But he didn't say anything,\nand the next minute he was somewhere in the dark trying to find\nhis sou'wester at the foot of the mast.\n\nWhen all was quiet, and she was hove to, coming to and falling\noff her four points as regularly as a pendulum, and the helm\nlashed a little to the lee, the old man turned in again, and I\nmanaged to light a pipe in the lee of the deck-house, for there\nwas nothing more to be done till the gale chose to moderate, and\nthe ship was as easy as a baby in its cradle. Of course the cook\nhad gone below, as he might have done an hour earlier; so there\nwere supposed to be four of us in the watch. There was a man at\nthe lookout, and there was a hand by the wheel, though there was\nno steering to be done, and I was having my pipe in the lee of\nthe deck-house, and the fourth man was somewhere about decks,\nprobably having a smoke too. I thought some skippers I had sailed\nwith would have called the watch aft, and given them a drink\nafter that job, but it wasn't cold, and I guessed that our old\nman wouldn't be particularly generous in that way. My hands and\nfeet were red-hot, and it would be time enough to get into dry\nclothes when it was my watch below; so I stayed where I was, and\nsmoked. But by and by, things being so quiet, I began to wonder\nwhy nobody moved on deck; just that sort of restless wanting to\nknow where every man is that one sometimes feels in a gale of\nwind on a dark night. So when I had finished my pipe I began to\nmove about. I went aft, and there was a man leaning over the\nwheel, with his legs apart and both hands hanging down in the\nlight from the binnacle, and his sou'wester over his eyes. Then\nI went forward, and there was a man at the lookout, with his back\nagainst the foremast, getting what shelter he could from the\nstaysail. I knew by his small height that he was not one of the\nBenton boys. Then I went round by the weather side, and poked\nabout in the dark, for I began to wonder where the other man was.\nBut I couldn't find him, though I searched the decks until I got\nright aft again. It was certainly one of the Benton boys that was\nmissing, but it wasn't like either of them to go below to change\nhis clothes in such warm weather. The man at the wheel was the\nother, of course. I spoke to him.\n\n\"Jim, what's become of your brother?\"\n\n\"I am Jack, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, then, Jack, where's Jim? He's not on deck.\"\n\n\"I don't know, sir.\"\n\nWhen I had come up to him he had stood up from force of instinct,\nand had laid his hands on the spokes as if he were steering,\nthough the wheel was lashed; but he still bent his face down, and\nit was half hidden by the edge of his sou'wester, while he seemed\nto be staring at the compass. He spoke in a very low voice, but\nthat was natural, for the captain had left his door open when he\nturned in, as it was a warm night in spite of the storm, and\nthere was no fear of shipping any more water now.\n\n\"What put it into your head to whistle like that, Jack? You've\nbeen at sea long enough to know better.\"\n\nHe said something, but I couldn't hear the words; it sounded as\nif he were denying the charge.\n\n\"Somebody whistled,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, and then, I don't know why, perhaps because the\nold man hadn't given us a drink, I cut half an inch off the plug\nof tobacco I had in my oilskin pocket, and gave it to him. He\nknew my tobacco was good, and he shoved it into his mouth with a\nword of thanks. I was on the weather side of the wheel.\n\n\"Go forward and see if you can find Jim,\" I said.\n\nHe started a little, and then stepped back and passed behind me,\nand was going along the weather side. Maybe his silence about the\nwhistling had irritated me, and his taking it for granted that\nbecause we were hove to and it was a dark night, he might go\nforward any way he pleased. Anyhow, I stopped him, though I spoke\ngood-naturedly enough.\n\n\"Pass to leeward, Jack,\" I said.\n\nHe didn't answer, but crossed the deck between the binnacle and\nthe deck-house to the lee side. She was only falling off and\ncoming to, and riding the big seas as easily as possible, but the\nman was not steady on his feet and reeled against the corner of\nthe deck-house and then against the lee rail. I was quite sure he\ncouldn't have had anything to drink, for neither of the brothers\nwere the kind to hide rum from their shipmates, if they had any,\nand the only spirits that were aboard were locked up in the\ncaptain's cabin. I wondered whether he had been hit by the\nthroat-halliard block and was hurt.\n\nI left the wheel and went after him, but when I got to the corner\nof the deck-house I saw that he was on a full run forward, so I\nwent back. I watched the compass for a while, to see how far she\nwent off, and she must have come to again half a dozen times\nbefore I heard voices, more than three or four, forward; and then\nI heard the little West Indies cook's voice, high and shrill\nabove the rest:--\n\n\"Man overboard!\"\n\nThere wasn't anything to be done, with the ship hove-to and the\nwheel lashed. If there was a man overboard, he must be in the\nwater right alongside. I couldn't imagine how it could have\nhappened, but I ran forward instinctively. I came upon the cook\nfirst, half-dressed in his shirt and trousers, just as he had\ntumbled out of his bunk. He was jumping into the main rigging,\nevidently hoping to see the man, as if any one could have seen\nanything on such a night, except the foam-streaks on the black\nwater, and now and then the curl of a breaking sea as it went\naway to leeward. Several of the men were peering over the rail\ninto the dark. I caught the cook by the foot, and asked who was\ngone.\n\n\"It's Jim Benton,\" he shouted down to me. \"He's not aboard this\nship!\"\n\nThere was no doubt about that. Jim Benton was gone; and I knew in\na flash that he had been taken off by that sea when we were\nsetting the storm trysail. It was nearly half an hour since then;\nshe had run like wild for a few minutes until we got her hove-to,\nand no swimmer that ever swam could have lived as long as that in\nsuch a sea. The men knew it as well as I, but still they stared\ninto the foam as if they had any chance of seeing the lost man. I\nlet the cook get into the rigging and joined the men, and asked\nif they had made a thorough search on board, though I knew they\nhad and that it could not take long, for he wasn't on deck, and\nthere was only the forecastle below.\n\n\"That sea took him over, sir, as sure as you're born,\" said one\nof the men close beside me.\n\nWe had no boat that could have lived in that sea, of course, and\nwe all knew it. I offered to put one over, and let her drift\nastern two or three cable's-lengths by a line, if the men thought\nthey could haul me aboard again; but none of them would listen to\nthat, and I should probably have been drowned if I had tried it,\neven with a life-belt; for it was a breaking sea. Besides, they\nall knew as well as I did that the man could not be right in our\nwake. I don't know why I spoke again. \"Jack Benton, are you\nthere? Will you go if I will?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" answered a voice; and that was all.\n\nBy that time the old man was on deck, and I felt his hand on my\nshoulder rather roughly, as if he meant to shake me.\n\n\"I'd reckoned you had more sense, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he said. \"God\nknows I would risk my ship to look for him, if it were any use;\nbut he must have gone half an hour ago.\"\n\nHe was a quiet man, and the men knew he was right, and that they\nhad seen the last of Jim Benton when they were bending the\ntrysail--if anybody had seen him then. The captain went below\nagain, and for some time the men stood around Jack, quite near\nhim, without saying anything, as sailors do when they are sorry\nfor a man and can't help him; and then the watch below turned in\nagain, and we were three on deck.\n\nNobody can understand that there can be much consolation in a\nfuneral, unless he has felt that blank feeling there is when a\nman's gone overboard whom everybody likes. I suppose landsmen\nthink it would be easier if they didn't have to bury their\nfathers and mothers and friends; but it wouldn't be. Somehow the\nfuneral keeps up the idea of something beyond. You may believe in\nthat something just the same; but a man who has gone in the dark,\nbetween two seas, without a cry, seems much more beyond reach\nthan if he were still lying on his bed, and had only just stopped\nbreathing. Perhaps Jim Benton knew that, and wanted to come back\nto us. I don't know, and I am only telling you what happened, and\nyou may think what you like.\n\nJack stuck by the wheel that night until the watch was over. I\ndon't know whether he slept afterwards, but when I came on deck\nfour hours later, there he was again, in his oilskins, with his\nsou'wester over his eyes, staring into the binnacle. We saw that\nhe would rather stand there, and we left him alone. Perhaps it\nwas some consolation to him to get that ray of light when\neverything was so dark. It began to rain, too, as it can when a\nsoutherly gale is going to break up, and we got every bucket and\ntub on board, and set them under the booms to catch the fresh\nwater for washing our clothes. The rain made it very thick, and I\nwent and stood under the lee of the staysail, looking out. I\ncould tell that day was breaking, because the foam was whiter in\nthe dark where the seas crested, and little by little the black\nrain grew grey and steamy, and I couldn't see the red glare of\nthe port light on the water when she went off and rolled to\nleeward. The gale had moderated considerably, and in another hour\nwe should be under way again. I was still standing there when\nJack Benton came forward. He stood still a few minutes near me.\nThe rain came down in a solid sheet, and I could see his wet\nbeard and a corner of his cheek, too, grey in the dawn. Then he\nstooped down and began feeling under the anchor for his pipe. We\nhad hardly shipped any water forward, and I suppose he had some\nway of tucking the pipe in, so that the rain hadn't floated it\noff. Presently he got on his legs again, and I saw that he had\ntwo pipes in his hand. One of them had belonged to his brother,\nand after looking at them a moment I suppose he recognised his\nown, for he put it in his mouth, dripping with water. Then he\nlooked at the other fully a minute without moving. When he had\nmade up his mind, I suppose, he quietly chucked it over the lee\nrail, without even looking round to see whether I was watching\nhim. I thought it was a pity, for it was a good wooden pipe, with\na nickel ferrule, and somebody would have been glad to have it.\nBut I didn't like to make any remark, for he had a right to do\nwhat he pleased with what had belonged to his dead brother. He\nblew the water out of his own pipe, and dried it against his\njacket, putting his hand inside his oilskin; he filled it,\nstanding under the lee of the foremast, got a light after wasting\ntwo or three matches, and turned the pipe upside down in his\nteeth, to keep the rain out of the bowl. I don't know why I\nnoticed everything he did, and remember it now; but somehow I\nfelt sorry for him, and I kept wondering whether there was\nanything I could say that would make him feel better. But I\ndidn't think of anything, and as it was broad daylight I went aft\nagain, for I guessed that the old man would turn out before long\nand order the spanker set and the helm up. But he didn't turn out\nbefore seven bells, just as the clouds broke and showed blue sky\nto leeward--\"the Frenchman's barometer,\" you used to call it.\n\nSome people don't seem to be so dead, when they are dead, as\nothers are. Jim Benton was like that. He had been on my watch,\nand I couldn't get used to the idea that he wasn't about decks\nwith me. I was always expecting to see him, and his brother was\nso exactly like him that I often felt as if I did see him and\nforgot he was dead, and made the mistake of calling Jack by his\nname; though I tried not to, because I knew it must hurt. If ever\nJack had been the cheerful one of the two, as I had always\nsupposed he had been, he had changed very much, for he grew to be\nmore silent than Jim had ever been.\n\nOne fine afternoon I was sitting on the main-hatch, overhauling\nthe clock-work of the taffrail-log, which hadn't been registering\nvery well of late, and I had got the cook to bring me a\ncoffee-cup to hold the small screws as I took them out, and a\nsaucer for the sperm-oil I was going to use. I noticed that he\ndidn't go away, but hung round without exactly watching what I\nwas doing, as if he wanted to say something to me. I thought if\nit were worth much he would say it anyhow, so I didn't ask him\nquestions; and sure enough he began of his own accord before\nlong. There was nobody on deck but the man at the wheel, and the\nother man away forward.\n\n\"Mr. Torkeldsen,\" the cook began, and then stopped.\n\nI supposed he was going to ask me to let the watch break out a\nbarrel of flour, or some salt horse.\n\n\"Well, doctor?\" I asked, as he didn't go on.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Torkeldsen,\" he answered, \"I somehow want to ask you\nwhether you think I am giving satisfaction on this ship, or not?\"\n\n\"So far as I know, you are, doctor. I haven't heard any\ncomplaints from the forecastle, and the captain has said nothing,\nand I think you know your business, and the cabin-boy is bursting\nout of his clothes. That looks as if you are giving satisfaction.\nWhat makes you think you are not?\"\n\nI am not good at giving you that West Indies talk, and sha'n't\ntry; but the doctor beat about the bush awhile, and then he told\nme he thought the men were beginning to play tricks on him, and\nhe didn't like it, and thought he hadn't deserved it, and would\nlike his discharge at our next port. I told him he was a d----d\nfool, of course, to begin with; and that men were more apt to try\na joke with a chap they liked than with anybody they wanted to\nget rid of; unless it was a bad joke, like flooding his bunk, or\nfilling his boots with tar. But it wasn't that kind of practical\njoke. The doctor said that the men were trying to frighten him,\nand he didn't like it, and that they put things in his way that\nfrightened him. So I told him he was a d----d fool to be\nfrightened, anyway, and I wanted to know what things they put in\nhis way. He gave me a queer answer. He said they were spoons and\nforks, and odd plates, and a cup now and then, and such things.\n\nI set down the taffrail-log on the bit of canvas I had put under\nit, and looked at the doctor. He was uneasy, and his eyes had a\nsort of hunted look, and his yellow face looked grey. He wasn't\ntrying to make trouble. He was in trouble. So I asked him\nquestions.\n\nHe said he could count as well as anybody, and do sums without\nusing his fingers, but that when he couldn't count any other way\nhe did use his fingers, and it always came out the same. He said\nthat when he and the cabin-boy cleared up after the men's meals\nthere were more things to wash than he had given out. There'd be\na fork more, or there'd be a spoon more, and sometimes there'd be\na spoon and a fork, and there was always a plate more. It wasn't\nthat he complained of that. Before poor Jim Benton was lost they\nhad a man more to feed, and his gear to wash up after meals, and\nthat was in the contract, the doctor said. It would have been if\nthere were twenty in the ship's company; but he didn't think it\nwas right for the men to play tricks like that. He kept his\nthings in good order, and he counted them, and he was responsible\nfor them, and it wasn't right that the men should take more\nthings than they needed when his back was turned, and just soil\nthem and mix them up with their own, so as to make him think--\n\nHe stopped there, and looked at me, and I looked at him. I didn't\nknow what he thought, but I began to guess. I wasn't going to\nhumour any such nonsense as that, so I told him to speak to the\nmen himself, and not come bothering me about such things.\n\n\"Count the plates and forks and spoons before them when they sit\ndown to table, and tell them that's all they'll get; and when\nthey have finished, count the things again, and if the count\nisn't right, find out who did it. You know it must be one of\nthem. You're not a green hand; you've been going to sea ten or\neleven years, and don't want any lesson about how to behave if\nthe boys play a trick on you.\"\n\n\"If I could catch him,\" said the cook, \"I'd have a knife into him\nbefore he could say his prayers.\"\n\nThose West India men are always talking about knives, especially\nwhen they are badly frightened. I knew what he meant, and didn't\nask him, but went on cleaning the brass cogwheels of the patent\nlog and oiling the bearings with a feather. \"Wouldn't it be\nbetter to wash it out with boiling water, sir?\" asked the cook,\nin an insinuating tone. He knew that he had made a fool of\nhimself, and was anxious to make it right again.\n\nI heard no more about the odd platter and gear for two or three\ndays, though I thought about his story a good deal. The doctor\nevidently believed that Jim Benton had come back, though he\ndidn't quite like to say so. His story had sounded silly enough\non a bright afternoon, in fair weather, when the sun was on the\nwater, and every rag was drawing in the breeze, and the sea\nlooked as pleasant and harmless as a cat that has just eaten a\ncanary. But when it was toward the end of the first watch, and\nthe waning moon had not risen yet, and the water was like still\noil, and the jibs hung down flat and helpless like the wings of a\ndead bird--it wasn't the same then. More than once I have started\nthen, and looked round when a fish jumped, expecting to see a\nface sticking up out of the water with its eyes shut. I think we\nall felt something like that at the time.\n\nOne afternoon we were putting a fresh service on the\njib-sheet-pennant. It wasn't my watch, but I was standing by\nlooking on. Just then Jack Benton came up from below, and went to\nlook for his pipe under the anchor. His face was hard and drawn,\nand his eyes were cold like steel balls. He hardly ever spoke\nnow, but he did his duty as usual, and nobody had to complain of\nhim, though we were all beginning to wonder how long his grief\nfor his dead brother was going to last like that. I watched him\nas he crouched down, and ran his hand into the hiding-place for\nthe pipe. When he stood up, he had two pipes in his hand.\n\nNow, I remembered very well seeing him throw one of those pipes\naway, early in the morning after the gale; and it came to me now,\nand I didn't suppose he kept a stock of them under the anchor. I\ncaught sight of his face, and it was greenish white, like the\nfoam on shallow water, and he stood a long time looking at the\ntwo pipes. He wasn't looking to see which was his, for I wasn't\nfive yards from him as he stood, and one of those pipes had been\nsmoked that day, and was shiny where his hand had rubbed it, and\nthe bone mouthpiece was chafed white where his teeth had bitten\nit. The other was water-logged. It was swelled and cracking with\nwet, and it looked to me as if there were a little green weed on\nit.\n\nJack Benton turned his head rather stealthily as I looked away,\nand then he hid the thing in his trousers pocket, and went aft on\nthe lee side, out of sight. The men had got the sheet pennant on\na stretch to serve it, but I ducked under it and stood where I\ncould see what Jack did, just under the fore-staysail. He\ncouldn't see me, and he was looking about for something. His hand\nshook as he picked up a bit of half-bent iron rod, about a foot\nlong, that had been used for turning an eye-bolt, and had been\nleft on the main-hatch. His hand shook as he got a piece of\nmarline out of his pocket, and made the water-logged pipe fast to\nthe iron. He didn't mean it to get adrift, either, for he took\nhis turns carefully, and hove them taut and then rode them, so\nthat they couldn't slip, and made the end fast with two\nhalf-hitches round the iron, and hitched it back on itself. Then\nhe tried it with his hands, and looked up and down the deck\nfurtively, and then quietly dropped the pipe and iron over the\nrail, so that I didn't even hear the splash. If anybody was\nplaying tricks on board, they weren't meant for the cook.\n\nI asked some questions about Jack Benton, and one of the men told\nme that he was off his feed, and hardly ate anything, and\nswallowed all the coffee he could lay his hands on, and had used\nup all his own tobacco and had begun on what his brother had\nleft.\n\n\"The doctor says it ain't so, sir,\" said the man, looking at me\nshyly, as if he didn't expect to be believed; \"the doctor says\nthere's as much eaten from breakfast to breakfast as there was\nbefore Jim fell overboard, though there's a mouth less and\nanother that eats nothing. I says it's the cabin-boy that gets\nit. He's bu'sting.\"\n\nI told him that if the cabin-boy ate more than his share, he must\nwork more than his share, so as to balance things. But the man\nlaughed queerly, and looked at me again.\n\n\"I only said that, sir, just like that. We all know it ain't so.\"\n\n\"Well, how is it?\"\n\n\"How is it?\" asked the man, half-angry all at once. \"I don't know\nhow it is, but there's a hand on board that's getting his whack\nalong with us as regular as the bells.\"\n\n\"Does he use tobacco?\" I asked, meaning to laugh it out of him,\nbut as I spoke I remembered the water-logged pipe.\n\n\"I guess he's using his own still,\" the man answered, in a queer,\nlow voice. \"Perhaps he'll take some one else's when his is all\ngone.\"\n\nIt was about nine o'clock in the morning, I remember, for just\nthen the captain called to me to stand by the chronometer while\nhe took his fore observation. Captain Hackstaff wasn't one of\nthose old skippers who do everything themselves with a pocket\nwatch, and keep the key of the chronometer in their waistcoat\npocket, and won't tell the mate how far the dead reckoning is\nout. He was rather the other way, and I was glad of it, for he\ngenerally let me work the sights he took, and just ran his eye\nover my figures afterwards. I am bound to say his eye was pretty\ngood, for he would pick out a mistake in a logarithm, or tell me\nthat I had worked the \"Equation of Time\" with the wrong sign,\nbefore it seemed to me that he could have got as far as \"half the\nsum, minus the altitude.\" He was always right, too, and besides\nhe knew a lot about iron ships and local deviation, and adjusting\nthe compass, and all that sort of thing. I don't know how he came\nto be in command of a fore-and-aft schooner. He never talked\nabout himself, and maybe he had just been mate on one of those\nbig steel square-riggers, and something had put him back. Perhaps\nhe had been captain, and had got his ship aground, through no\nparticular fault of his, and had to begin over again. Sometimes\nhe talked just like you and me, and sometimes he would speak more\nlike books do, or some of those Boston people I have heard. I\ndon't know. We have all been shipmates now and then with men who\nhave seen better days. Perhaps he had been in the Navy, but what\nmakes me think he couldn't have been, was that he was a thorough\ngood seaman, a regular old wind-jammer, and understood sail,\nwhich those Navy chaps rarely do. Why, you and I have sailed with\nmen before the mast who had their master's certificates in their\npockets,--English Board of Trade certificates, too,--who could\nwork a double altitude if you would lend them a sextant and give\nthem a look at the chronometer, as well as many a man who\ncommands a big square-rigger. Navigation ain't everything, nor\nseamanship, either. You've got to have it in you, if you mean to\nget there.\n\nI don't know how our captain heard that there was trouble\nforward. The cabin-boy may have told him, or the men may have\ntalked outside his door when they relieved the wheel at night.\nAnyhow, he got wind of it, and when he had got his sight that\nmorning he had all hands aft, and gave them a lecture. It was\njust the kind of talk you might have expected from him. He said\nhe hadn't any complaint to make, and that so far as he knew\neverybody on board was doing his duty, and that he was given to\nunderstand that the men got their whack, and were satisfied. He\nsaid his ship was never a hard ship, and that he liked quiet, and\nthat was the reason he didn't mean to have any nonsense, and the\nmen might just as well understand that, too. We'd had a great\nmisfortune, he said, and it was nobody's fault. We had lost a\nman we all liked and respected, and he felt that everybody in the\nship ought to be sorry for the man's brother, who was left\nbehind, and that it was rotten lubberly childishness, and unjust\nand unmanly and cowardly, to be playing schoolboy tricks with\nforks and spoons and pipes, and that sort of gear. He said it had\ngot to stop right now, and that was all, and the men might go\nforward. And so they did.\n\nIt got worse after that, and the men watched the cook, and the\ncook watched the men, as if they were trying to catch each other;\nbut I think everybody felt that there was something else. One\nevening, at supper-time, I was on deck, and Jack came aft to\nrelieve the wheel while the man who was steering got his supper.\nHe hadn't got past the main-hatch on the lee side, when I heard a\nman running in slippers that slapped on the deck, and there was a\nsort of a yell and I saw the coloured cook going for Jack, with\na carving-knife in his hand. I jumped to get between them, and\nJack turned round short, and put out his hand. I was too far to\nreach them, and the cook jabbed out with his knife. But the blade\ndidn't get anywhere near Benton. The cook seemed to be jabbing it\ninto the air again and again, at least four feet short of the\nmark. Then he dropped his right hand, and I saw the whites of his\neyes in the dusk, and he reeled up against the pin-rail, and\ncaught hold of a belaying-pin with his left. I had reached him by\nthat time, and grabbed hold of his knife-hand and the other too,\nfor I thought he was going to use the pin; but Jack Benton was\nstanding staring stupidly at him, as if he didn't understand. But\ninstead, the cook was holding on because he couldn't stand, and\nhis teeth were chattering, and he let go of the knife, and the\npoint stuck into the deck.\n\n\"He's crazy!\" said Jack Benton, and that was all he said; and he\nwent aft.\n\n[Illustration: HE LET GO OF THE KNIFE, AND THE POINT STUCK INTO\nTHE DECK.]\n\nWhen he was gone, the cook began to come to, and he spoke quite\nlow, near my ear.\n\n\"There were two of them! So help me God, there were two of them!\"\n\nI don't know why I didn't take him by the collar, and give him a\ngood shaking; but I didn't. I just picked up the knife and gave\nit to him, and told him to go back to his galley, and not to make\na fool of himself. You see, he hadn't struck at Jack, but at\nsomething he thought he saw, and I knew what it was, and I felt\nthat same thing, like a lump of ice sliding down my back, that I\nfelt that night when we were bending the trysail.\n\nWhen the men had seen him running aft, they jumped up after him,\nbut they held off when they saw that I had caught him. By and by,\nthe man who had spoken to me before told me what had happened. He\nwas a stocky little chap, with a red head.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"there isn't much to tell. Jack Benton had been\neating his supper with the rest of us. He always sits at the\nafter corner of the table, on the port side. His brother used to\nsit at the end, next him. The doctor gave him a thundering big\npiece of pie to finish up with, and when he had finished he\ndidn't stop for a smoke, but went off quick to relieve the wheel.\nJust as he had gone, the doctor came in from the galley, and when\nhe saw Jack's empty plate he stood stock still staring at it; and\nwe all wondered what was the matter, till we looked at the plate.\nThere were two forks in it, sir, lying side by side. Then the\ndoctor grabbed his knife, and flew up through the hatch like a\nrocket. The other fork was there all right, Mr. Torkeldsen, for\nwe all saw it and handled it; and we all had our own. That's all\nI know.\"\n\nI didn't feel that I wanted to laugh when he told me that story;\nbut I hoped the old man wouldn't hear it, for I knew he wouldn't\nbelieve it, and no captain that ever sailed likes to have\nstories like that going round about his ship. It gives her a bad\nname. But that was all anybody ever saw except the cook, and he\nisn't the first man who has thought he saw things without having\nany drink in him. I think, if the doctor had been weak in the\nhead as he was afterwards, he might have done something foolish\nagain, and there might have been serious trouble. But he didn't.\nOnly, two or three times I saw him looking at Jack Benton in a\nqueer, scared way, and once I heard him talking to himself.\n\n\"There's two of them! So help me God, there's two of them!\"\n\nHe didn't say anything more about asking for his discharge, but I\nknew well enough that if he got ashore at the next port we should\nnever see him again, if he had to leave his kit behind him, and\nhis money, too. He was scared all through, for good and all; and\nhe wouldn't be right again till he got another ship. It's no use\nto talk to a man when he gets like that, any more than it is to\nsend a boy to the main truck when he has lost his nerve.\n\nJack Benton never spoke of what happened that evening. I don't\nknow whether he knew about the two forks, or not; or whether he\nunderstood what the trouble was. Whatever he knew from the other\nmen, he was evidently living under a hard strain. He was quiet\nenough, and too quiet; but his face was set, and sometimes it\ntwitched oddly when he was at the wheel, and he would turn his\nhead round sharp to look behind him. A man doesn't do that\nnaturally, unless there's a vessel that he thinks is creeping up\non the quarter. When that happens, if the man at the wheel takes\na pride in his ship, he will almost always keep glancing over his\nshoulder to see whether the other fellow is gaining. But Jack\nBenton used to look round when there was nothing there; and what\nis curious, the other men seemed to catch the trick when they\nwere steering. One day the old man turned out just as the man at\nthe wheel looked behind him.\n\n\"What are you looking at?\" asked the captain.\n\n\"Nothing, sir,\" answered the man.\n\n\"Then keep your eye on the mizzen-royal,\" said the old man, as if\nhe were forgetting that we weren't a square-rigger.\n\n\"Ay, ay, sir,\" said the man.\n\nThe captain told me to go below and work up the latitude from the\ndead-reckoning, and he went forward of the deck-house and sat\ndown to read, as he often did. When I came up, the man at the\nwheel was looking round again, and I stood beside him and just\nasked him quietly what everybody was looking at, for it was\ngetting to be a general habit. He wouldn't say anything at first,\nbut just answered that it was nothing. But when he saw that I\ndidn't seem to care, and just stood there as if there were\nnothing more to be said, he naturally began to talk.\n\nHe said that it wasn't that he saw anything, because there wasn't\nanything to see except the spanker sheet just straining a little, and\nworking in the sheaves of the blocks as the schooner rose to the short\nseas. There wasn't anything to be seen, but it seemed to him that the\nsheet made a queer noise in the blocks. It was a new manilla sheet; and\nin dry weather it did make a little noise, something between a creak and\na wheeze. I looked at it and looked at the man, and said nothing; and\npresently he went on. He asked me if I didn't notice anything peculiar\nabout the noise. I listened awhile, and said I didn't notice anything.\nThen he looked rather sheepish, but said he didn't think it could be his\nown ears, because every man who steered his trick heard the same thing\nnow and then,--sometimes once in a day, sometimes once in a night,\nsometimes it would go on a whole hour.\n\n\"It sounds like sawing wood,\" I said, just like that.\n\n\"To us it sounds a good deal more like a man whistling 'Nancy\nLee.'\" He started nervously as he spoke the last words. \"There,\nsir, don't you hear it?\" he asked suddenly.\n\nI heard nothing but the creaking of the manilla sheet. It\nwas getting near noon, and fine, clear weather in southern\nwaters,--just the sort of day and the time when you would least\nexpect to feel creepy. But I remembered how I had heard that same\ntune overhead at night in a gale of wind a fortnight earlier,\nand I am not ashamed to say that the same sensation came over\nme now, and I wished myself well out of the _Helen B._, and\naboard of any old cargo-dragger, with a windmill on deck, and an\neighty-nine-forty-eighter for captain, and a fresh leak whenever\nit breezed up.\n\nLittle by little during the next few days life on board that\nvessel came to be about as unbearable as you can imagine. It\nwasn't that there was much talk, for I think the men were shy\neven of speaking to each other freely about what they thought.\nThe whole ship's company grew silent, until one hardly ever heard\na voice, except giving an order and the answer. The men didn't\nsit over their meals when their watch was below, but either\nturned in at once or sat about on the forecastle smoking their\npipes without saying a word. We were all thinking of the same\nthing. We all felt as if there were a hand on board, sometimes\nbelow, sometimes about decks, sometimes aloft, sometimes on the\nboom end; taking his full share of what the others got, but doing\nno work for it. We didn't only feel it, we knew it. He took up no\nroom, he cast no shadow, and we never heard his footfall on deck;\nbut he took his whack with the rest as regular as the bells,\nand--he whistled \"Nancy Lee.\" It was like the worst sort of dream\nyou can imagine; and I dare say a good many of us tried to\nbelieve it was nothing else sometimes, when we stood looking over\nthe weather rail in fine weather with the breeze in our faces;\nbut if we happened to turn round and look into each other's eyes,\nwe knew it was something worse than any dream could be; and we\nwould turn away from each other with a queer, sick feeling,\nwishing that we could just for once see somebody who didn't know\nwhat we knew.\n\nThere's not much more to tell about the _Helen B. Jackson_ so far\nas I am concerned. We were more like a shipload of lunatics than\nanything else when we ran in under Morro Castle, and anchored in\nHavana. The cook had brain fever, and was raving mad in his\ndelirium; and the rest of the men weren't far from the same\nstate. The last three or four days had been awful, and we had\nbeen as near to having a mutiny on board as I ever want to be.\nThe men didn't want to hurt anybody; but they wanted to get away\nout of that ship, if they had to swim for it; to get away from\nthat whistling, from that dead shipmate who had come back, and\nwho filled the ship with his unseen self. I know that if the old\nman and I hadn't kept a sharp lookout the men would have put a\nboat over quietly on one of those calm nights, and pulled away,\nleaving the captain and me and the mad cook to work the schooner\ninto harbour. We should have done it somehow, of course, for we\nhadn't far to run if we could get a breeze; and once or twice I\nfound myself wishing that the crew were really gone, for the\nawful state of fright in which they lived was beginning to work\non me too. You see I partly believed and partly didn't; but\nanyhow I didn't mean to let the thing get the better of me,\nwhatever it was. I turned crusty, too, and kept the men at work\non all sorts of jobs, and drove them to it until they wished I\nwas overboard, too. It wasn't that the old man and I were trying\nto drive them to desert without their pay, as I am sorry to say\na good many skippers and mates do, even now. Captain Hackstaff\nwas as straight as a string, and I didn't mean those poor fellows\nshould be cheated out of a single cent; and I didn't blame them\nfor wanting to leave the ship, but it seemed to me that the only\nchance to keep everybody sane through those last days was to work\nthe men till they dropped. When they were dead tired they slept a\nlittle, and forgot the thing until they had to tumble up on deck\nand face it again. That was a good many years ago. Do you believe\nthat I can't hear \"Nancy Lee\" now, without feeling cold down my\nback? For I heard it too, now and then, after the man had\nexplained why he was always looking over his shoulder. Perhaps it\nwas imagination. I don't know. When I look back it seems to me\nthat I only remember a long fight against something I couldn't\nsee, against an appalling presence, against something worse than\ncholera or Yellow Jack or the plague--and goodness knows the\nmildest of them is bad enough when it breaks out at sea. The men\ngot as white as chalk, and wouldn't go about decks alone at\nnight, no matter what I said to them. With the cook raving in\nhis bunk the forecastle would have been a perfect hell, and\nthere wasn't a spare cabin on board. There never is on a\nfore-and-after. So I put him into mine, and he was more quiet\nthere, and at last fell into a sort of stupor as if he were going\nto die. I don't know what became of him, for we put him ashore\nalive and left him in the hospital.\n\nThe men came aft in a body, quiet enough, and asked the captain\nif he wouldn't pay them off, and let them go ashore. Some men\nwouldn't have done it, for they had shipped for the voyage, and\nhad signed articles. But the captain knew that when sailors get\nan idea into their heads they're no better than children; and if\nhe forced them to stay aboard he wouldn't get much work out of\nthem, and couldn't rely on them in a difficulty. So he paid them\noff, and let them go. When they had gone forward to get their\nkits, he asked me whether I wanted to go too, and for a minute I\nhad a sort of weak feeling that I might just as well. But I\ndidn't, and he was a good friend to me afterwards. Perhaps he was\ngrateful to me for sticking to him.\n\nWhen the men went off he didn't come on deck; but it was my duty\nto stand by while they left the ship. They owed me a grudge for\nmaking them work during the last few days, and most of them\ndropped into the boat without so much as a word or a look, as\nsailors will. Jack Benton was the last to go over the side, and\nhe stood still a minute and looked at me, and his white face\ntwitched. I thought he wanted to say something.\n\n\"Take care of yourself, Jack,\" said I. \"So long!\"\n\nIt seemed as if he couldn't speak for two or three seconds; then\nhis words came thick.\n\n\"It wasn't my fault, Mr. Torkeldsen. I swear it wasn't my fault!\"\n\nThat was all; and he dropped over the side, leaving me to wonder\nwhat he meant.\n\nThe captain and I stayed on board, and the ship-chandler got a\nWest India boy to cook for us.\n\nThat evening, before turning in, we were standing by the rail\nhaving a quiet smoke, watching the lights of the city, a quarter\nof a mile off, reflected in the still water. There was music of\nsome sort ashore, in a sailors' dance-house, I dare say; and I\nhad no doubt that most of the men who had left the ship were\nthere, and already full of jiggy-jiggy. The music played a lot of\nsailors' tunes that ran into each other, and we could hear the\nmen's voices in the chorus now and then. One followed another,\nand then it was \"Nancy Lee,\" loud and clear, and the men singing\n\"Yo-ho, heave-ho!\"\n\n\"I have no ear for music,\" said Captain Hackstaff, \"but it\nappears to me that's the tune that man was whistling the night we\nlost the man overboard. I don't know why it has stuck in my head,\nand of course it's all nonsense; but it seems to me that I have\nheard it all the rest of the trip.\"\n\nI didn't say anything to that, but I wondered just how much the\nold man had understood. Then we turned in, and I slept ten hours\nwithout opening my eyes.\n\nI stuck to the _Helen B. Jackson_ after that as long as I could\nstand a fore-and-after; but that night when we lay in Havana was\nthe last time I ever heard \"Nancy Lee\" on board of her. The spare\nhand had gone ashore with the rest, and he never came back, and\nhe took his tune with him; but all those things are just as clear\nin my memory as if they had happened yesterday.\n\nAfter that I was in deep water for a year or more, and after I\ncame home I got my certificate, and what with having friends and\nhaving saved a little money, and having had a small legacy from\nan uncle in Norway, I got the command of a coastwise vessel, with\na small share in her. I was at home three weeks before going to\nsea, and Jack Benton saw my name in the local papers, and wrote\nto me.\n\nHe said that he had left the sea, and was trying farming, and he\nwas going to be married, and he asked if I wouldn't come over for\nthat, for it wasn't more than forty minutes by train; and he and\nMamie would be proud to have me at the wedding. I remembered how\nI had heard one brother ask the other whether Mamie knew. That\nmeant, whether she knew he wanted to marry her, I suppose. She\nhad taken her time about it, for it was pretty nearly three years\nthen since we had lost Jim Benton overboard.\n\nI had nothing particular to do while we were getting ready for\nsea; nothing to prevent me from going over for a day, I mean;\nand I thought I'd like to see Jack Benton, and have a look at the\ngirl he was going to marry. I wondered whether he had grown\ncheerful again, and had got rid of that drawn look he had when he\ntold me it wasn't his fault. How could it have been his fault,\nanyhow? So I wrote to Jack that I would come down and see him\nmarried; and when the day came I took the train, and got there\nabout ten o'clock in the morning. I wish I hadn't. Jack met me at\nthe station, and he told me that the wedding was to be late in\nthe afternoon, and that they weren't going off on any silly\nwedding trip, he and Mamie, but were just going to walk home from\nher mother's house to his cottage. That was good enough for him,\nhe said. I looked at him hard for a minute after we met. When we\nhad parted I had a sort of idea that he might take to drink, but\nhe hadn't. He looked very respectable and well-to-do in his black\ncoat and high city collar; but he was thinner and bonier than\nwhen I had known him, and there were lines in his face, and I\nthought his eyes had a queer look in them, half shifty, half\nscared. He needn't have been afraid of me, for I didn't mean to\ntalk to his bride about the _Helen B. Jackson_.\n\nHe took me to his cottage first, and I could see that he was\nproud of it. It wasn't above a cable's-length from high-water\nmark, but the tide was running out, and there was already a broad\nstretch of hard wet sand on the other side of the beach road.\nJack's bit of land ran back behind the cottage about a quarter of\na mile, and he said that some of the trees we saw were his. The\nfences were neat and well kept, and there was a fair-sized barn a\nlittle way from the cottage, and I saw some nice-looking cattle\nin the meadows; but it didn't look to me to be much of a farm,\nand I thought that before long Jack would have to leave his wife\nto take care of it, and go to sea again. But I said it was a nice\nfarm, so as to seem pleasant, and as I don't know much about\nthese things I dare say it was, all the same. I never saw it but\nthat once. Jack told me that he and his brother had been born in\nthe cottage, and that when their father and mother died they\nleased the land to Mamie's father, but had kept the cottage to\nlive in when they came home from sea for a spell. It was as neat\na little place as you would care to see: the floors as clean as\nthe decks of a yacht, and the paint as fresh as a man-o'-war.\nJack always was a good painter. There was a nice parlour on the\nground floor, and Jack had papered it and had hung the walls with\nphotographs of ships and foreign ports, and with things he had\nbrought home from his voyages: a boomerang, a South Sea club,\nJapanese straw hats and a Gibraltar fan with a bull-fight on it,\nand all that sort of gear. It looked to me as if Miss Mamie had\ntaken a hand in arranging it. There was a bran-new polished iron\nFranklin stove set into the old fireplace, and a red table-cloth\nfrom Alexandria, embroidered with those outlandish Egyptian\nletters. It was all as bright and homelike as possible, and he\nshowed me everything, and was proud of everything, and I liked\nhim the better for it. But I wished that his voice would sound\nmore cheerful, as it did when we first sailed in the _Helen B._,\nand that the drawn look would go out of his face for a minute.\nJack showed me everything, and took me upstairs, and it was all\nthe same: bright and fresh and ready for the bride. But on the\nupper landing there was a door that Jack didn't open. When we\ncame out of the bedroom I noticed that it was ajar, and Jack shut\nit quickly and turned the key.\n\n\"That lock's no good,\" he said, half to himself. \"The door is\nalways open.\"\n\nI didn't pay much attention to what he said, but as we went down\nthe short stairs, freshly painted and varnished so that I was\nalmost afraid to step on them, he spoke again.\n\n\"That was his room, sir. I have made a sort of store-room of it.\"\n\n\"You may be wanting it in a year or so,\" I said, wishing to be\npleasant.\n\n\"I guess we won't use his room for that,\" Jack answered in a low\nvoice.\n\nThen he offered me a cigar from a fresh box in the parlour, and\nhe took one, and we lit them, and went out; and as we opened the\nfront door there was Mamie Brewster standing in the path as if\nshe were waiting for us. She was a fine-looking girl, and I\ndidn't wonder that Jack had been willing to wait three years for\nher. I could see that she hadn't been brought up on steam-heat\nand cold storage, but had grown into a woman by the sea-shore.\nShe had brown eyes, and fine brown hair, and a good figure.\n\n\"This is Captain Torkeldsen,\" said Jack. \"This is Miss Brewster,\ncaptain; and she is glad to see you.\"\n\n\"Well, I am,\" said Miss Mamie, \"for Jack has often talked to us\nabout you, captain.\"\n\nShe put out her hand, and took mine and shook it heartily, and I\nsuppose I said something, but I know I didn't say much.\n\nThe front door of the cottage looked toward the sea, and there\nwas a straight path leading to the gate on the beach road. There\nwas another path from the steps of the cottage that turned to the\nright, broad enough for two people to walk easily, and it led\nstraight across the fields through gates to a larger house about\na quarter of a mile away. That was where Mamie's mother lived,\nand the wedding was to be there. Jack asked me whether I would\nlike to look round the farm before dinner, but I told him I\ndidn't know much about farms. Then he said he just wanted to look\nround himself a bit, as he mightn't have much more chance that\nday; and he smiled, and Mamie laughed.\n\n\"Show the captain the way to the house, Mamie,\" he said. \"I'll\nbe along in a minute.\"\n\nSo Mamie and I began to walk along the path, and Jack went up\ntoward the barn.\n\n\"It was sweet of you to come, captain,\" Miss Mamie began, \"for I\nhave always wanted to see you.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, expecting something more.\n\n\"You see, I always knew them both,\" she went on. \"They used to\ntake me out in a dory to catch codfish when I was a little girl,\nand I liked them both,\" she added thoughtfully. \"Jack doesn't\ncare to talk about his brother now. That's natural. But you won't\nmind telling me how it happened, will you? I should so much like\nto know.\"\n\nWell, I told her about the voyage and what happened that night\nwhen we fell in with a gale of wind, and that it hadn't been\nanybody's fault, for I wasn't going to admit that it was my old\ncaptain's, if it was. But I didn't tell her anything about what\nhappened afterwards. As she didn't speak, I just went on talking\nabout the two brothers, and how like they had been, and how when\npoor Jim was drowned and Jack was left, I took Jack for him. I\ntold her that none of us had ever been sure which was which.\n\n\"I wasn't always sure myself,\" she said, \"unless they were\ntogether. Leastways, not for a day or two after they came home\nfrom sea. And now it seems to me that Jack is more like poor Jim,\nas I remember him, than he ever was, for Jim was always more\nquiet, as if he were thinking.\"\n\nI told her I thought so, too. We passed the gate and went into\nthe next field, walking side by side. Then she turned her head to\nlook for Jack, but he wasn't in sight. I sha'n't forget what she\nsaid next.\n\n\"Are you sure now?\" she asked.\n\nI stood stock-still, and she went on a step, and then turned and\nlooked at me. We must have looked at each other while you could\ncount five or six.\n\n\"I know it's silly,\" she went on, \"it's silly, and it's awful,\ntoo, and I have got no right to think it, but sometimes I can't\nhelp it. You see it was always Jack I meant to marry.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said stupidly, \"I suppose so.\"\n\nShe waited a minute, and began walking on slowly before she went\non again.\n\n\"I am talking to you as if you were an old friend, captain, and I\nhave only known you five minutes. It was Jack I meant to marry,\nbut now he is so like the other one.\"\n\nWhen a woman gets a wrong idea into her head, there is only one\nway to make her tired of it, and that is to agree with her.\nThat's what I did, and she went on talking the same way for a\nlittle while, and I kept on agreeing and agreeing until she\nturned round on me.\n\n\"You know you don't believe what you say,\" she said, and\nlaughed. \"You know that Jack is Jack, right enough; and it's Jack\nI am going to marry.\"\n\nOf course I said so, for I didn't care whether she thought me a\nweak creature or not. I wasn't going to say a word that could\ninterfere with her happiness, and I didn't intend to go back on\nJack Benton; but I remembered what he had said when he left the\nship in Havana: that it wasn't his fault.\n\n\"All the same,\" Miss Mamie went on, as a woman will, without\nrealising what she was saying, \"all the same, I wish I had seen\nit happen. Then I should know.\"\n\nNext minute she knew that she didn't mean that, and was afraid\nthat I would think her heartless, and began to explain that she\nwould really rather have died herself than have seen poor Jim go\noverboard. Women haven't got much sense, anyhow. All the same, I\nwondered how she could marry Jack if she had a doubt that he\nmight be Jim after all. I suppose she had really got used to him\nsince he had given up the sea and had stayed ashore, and she\ncared for him.\n\nBefore long we heard Jack coming up behind us, for we had walked\nvery slowly to wait for him.\n\n\"Promise not to tell anybody what I said, captain,\" said Mamie,\nas girls do as soon as they have told their secrets.\n\nAnyhow, I know I never did tell any one but you. This is the\nfirst time I have talked of all that, the first time since I took\nthe train from that place. I am not going to tell you all about\nthe day. Miss Mamie introduced me to her mother, who was a quiet,\nhard-faced old New England farmer's widow, and to her cousins and\nrelations; and there were plenty of them too at dinner, and there\nwas the parson besides. He was what they call a Hard-shell\nBaptist in those parts, with a long, shaven upper lip and a\nwhacking appetite, and a sort of superior look, as if he didn't\nexpect to see many of us hereafter--the way a New York pilot\nlooks round, and orders things about when he boards an Italian\ncargo-dragger, as if the ship weren't up to much anyway, though\nit was his business to see that she didn't get aground. That's\nthe way a good many parsons look, I think. He said grace as if he\nwere ordering the men to sheet home the topgallant-sail and get\nthe helm up. After dinner we went out on the piazza, for it was\nwarm autumn weather; and the young folks went off in pairs along\nthe beach road, and the tide had turned and was beginning to come\nin. The morning had been clear and fine, but by four o'clock it\nbegan to look like a fog, and the damp came up out of the sea and\nsettled on everything. Jack said he'd go down to his cottage and\nhave a last look, for the wedding was to be at five o'clock, or\nsoon after, and he wanted to light the lights, so as to have\nthings look cheerful.\n\n\"I will just take a last look,\" he said again, as we reached the\nhouse. We went in, and he offered me another cigar, and I lit it\nand sat down in the parlour. I could hear him moving about, first\nin the kitchen and then upstairs, and then I heard him in the\nkitchen again; and then before I knew anything I heard somebody\nmoving upstairs again. I knew he couldn't have got up those\nstairs as quick as that. He came into the parlour, and he took a\ncigar himself, and while he was lighting it I heard those steps\nagain overhead. His hand shook, and he dropped the match.\n\n\"Have you got in somebody to help?\" I asked.\n\n\"No,\" Jack answered sharply, and struck another match.\n\n\"There's somebody upstairs, Jack,\" I said. \"Don't you hear\nfootsteps?\"\n\n\"It's the wind, captain,\" Jack answered; but I could see he was\ntrembling.\n\n\"That isn't any wind, Jack,\" I said; \"it's still and foggy. I'm\nsure there's somebody upstairs.\"\n\n\"If you are so sure of it, you'd better go and see for yourself,\ncaptain,\" Jack answered, almost angrily.\n\nHe was angry because he was frightened. I left him before the\nfireplace, and went upstairs. There was no power on earth that\ncould make me believe I hadn't heard a man's footsteps overhead.\nI knew there was somebody there. But there wasn't. I went into\nthe bedroom, and it was all quiet, and the evening light was\nstreaming in, reddish through the foggy air; and I went out on\nthe landing and looked in the little back room that was meant for\na servant girl or a child. And as I came back again I saw that\nthe door of the other room was wide open, though I knew Jack had\nlocked it. He had said the lock was no good. I looked in. It was\na room as big as the bedroom, but almost dark, for it had\nshutters, and they were closed. There was a musty smell, as of\nold gear, and I could make out that the floor was littered with\nsea chests, and that there were oilskins and stuff piled on the\nbed. But I still believed that there was somebody upstairs, and I\nwent in and struck a match and looked round. I could see the four\nwalls and the shabby old paper, an iron bed and a cracked\nlooking-glass, and the stuff on the floor. But there was nobody\nthere. So I put out the match, and came out and shut the door and\nturned the key. Now, what I am telling you is the truth. When I\nhad turned the key, I heard footsteps walking away from the door\ninside the room. Then I felt queer for a minute, and when I went\ndownstairs I looked behind me, as the men at the wheel used to\nlook behind them on board the _Helen B._\n\nJack was already outside on the steps, smoking. I have an idea\nthat he didn't like to stay inside alone.\n\n\"Well?\" he asked, trying to seem careless.\n\n\"I didn't find anybody,\" I answered, \"but I heard somebody moving\nabout.\" \"I told you it was the wind,\" said Jack, contemptuously.\n\"I ought to know, for I live here, and I hear it often.\"\n\nThere was nothing to be said to that, so we began to walk down\ntoward the beach. Jack said there wasn't any hurry, as it would\ntake Miss Mamie some time to dress for the wedding. So we\nstrolled along, and the sun was setting through the fog, and the\ntide was coming in. I knew the moon was full, and that when she\nrose the fog would roll away from the land, as it does sometimes.\nI felt that Jack didn't like my having heard that noise, so I\ntalked of other things, and asked him about his prospects, and\nbefore long we were chatting as pleasantly as possible.\n\nI haven't been at many weddings in my life, and I don't suppose\nyou have, but that one seemed to me to be all right until it was\npretty near over; and then, I don't know whether it was part of\nthe ceremony or not, but Jack put out his hand and took Mamie's\nand held it a minute, and looked at her, while the parson was\nstill speaking.\n\nMamie turned as white as a sheet and screamed. It wasn't a loud\nscream, but just a sort of stifled little shriek, as if she were\nhalf frightened to death; and the parson stopped, and asked her\nwhat was the matter, and the family gathered round.\n\n\"Your hand's like ice,\" said Mamie to Jack, \"and it's all wet!\"\n\nShe kept looking at it, as she got hold of herself again.\n\n\"It don't feel cold to me,\" said Jack, and he held the back of\nhis hand against his cheek. \"Try it again.\"\n\nMamie held out hers, and touched the back of his hand, timidly at\nfirst, and then took hold of it.\n\n\"Why, that's funny,\" she said.\n\n\"She's been as nervous as a witch all day,\" said Mrs. Brewster,\nseverely.\n\n\"It is natural,\" said the parson, \"that young Mrs. Benton should\nexperience a little agitation at such a moment.\"\n\nMost of the bride's relations lived at a distance, and were busy\npeople, so it had been arranged that the dinner we'd had in the\nmiddle of the day was to take the place of a dinner afterwards,\nand that we should just have a bite after the wedding was over,\nand then that everybody should go home, and the young couple\nwould walk down to the cottage by themselves. When I looked out I\ncould see the light burning brightly in Jack's cottage, a quarter\nof a mile away. I said I didn't think I could get any train to\ntake me back before half-past nine, but Mrs. Brewster begged me\nto stay until it was time, as she said her daughter would want to\ntake off her wedding dress before she went home; for she had put\non something white with a wreath, that was very pretty, and she\ncouldn't walk home like that, could she?\n\nSo when we had all had a little supper the party began to break\nup, and when they were all gone Mrs. Brewster and Mamie went\nupstairs, and Jack and I went out on the piazza, to have a\nsmoke, as the old lady didn't like tobacco in the house.\n\nThe full moon had risen now, and it was behind me as I looked\ndown toward Jack's cottage, so that everything was clear and\nwhite, and there was only the light burning in the window. The\nfog had rolled down to the water's edge, and a little beyond, for\nthe tide was high, or nearly, and was lapping up over the last\nreach of sand, within fifty feet of the beach road.\n\nJack didn't say much as we sat smoking, but he thanked me for\ncoming to his wedding, and I told him I hoped he would be happy;\nand so I did. I dare say both of us were thinking of those\nfootsteps upstairs, just then, and that the house wouldn't seem\nso lonely with a woman in it. By and by we heard Mamie's voice\ntalking to her mother on the stairs, and in a minute she was\nready to go. She had put on again the dress she had worn in the\nmorning, and it looked black at night, almost as black as Jack's\ncoat.\n\nWell, they were ready to go now. It was all very quiet after the\nday's excitement, and I knew they would like to walk down that\npath alone now that they were man and wife at last. I bade them\ngood-night, although Jack made a show of pressing me to go with\nthem by the path as far as the cottage, instead of going to the\nstation by the beach road. It was all very quiet, and it seemed\nto me a sensible way of getting married; and when Mamie kissed\nher mother good-night I just looked the other way, and knocked my\nashes over the rail of the piazza. So they started down the\nstraight path to Jack's cottage, and I waited a minute with Mrs.\nBrewster, looking after them, before taking my hat to go. They\nwalked side by side, a little shyly at first, and then I saw Jack\nput his arm round her waist. As I looked he was on her left, and\nI saw the outline of the two figures very distinctly against the\nmoonlight on the path; and the shadow on Mamie's right was broad\nand black as ink, and it moved along, lengthening and shortening\nwith the unevenness of the ground beside the path.\n\nI thanked Mrs. Brewster, and bade her good-night; and though she\nwas a hard New England woman her voice trembled a little as she\nanswered, but being a sensible person she went in and shut the\ndoor behind her as I stepped out on the path. I looked after the\ncouple in the distance a last time, meaning to go down to the\nroad, so as not to overtake them; but when I had made a few steps\nI stopped and looked again, for I knew I had seen something\nqueer, though I had only realised it afterwards. I looked again,\nand it was plain enough now; and I stood stock-still, staring at\nwhat I saw. Mamie was walking between two men. The second man was\njust the same height as Jack, both being about a half a head\ntaller than she; Jack on her left in his black tail-coat and\nround hat, and the other man on her right--well, he was a\nsailor-man in wet oilskins. I could see the moonlight shining on\nthe water that ran down him, and on the little puddle that had\nsettled where the flap of his sou'wester was turned up behind:\nand one of his wet, shiny arms was round Mamie's waist, just\nabove Jack's. I was fast to the spot where I stood, and for a\nminute I thought I was crazy. We'd had nothing but some cider for\ndinner, and tea in the evening, otherwise I'd have thought\nsomething had got into my head, though I was never drunk in my\nlife. It was more like a bad dream after that.\n\nI was glad Mrs. Brewster had gone in. As for me, I couldn't help\nfollowing the three, in a sort of wonder to see what would\nhappen, to see whether the sailor-man in his wet togs would just\nmelt away into the moonshine. But he didn't.\n\n[Illustration: ONE OF HIS WET, SHINY ARMS WAS ROUND MAMIE'S WAIST.]\n\nI moved slowly, and I remembered afterwards that I walked on the\ngrass, instead of on the path, as if I were afraid they might\nhear me coming. I suppose it all happened in less than five\nminutes after that, but it seemed as if it must have taken an\nhour. Neither Jack nor Mamie seemed to notice the sailor. She\ndidn't seem to know that his wet arm was round her, and little by\nlittle they got near the cottage, and I wasn't a hundred yards\nfrom them when they reached the door. Something made me stand\nstill then. Perhaps it was fright, for I saw everything that\nhappened just as I see you now.\n\nMamie set her foot on the step to go up, and as she went forward\nI saw the sailor slowly lock his arm in Jack's, and Jack didn't\nmove to go up. Then Mamie turned round on the step, and they all\nthree stood that way for a second or two. She cried out then,--I\nheard a man cry like that once, when his arm was taken off by a\nsteam-crane,--and she fell back in a heap on the little piazza.\n\nI tried to jump forward, but I couldn't move, and I felt my hair\nrising under my hat. The sailor turned slowly where he stood, and\nswung Jack round by the arm steadily and easily, and began to\nwalk him down the pathway from the house. He walked him straight\ndown that path, as steadily as Fate; and all the time I saw the\nmoonlight shining on his wet oilskins. He walked him through the\ngate, and across the beach road, and out upon the wet sand, where\nthe tide was high. Then I got my breath with a gulp, and ran for\nthem across the grass, and vaulted over the fence, and stumbled\nacross the road. But when I felt the sand under my feet, the two\nwere at the water's edge; and when I reached the water they were\nfar out, and up to their waists; and I saw that Jack Benton's\nhead had fallen forward on his breast, and his free arm hung limp\nbeside him, while his dead brother steadily marched him to his\ndeath. The moonlight was on the dark water, but the fog-bank was\nwhite beyond, and I saw them against it; and they went slowly and\nsteadily down. The water was up to their armpits, and then up to\ntheir shoulders, and then I saw it rise up to the black rim of\nJack's hat. But they never wavered; and the two heads went\nstraight on, straight on, till they were under, and there was\njust a ripple in the moonlight where Jack had been.\n\nIt has been on my mind to tell you that story, whenever I got a\nchance. You have known me, man and boy, a good many years; and I\nthought I would like to hear your opinion. Yes, that's what I\nalways thought. It wasn't Jim that went overboard; it was Jack,\nand Jim just let him go when he might have saved him; and then\nJim passed himself off for Jack with us, and with the girl. If\nthat's what happened, he got what he deserved. People said the\nnext day that Mamie found it out as they reached the house, and\nthat her husband just walked out into the sea, and drowned\nhimself; and they would have blamed me for not stopping him if\nthey'd known that I was there. But I never told what I had seen,\nfor they wouldn't have believed me. I just let them think I had\ncome too late.\n\nWhen I reached the cottage and lifted Mamie up, she was raving\nmad. She got better afterwards, but she was never right in her\nhead again.\n\nOh, you want to know if they found Jack's body? I don't know\nwhether it was his, but I read in a paper at a Southern port\nwhere I was with my new ship that two dead bodies had come ashore\nin a gale down East, in pretty bad shape. They were locked\ntogether, and one was a skeleton in oilskins.\n\n\n * * * \n\n\n Francis Marion Crawford, the youngest of the four\n children of the well-known sculptor Thomas Crawford,\n was born in Rome, educated by a French governess;\n then at St Paul's School, Concord, N.H.; in the\n quiet country village of Hatfield Regis, under an\n English tutor; at Trinity College, Cambridge, where\n they thought him a mathematician in those days; at\n Heidelberg and Karlsruhe, and at the University of\n Rome, where a special interest in Oriental languages\n sent him to India with the idea of preparing for a\n professorship.\n\n At one time in India hard times nearly forced him\n into enlistment in the British army, but a chance\n opening sent him as editor of the _Indian Herald_ to\n Allahabad. It was during the next eighteen months\n that he met at Simla the hero of his first novel,\n \"Mr. Isaacs.\" \"If it had not been for him,\" Mr.\n Crawford has been known to say, \"I might at this\n moment be a professor of Sanskrit in some American\n college;\" for that idea persisted after his return\n to the United States, where he entered Harvard for\n special study of the subject.\n\n But from the May evening when the story of the\n interesting man at Simla was first told in a club\n smoking-room overlooking Madison Square, Mr. Crawford's\n life has been one of hard literary work. He returned to\n Italy in 1883, spent most of the next year in\n Constantinople, where he was married to a daughter\n of General Berdan. From 1885 he has made his home in\n Sorrento, Italy, visiting America at intervals.\n\n \"Mr. Isaacs,\" published in 1882, was followed almost\n at once by \"Dr. Claudius.\" Then _The Atlantic\n Monthly_ claimed a serial, \"A Roman Singer,\" in\n 1883. Since that time the list of his novels has\n been increased to thirty-two, besides the historical\n and descriptive works entitled \"Ave Roma Immortalis\"\n and \"The Rulers of the South.\"\n\n To Mr. Crawford, the development of a story and of\n the character which suggested it, is the preÃ«minent\n thing. As the critics say:--\n\n \"He is an artist, a born story-teller and\n colourist, imaginative and dramatic, virile and\n vivid.\"\n\n His wide range as a traveller has contributed doubtless\n to another characteristic quality:--\n\n \"... his strength in unexcelled portraits of odd\n characters and his magical skill in seeming to make\n his readers witnesses of the spectacles.\"\n\n His intimate knowledge of many countries has resulted in\n an unequalled series of brilliant romances, including\n varied characters from the old families of Rome, the\n glassblowers of Venice, the silversmiths of Rome, the\n cigarette makers of Munich, the court of old Madrid, the\n Turks of Stamboul and the Bosphorus, simple sailors on the\n coast of Spain, Americans of modern New York and Bar Harbor,\n to Crusaders of the twelfth century. But whether the scene\n be in modern India, rural England, the Black Forest, or the\n palaces of Babylon, the story seizes on the imagination and\n fascinates the reader.\n\n \"The romantic reader will find here a tale of love\n passionate and pure; the student of character, the\n subtle analysis and deft portrayal he loves; the\n historian will approve its conscientious historic\n accuracy; the lover of adventure will find his\n blood stir and pulses quicken as he reads.\"\n\n * * * \n\n\n\n THE NOVELS OF\n F. MARION CRAWFORD\n\n NEW UNIFORM EDITION\n\n Dr. Claudius\n A Roman Singer\n Zoroaster\n Don Orsino\n Marion Darche\n A Cigarette Maker's Romance and Khaled\n Taquisara\n Via Crucis\n Sant' Ilario\n The Ralstons\n Adam Johnstone's Son and A Rose of Yesterday\n Mr. Isaacs\n A Tale of a Lonely Parish\n Saracinesca\n Paul Patoff\n The Witch of Prague\n Pietro Ghisleri\n Corleone\n Children of the King\n Katherine Lauderdale\n To Leeward\n\n Each, bound in cloth, green and gold, $1.80\n\n * * * \n\n _In preparation in the Uniform Edition_\n\n An American Politician\n Marzio's Crucifix\n With the Immortals\n Greifenstein\n The Three Fates\n Casa Braccio. 2 vols.\n Love in Idleness\n\n * * * \n\n F. MARION CRAWFORD'S\n MOST RECENT NOVELS\n\n CECILIA: A Story of Modern Rome\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n \"The reincarnation of a great love\n is the real story, and that is well worth\n reading.\"--_San Francisco Chronicle._\n\n MARIETTA: A Maid of Venice\n _Cloth_, $1.50\n\n IN THE PALACE OF THE KING\n A Love Story of Old Madrid\n _Illustrated, Cloth_, $1.50\n\n * * * \n\n HANDSOMELY ILLUSTRATED DESCRIPTIVE BOOKS\n\n AVE ROMA IMMORTALIS\n Studies from the Chronicles of Rome\n _New edition. Revised. _x_ + 613 pp. 8vo. $3.00, net._\n\n RULERS OF THE SOUTH\n Sicily, Calabria, Malta\n _In two volumes. Crown 8vo. $6.00, net._\n\n * * * \n\n The Macmillan Little Novels\n BY FAVOURITE AUTHORS\n\n Handsomely Bound in Decorated Cloth\n 16mo. 50 cents each\n\n PHILOSOPHY FOUR\n A STORY OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY\n By Owen Wister\n Author of \"The Virginian\" etc.\n\n MAN OVERBOARD\n By F. Marion Crawford\n Author of \"Cecilia,\" \"Marietta,\" etc.\n\n MR. KEEGAN'S ELOPEMENT\n By Winston Churchill\n Author of \"The Crisis,\" \"Richard Carvel,\" etc.\n\n MRS. 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