Brenda's Ward Part 39

"How blue the water is, and the sky! I haven't felt so thoroughly in the mood for good work since I left Acadia," exclaimed Martine.

"But the sun is terribly hot," replied Clare, "and I am hungry. Let us go inside Fort Const.i.tution for our luncheon. There will surely be more shade there."

"Your word is law," and Martine reluctantly gathered up her belongings, and soon the three had ensconced themselves in a shady corner within the crumbling walls of the old gra.s.s-grown Fort.

"'Fort William and Mary' was the name of the first Fort near this spot,"

explained Clare, returning to her role of guide, "and even before his ride to Concord and Lexington, Paul Revere is said to have posted up here to tell the people of Portsmouth that the British were sending one hundred men to take all the powder away.

"Accordingly four hundred men of Portsmouth marched out to Fort William and Mary, and required the Captain in command and his five men to surrender. Then they took the powder to a safer hiding-place, and later it was sent down to Boston, where it is said to have been used in the Battle of Bunker Hill. That other little tower is called the Walbach Tower, for Col. Walbach who commanded the fort in the War of 1812.

There's a funny story about the building of this tower. Any one can see that it probably isn't true, although a poem has been written on the subject. The story is simply that the people of Portsmouth, alarmed by the sight of some British ships in the harbor, came over here in the night and worked like bees, men, women, and children, laying stones until this tower was built. There isn't an atom of proof that this is true."

"But it's a pretty story," said Martine.

After luncheon, Clare gave Martine the choice of two walks--to Odiorne's Point, called the "Plymouth Rock of New Hampshire," as the first settlement was made there, or to Little Harbor.

Martine promptly chose the latter, because she was anxious to see the old Wentworth house. To their disappointment, when the girls reached it, the three found the old house closed; but the grounds were open to them and the curious exterior amused Martine, reminding her, as she said, of half a dozen small houses piled and twisted together to make one large one.

"This is the house where Martha Hilton was married," explained Clare. "I am sorry we cannot go inside. The rooms with their polished floors and old-time furniture are really fascinating. Cousin Mary--I hope you will meet her some time in Portsmouth--says that Benning Wentworth, in spite of being Governor, was a plain man, and son of a plain farmer, so that his marriage with Martha Hilton was not such a tremendous mesalliance."

"Oh, I remember that poem," cried Angelina, "how the Governor married the servant maid. It's by Longfellow, and the story's something like Agnes Surriage. The minister didn't want to marry them. I can say some of it, and she recited dramatically:

"'This is the lady, do you hesitate?

Then I command you, as Chief Magistrate.

The Rector read the service loud and clear.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here-- And so on to the end. At his command On the fourth finger of her fair left hand, The governor placed the ring, and that was all.

Martha was Lady Wentworth of the Hall.'

"So I'm glad to see this hall," she added, after Clare and Martine had sufficiently praised her recitation,--"and there's one thing more that I'd like to see,--the island in the harbor, where they kept the Spanish prisoners two years ago. You know I used to think I must be partly Spanish myself, I had so much sympathy for Cervera and all his men. I'm sorry they didn't stay here longer. It would be so pleasant to go to the island and console them."

"Perhaps you'll be as well pleased if you can _see_ Seavey's Island,"

replied Clare, smiling. "We pa.s.sed the other day on our way to the Shoals; and sometime you must take the same trip."

For the time this suggestion satisfied Angelina, and she heard with evident pleasure all that Clare and Martine had to say about old Newcastle.

Intending to catch the last ferry of the afternoon, Clare and Martine cut short their stay at Little Harbor, delightful though they found the neighborhood with its suggestions of antiquity. They had a long walk before them--long at least for an August afternoon, and they did not reach the pier as quickly as they had hoped.

In spite of Clare's intention and Martine's efforts to be prompt, the little tug had left the landing a minute before they reached it. By close calculation, as they glanced at the time-table, they saw that they would be altogether too late in reaching home, if they waited for the next boat.

"Isn't it aggravating?" cried Martine, "to have to stand here and wait, when the distance across to Kittery is so little."

"There's nothing to do but wait," replied Clare.

Martine followed the direction in which she pointed, and saw an old man in a row-boat approaching the pier.

"Do you suppose he would take us over?"

"Why not? Let's ask him."

The two friends, with Angelina following close behind, stood on the end of the pier while the old man was mooring his boat.

"Will you row us over to the other side?" asked Martine.

He paid no attention to them, but continued tying a knot in his rope.

The question was repeated in a slightly different form, and still the old man made no answer.

"He must be deaf," said Angelina.

"Or the wind's blowing in the wrong direction," said Clare. "We must wait till he comes up to us."

When the old man approached, by signs and words they made him understand what they wished, and he smiled pleasantly when Clare put a dollar bill in his hand.

"It's worth it," she said in an aside to Martine. "If we cross with him, we shall save two hours on our homeward journey."

So the old man untied his boat, which was ample enough for the four, and the girls quickly took their places.

"I can't say that I like a deaf boatman," said Clare, "in case of an accident we might find it awkward that he can't hear."

"An accident!" exclaimed Martine, who seldom feared any unseen things; "there certainly could be no accident in this quiet water." Before they had gone very far, however, she began to change her mind. The breeze which they had noticed while they were on the landing, now seemed to be blowing violently, and despite its heavy freight the boat rocked violently; it not only rocked, but veered from its course. Martine held her breath, while the excitable Angelina began to scream.

"Hush! hush!" said Martine, "it's nothing."

"Nothing?" cried Angelina, as a great wave broke over the end of the boat, half drenching her.

"It's only the Piscataqua current," said Clare. "But ask him if there's any danger."

The boatman ignored the question. Probably he had not heard it. A great wave slapped the boat sidewise, and this time Clare's screams were added to Angelina's. Billows rose all around them. Apparently they were no longer on the surface of a quiet river, but in the midst of a disturbed ocean and their boat was small. Martine kept her eyes on the distant sh.o.r.e; she saw that they were approaching it, slow though their progress was. The old man seemed to be doing his best, when suddenly one of his oars broke and they heard him mutter, "that's bad." Bad, it certainly was; even Martine's courage waned. One thing, however, led her to hope that they might escape disaster. She had noticed a little boat pushing out from the other side. How rapidly it seemed to approach! Very soon after the old man's oar snapped, she recognized one of the rowers in the approaching boat. It was Herbert Brownville.

As the boat drew nearer, they saw that Atherton was Herbert's companion.

The boys rowed steadily and swiftly, and soon their boat was beside the other. Leaning over, Herbert extended an oar to the old man who accepted it with a nod of thanks; it wasn't a time for words; Angelina was in tears, Clare was barely calm, and even Martine, the courageous, looked disturbed. The old man bent to the oars, the two boats, almost side by side, went on in a straight line.

"Thank you, thank you!" cried Clare, as they got into calmer water.

"You weren't really scared, were you?" shouted Herbert.

"Just a little," replied Martine.

"You should have known of the current," added Herbert. "It was just the wrong time to cross in a small boat, especially with only one oar."

The wind continued to blow, but the rest of their short journey was so calm compared with the turbulent five minutes, that Martine was ashamed of their needless alarm; and yet she was glad enough when at last she found herself standing on the Kittery bank of the river.

"I knew you'd need a rescuer," exclaimed Herbert, after he had helped them ash.o.r.e.

"But how in the world did you know where to find us?" asked Martine.

Herbert was silent; he did not really care to tell her what Carlotta had said.