Woven with the Ship Part 43

"I tell ye, messmates, a shipload of feemales is the most disorganizin' body that kin board a ship-o'-war. Ef the old _Confederation_, the flag-ship, hadn't a-hove in sight jest then, I don't know wot'd a-happened. We was so okerpied in this diwidin'

bisness that n.o.body was a-watchin' out fer her. We was a-scramblin'

an' a-dancin' an' a-raisin' Ned, an' the cap'n was a-protestin' an'

a-tryin' to restore order, w'en the old frigate shoved alongside, an'

Commodore Ringtailboom was that rageful he could hardly speak w'en he sees us all. He settled the hull thing by takin' all them feemales on board his own ship an' then sendin' 'em to Algiers an' settin' 'em free till the Turkeys got a hold of 'em ag'in, w'ich we never seed 'em ag'in. Cap'n Rattlin he got transferred to the frigate to onct fer punishment, an' we was scattered among the fleet, cos they said 'twarn't safe to leave sech a crowd together no more.

"Shipmates, we was only jokin' about diwidin' of 'em, but arter the commodore crossed our course we was the maddest lot of officers an'

men you ever seed, but that was all there was to it. You can be sure that n.o.body never got athwart the hawse of Commodore Ringtailboom deliberate; he was a peppery old gent, sure, an' 'twas as much as a man's life was worth to go agin him.

"Now, that's an example of how disorganizin' wimmin 'ud be on board a ship."

"Jack," said little Futtocks, amid the laughter with which this amazing story was greeted, "do you mean to tell me that this is a true yarn?"

"Hev I brung you up, Master Futtocks, to doubt me?" asked the old man, his twinkling eyes belying the resentment in his voice.

"I am not doubting you, Jack. I'm just asking you a question."

"Wall, wall, I'll tell ye wot to do. The next time you see Commodore Rattlin you jest ask him wot was done with them feemale slaves we captured in the _Stamico_ w'en we was together in the old _Grampus_ in the Med't'ranean in 1803."

"But, Jack----"

"Eight bells, sir," said the old man, rising as the four couplets proclaimed the hour. "All the starboard watch!" he cried, shrilling his pipe as a sign that the play-time was over.

THE DISEMBODIED SPIRIT

THE STORY OF A WANDERING SENSATION

"I loaf and invite thee, my soul, Leave thy fetters of flesh and be free; Soar abroad, scorning earthly control, On a sort of a spiritual spree."

TIMOTHY BLAKE

Common sense--hard, practical common sense--is a great and important factor in this world's concerns. I am not a common-sense person myself,--though Geraldine will tell you that I am a man of uncommon sense,--but it is to common-sense people that I address myself; people who say, if they ever so far forget themselves as to read "Rappaccini's Daughter," for instance, or that other story by the gifted son of his gifted father, which hides its weird fascination under the name of "Archibald Malmaison," and you ask them if they like the stories: "Oh, of course not; I never heard of such improbable things. Why, how is it possible for a man?" etc. It is to these people I write.

I live in the enterprising Western city of Kalamalant. As my family and Geraldine's family have lived there many years, we are all well known, and any of my neighbors, among whom are a judge of the District Court, a retired major-general of the army, a United States Senator, and other persons of undoubted veracity, can affirm the truth of the strange incidents of which I am the princ.i.p.al subject. Geraldine will say that this is not the only case in which I am the princ.i.p.al subject, royally a.s.suming for the once--but I digress. Geraldine says I always take too much time in getting at the point of the story, and as Geraldine is the only critic of whom I am afraid, here goes.

I, James Henry Rettew, commonly called Harry, was about twenty-six years old in the year of our Lord 1901. I was a sleepy, and people say a dreamy, abstracted young man. Geraldine thinks me handsome. She is alone in her belief, unless I agree with her in this, as in most things. I was possessed of a little fortune, and was a well-informed young man of studious bent, having read largely in a rather desultory way. My favorite study was the spiritual essence, or soul of man, especially my own.

It is a thing I believe most people have, though Geraldine says you have to take it on faith in the case of a great many people. What was it? Where was it, this pervading vital force within me? How did it exist within my body? What kept it there? Was death the result of a disa.s.sociation of the two? Was no man capable of ever separating the one from the other?

These are but a sample of the speculations in which I indulged. And I actually found myself in the way of solving some of these problems at last. Rummaging in the library of a deceased philosopher, I came across a treatise on this very subject by a sage of ancient times, the learned Egyptian Archidechus. No, you will not find his name in the encyclopaedias. I have purposely altered it, lest any one should search for the pamphlet and, finding it, become as I was--but I antic.i.p.ate.

I seized upon the old moth-eaten parchment volume with avidity. This rare--I do not think there was another copy in existence except the one I read--and wonderful book treated of the spirit or essence of life as distinguished from the gross and visible body. The writer held that it was possible to separate the one from the other; in other words, according to Archidechus, the spirit might leave the body and return to it at pleasure; in fact, the writer knew of such a case and cited it; he also gave minute directions for accomplishing this wonderful feat. I shall not reveal them to you nor to Geraldine, though that is the only secret I do not share with her, so beware how you confide in me.

Of course the thing was ridiculous; no such separation was possible, so I reasoned. There were the directions, however; they fascinated me.

I was always an imaginative fellow and a great tryer of all sorts of strange experiments; why should I not try this one? I confided my intentions to no one, not even to Geraldine. I locked myself in my room and devoured the old book. Great stress was laid upon the faith necessary and the condition of the mind. It was stated that any violent emotion might be of great a.s.sistance at the final moment of--shall I call it dissolution?

Now I was at peace with all the world except John Haverford. Haverford was in love with Geraldine Holabird, but as I felt sure of her affection, I was not able to get up any violent jealousy on her account. Geraldine has since told me that if she had known I felt so confident of her affection she would have supplied me with several emotions on that score of an exceedingly violent nature; I don't believe it.

However, I complied with the other directions, and I even contrived to a.s.sume a reasonable amount of faith, but I could not quite manage the separation. I could apparently concentrate my vital force on one spot, for instance; but, exert myself as I would, I could not break the tie.

The idea possessed me; I could think of nothing else. Geraldine says I was the most intensely unsatisfactory lover at this time that one could imagine, and that she had serious thoughts of giving me up for John Haverford.

Our love, which was a secret affair,--and none the less sweet for that, by the way,--was violently opposed by the heads of both our houses, there being some grudge between them. Although I was devoted to her and she to me, as I now know, though I did not at the time, yet I had never dared to take more of a lover's privilege than a respectful salute upon her hand. Geraldine was a tall and extremely dignified girl, and how she ever came to meet me clandestinely and write me those little notes--I have them yet--I don't know. She says she doesn't either.

But to come back to my experiment. My want of complete success preyed upon me. I grew thin, lost my appet.i.te, could think of nothing but that. This, I imagine, was one of the reasons for my final success.

Geraldine says I ought not to have said that, as it will spoil the denouement. However, it is too late now. One afternoon, more than usually discouraged at my repeated failures, when I was about to consign the volume to the fire as a false prophet, my sister, who acted as our Mercury, threw a note into my room from Geraldine. I opened it, I must confess, rather listlessly.

Good heavens! Her father had discovered my last letter, he was furiously angry, swore she should marry John Haverford, and she was now locked in her own room; I would recognize it by the white ribbon hanging from the window-sill, and I must do something soon, for her father was terribly angry, and she loved me and me only, her own Harry,--and you know the rest! (Geraldine protests against these unflattering allusions to her notes.)

What happened a moment after, or how it happened, I am not prepared to state; one thing I do know. I found myself in the street and, without a thought of how I came there, was hurrying toward Geraldine's house; with reckless speed I ran headlong full-tilt into a lady of my acquaintance. The concussion nearly stunned me. What was my surprise, as I hastily took off my hat to apologize for my carelessness, to see the young lady calmly walk past me, apparently unconscious of my presence, and giving no evidence of having been in a collision with me! This rather astonished me, but Geraldine was so much in my mind that I dismissed it and hastened on. It was not far to her house, and, sure enough, there was a white ribbon fluttering from the window I knew to be hers.

In my reckless desire to do something for her, I opened the gate and walked into the yard,--that is, I found myself there, and, of course, could have come no other way. I am not much of an athlete and could not have jumped the fence. These reflections did not occur to me at the time, but the next thing which happened did astonish me. While I was standing there in the walk, wondering what to do next, the front door opened and old Mr. Holabird came out. His face was red with anger, and he was armed with a thick club, presumably for me. Now, I am not a very brave man,--though Geraldine thinks me a perfect hero,--and I confess I trembled. However, I walked up to him and said, "Mr. Holabird, your daughter----"

He absolutely did not see me, and as he pa.s.sed me, with excess of courage I laid my hand upon his arm, but he took no more heed of that than of my voice. What could have been the matter?

I began to feel a little alarmed, and gave myself a good pinch to see if I were awake, the usual resource of people in a like situation--Geraldine says that no one ever was in a like situation before. I certainly was awake, for the pinch hurt me. Marvelling more and more, I decided to go into the house. The old gentleman was my most dangerous opponent, and with him out of the way I felt I could brave the rest of the household. If I could get at Geraldine, I hoped to persuade her to fly with me; and I did not doubt, once we were safely married, her father would forgive us, or if he would not, I should not greatly care, so long as I could have Geraldine.

Thinking thus, I walked up to the door and, placing my hand on the bell, gave it a good strong pull. The little silver-plated handle did not move an inch! I rubbed my eyes and tried it once more--no effect!

I then sat down to consider. Was all the world bewitched? I racked my brain until the door opened and one of the children ran out. She came over to the chair I sat in and dropped into my lap. I got out of the chair in a second, just how I could not say. I am not over-fond of children of that age.

"Why, Jennie!" I cried, somewhat indignantly. "What do you mean by jumping on my lap in this unceremonious manner? Where is Geraldine? Go tell her I want to see her at once."

I was getting angry; but, would you believe it? that child went on playing with her doll and completely ignored me! It was too much; I wondered whether the whole town were in a conspiracy to drive me crazy. In despair I resolved to see Geraldine at once, and at the risk of being shot for a burglar, I turned to the door the little girl had fortunately left open and walked in.

As I entered the hall my foot slipped on the marble tiling and I fell heavily against an exquisite bisque head standing on the newel post.

When I picked myself up, sufficiently sore from my fall to be convinced that it was a real one, the bisque figure-head was standing safely and smiling at me--it was a-laughing head--in a way I conceived to be particularly exasperating. I was so excited by this time that I struck it a furious blow with my fist, and still that infernal head stood and grinned at me!

If I did not see Geraldine soon I felt that I would go mad, so I marched upstairs until I came to the door of her room. I knocked gently on the door; there was no sound! I tried the handle with the same ill success as before. This was the last straw. I confess I stood at that door and shouted and screamed and kicked it,--pounded on it until I sank exhausted on the floor,--and still no thought of my real condition entered my head.

It happened that in my present situation my eyes were just on a level with the key-hole. I peeped in. There was Geraldine; I could see her plainly; and in another moment I saw her take a letter from her dress, kiss it pa.s.sionately, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears. I was so wrought up by this time that in spite of my fatigue I jumped to my feet, and in another second I found myself by her side.

She was clad in some soft white wrapper, her hair all unbound, and was kneeling with her face in her arms on a chair. I was inexpressibly touched by her heart-broken att.i.tude. I had never been anything but a very formal lover, as I said before; however, I thought the circ.u.mstances might warrant me in waiving a little ceremony, especially as she evidently needed a comforter sadly, so I walked quickly over to her and laid my hand on her shoulder.

"Geraldine," I said, "my darling, I am here to help you. Geraldine, won't you speak to me?"

There was no answer and no intermit to the sobs and tears she was pouring on my letter. I thought this was pushing shyness to the limit, and I had never suspected her of being timid. However, as she made no objection to my hand being on her shoulder, I thought that was a good sign, and I knelt down beside her and slipped my arm around her neck and said,--

"Geraldine dearest, do not cry so,--courage,--it will be all right--"

(Pause.) "Won't you speak to me? Please, please look at me!" (Longer pause.) "Geraldine!" I shouted, savagely, "look at me at once or I'll leave you forever!"

No response of any kind!

By heaven! What _did_ it mean? I rose and dropped into a chair, remarking,--

"I'll sit here and look at you till you do get up and say something to me, if your father comes in here and kills me!"