Chapter IX: Getting the Author’s Mood (7)

“If thou dost see thy mother, there will be the risk of being recognized. Thou must not see her!”

Michael Strogoff hesitated a moment, and then said:

“I will not see her.”

“Swear to me that nothing will make thee acknowledge who thou art, nor whither thou art going.”

“I swear it.”

“Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke.”

“This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke.”

“Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land.”

The courier saluted his sovereign and that very night set out to fulfill his perilous mission. All went well until he reached Omsk. Compelled to stop here for food and a change of horses, he was about to leave the posting house to continue his journey when suddenly a cry made him tremble—a cry which penetrated to the depths of his soul—and these two words rushed into his ear: “My son!”

His mother, the old woman, Marfa, was before him! Trembling, she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself—when the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself, and his mother, in this unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public room, and among them perhaps spies, and was it not known that the son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the corps of Couriers to the Czar? Michael Strogoff did not move.

“Michael!” cried his mother.

“Who are you, my good woman?”

“Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?”

“You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you.”

Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said: “Art thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?”

Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. But if he yielded now it was all over with him, with her, with his mission, with his oath. Completely master of himself, he closed his eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother.

“I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman.”

“Michael!”

“My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Kopanoff, a merchant of Irkutsk.”

And suddenly he left the room, while for the last time the words echoed in his ears,—

“My son! My son!”

Michael Strogoff by a desperate effort had gone. He did not heed his old mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son. It was impossible! As for being deceived, it was equally impossible. It was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not recognized her it was because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother-feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly have ruined him?

“I am mad,” she said to her interrogators. “This young man was not my son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall end in finding him everywhere.”

This scene, however, was immediately reported to Ivan Ogareff, who was stationed in the town. He at once arrested Michael Strogoff, and then had Marfa brought before him. Marfa, standing before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, and waited. “You are Marfa Strogoff?” asked Ogareff.

“Yes.”

“Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?”

“No.”

“Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the Czar, has passed through Omsk?”

“I do not know it.”

“And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son was not your son?”

“He was not my son.”

“And since then, you have seen him among the prisoners?”

“No.”

“If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?”

“No.”

“Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to me.”

“No.”

“All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall have passed before you.”

On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh.

Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. Her dress torn off left her back bare. A saber was placed before her breast at a few inches’ distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself up and waited.

“Begin,” said Ogareff.

The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand stopped the Tartar’s arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded.

“Michael Strogoff!” cried he.

“Himself!” said Michael, and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across the face.

“Blow for blow!” said he.

Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them.

“This man is reserved for the Emir’s judgment. Search him.”

The letter bearing the imperial arms was found in Michael’s bosom; he had not time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff. Michael was then led before the Emir.

“Your forehead to the ground!” exclaimed Ogareff.

“No!”

Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the ground by a blow from Michael’s fist.

“Who is this prisoner?” asked the Emir.

“A Russian spy,” answered Ogareff.

In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then he pointed to the Koran, which was brought to him. He opened the sacred book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in a loud voice a verse ending in these words: “And he shall no more see the things of this earth.”

“Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; then look while you may! You have seen for the last time. In an instant your eyes will be for ever shut to the light of day.”

Michael’s fate was to be not death, but blindness. He was going to be blinded in the Tartar fashion, with a hot saber-blade passed before his eyes.

The Emir’s orders executed, Ivan Ogareff approached Michael, drew from his pocket the Imperial letter, opened it and held it up before the face of the Czar’s courier, saying with supreme irony:

“Read, now, Michael Strogoff, read, and go and repeat at Irkutsk what you have read. The true Courier of the Czar is henceforth Ivan Ogareff.”

The Emir retired with his train. Ivan followed after, and sightless Michael was left alone to his fate. One thought possessed him. He must somehow arrive at Irkutsk before the traitor and warn the Grand Duke of the intended deception.

Some months later Michael Strogoff had reached his journey’s end! He was in Irkutsk. Hastening to the governor’s palace to see the Grand Duke, he meets in a waiting-room Ivan Ogareff, the traitor. The latter must act quickly. Ogareff arose, and thinking he had an immeasureable advantage over the blind man threw himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael’s breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man’s knife turns aside the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold drops stand on Ogareff’s brow; he draws back a step and again leaps forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael’s knife has parried the blow from the traitor’s useless sword. Mad with rage and terror, he gazes into the wide-open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes which seem to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which do not, cannot, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him.

Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: “He sees! He sees!”

“Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!”

Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but, mustering up all his courage, he springs forward. The two blades cross, but at a touch from Michael’s knife the sword flies in splinters, and the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground.

At the same moment the door is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar’s Courier. Then in threatening voice:

“Who killed this man?”

“I,” answered Michael.

“Thy name? Who dares kill the servant of my brother, the Czar’s Courier?”

“That man, your highness, is not a Courier of the Czar! He is Ivan Ogareff!”

“Ivan Ogareff!”

“Yes, Ivan the traitor.”

“But who are you, then?”

“Michael Strogoff.”

THE TIGER’S CAVE

AN ADVENTURE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF QUITO

On leaving the Indian village, we continued to wind round Chimborazo’s wide base; but its snow-crowned head no longer shone above us in clear brilliancy, for a dense fog was gathering gradually around it. Our guides looked anxiously towards it, and announced their apprehensions of a violent storm. We soon found that their fears were well founded. The fog rapidly covered and obscured the whole of the mountain; the atmosphere was suffocating, and yet so humid that the steelwork of our watches was covered with rust, and the watches stopped. The river beside which we were traveling rushed down with still greater impetuosity; and from the clefts of the rocks which lay on the left of our path were suddenly precipitated small rivulets that bore the roots of trees and innumerable serpents along with them. These rivulets often came down so suddenly and violently that we had great difficulty in preserving our footing. The thunder at length began to roll, and resounded through the mountainous passes with the most terrific grandeur. Then came the vivid lightning, flash following flash—above, around, beneath—everywhere a sea of fire. We sought a momentary shelter in a cleft of the rocks, while one of our guides hastened forward to seek a more secure asylum. In a short time he returned, and informed us that he had discovered a spacious cavern, which would afford us sufficient protection from the elements. We proceeded thither immediately, and with great difficulty, and not a little danger, at last got into it.

The noise and raging of the storm continued with so much violence that we could not hear the sound of our voices. I had placed myself near the entrance of the cave, and could observe, through the opening, which was straight and narrow, the singular scene without. The highest cedar-trees were struck down, or bent like reeds; monkeys and parrots lay strewed upon the ground, killed by the falling branches; the water had collected in the path we had just passed, and hurried along it like a mountain stream. From everything I saw I thought it extremely probable that we should be obliged to pass some days in this cavern. When the storm, however, had somewhat abated, our guides ventured out in order to ascertain if it were possible to continue our journey. The cave in which we had taken refuge was extremely dark, so that if we moved a few paces from the entrance we could see no more than an inch before us; and we were debating as to the propriety of leaving it, even before the Indians came back, when we suddenly heard a singular rumbling or growling at the farther end of the cavern, which instantly fixed all our attention. Wharton and myself listened anxiously, but our daring and inconsiderate young friend Lincoln, together with my huntsman, crept about upon their hands and knees, and endeavored to discover, by groping, from whence the sound proceeded. They had not advanced far into the cavern before we heard them utter an exclamation of surprise; and they returned to us, each carrying in his arms an animal singularly marked, and about the size of a cat, seemingly of great strength and power, and furnished with immense fangs. The eyes were of a green color; strong claws were upon their feet; and a blood-red tongue hung out of their mouths. Wharton had scarcely glanced at them, when he exclaimed, in consternation, “Good God! we have come into the den of a—.” He was interrupted by a fearful cry of dismay from our guides, who came rushing precipitately towards us, calling out, “A tiger! a tiger!” and at the same time, with extraordinary rapidity, they climbed up a cedar-tree, which stood at the entrance of the cave, and hid themselves among the branches.

After the first sensation of horror and surprise, which rendered me motionless for a moment, had subsided, I grasped my firearms. Wharton had already regained his composure and self-possession; and he called to us to assist him instantly in blocking up the mouth of the cave with an immense stone, which fortunately lay near it. The sense of approaching danger augmented our strength, for we now distinctly heard the growl of the ferocious animal, and we were lost beyond redemption if it reached the entrance before we could get it closed. Ere this was done, we could distinctly see the tiger bounding towards the spot and stooping in order to creep into his den by the narrow opening. At this fearful moment our exertions were successful, and the great stone kept the wild beast at bay. There was a small open space, however, left between the top of the entrance and the stone, through which we could see the head of the animal, illuminated by its glowing eyes, which rolled, glaring with fury, upon us. Its frightful roaring, too, penetrated to the depths of the cavern, and was answered by the hoarse growling of the cubs, which Lincoln and Frank had now tossed from them. Our ferocious enemy attempted first to remove the stone with his powerful claws, and then to push it with his head from its place; and these efforts, proving abortive, served only to increase his wrath. He uttered a tremendous, heart-piercing howl, and his flaming eyes darted light into the darkness of our retreat.

“Now is the time to fire at him,” said Wharton, with his usual calmness; “aim at his eyes; the ball will go through his brain, and we shall then have a chance to get rid of him.”

Frank seized his double-barreled gun, and Lincoln his pistols; the former placed the muzzle within a few inches of the tiger, and Lincoln did the same. At Wharton’s command, they both drew the triggers at the same moment, but no shot followed. The tiger, who seemed aware that the flash indicated an attack upon him, sprang growling from the entrance, but, feeling himself unhurt, immediately turned back again, and stationed himself in his former place. The powder in both pieces was wet. Frank and Lincoln, therefore, proceeded to draw the useless charges while Wharton and myself hastened to seek our powder-flask. It was so extremely dark that we were obliged to grope about the cave; and, at last, coming in contact with the cubs, we heard a rustling noise, as if they were playing with some metal substance, which we soon discovered was the cannister we were looking for. Most unfortunately, however, the animals had pushed off the lid with their claws, and the powder had been strewed over the damp earth and rendered entirely useless. This fearful discovery excited the greatest consternation.

“All is now over,” said Wharton. “We have only now to choose whether we shall die of hunger, together with these animals who are shut up along with us, or open the entrance to the blood-thirsty monster without, and so make a quicker end of the matter.”

So saying, he placed himself close beside the stone, which, for the moment, defended us, and looked undauntedly upon the lightning eyes of the tiger.

Lincoln raved and swore; and Frank took a piece of strong cord from his pocket and hastened to the farther end of the cave—I knew not with what design. We soon, however, heard a low, stifled groaning; and the tiger, who had heard it also, became more restless and disturbed than ever. He went backwards and forwards before the entrance of the cave, in the most wild, impetuous manner, then stood still, and stretching out his neck in the direction of the forest, broke forth into a deafening howl. Our two Indian guides took advantage of this opportunity to discharge several arrows from the tree. The animal was struck more than once, but the light weapons bounded back harmless from his thick skin. At length, however, one of them struck him near the eye, and the arrow remained sticking in the wound. He now broke anew into the wildest fury, and sprang at the tree, and tore it with his claws, as if he would have dragged it to the ground. But, having at length succeeded in getting rid of the arrow, became more calm, and laid himself down as before in front of the cave.

Frank now returned from the lower end of the den, and a glance showed us what he had been doing. In each hand, and dangling from the end of a string, were the two cubs. He had strangled them, and before we were aware what he intended, he threw them through the opening to the tiger. No sooner did the animal perceive them, than he gazed earnestly upon them, and began to examine them closely, turning them cautiously from side to side. As soon as he became aware that they were dead, he uttered so piercing a howl of sorrow that we were obliged to put our hands to our ears. When I upbraided my huntsman for the cruel action he had so rashly committed, I perceived by his blunt and abrupt answers that he also had lost all hope of rescue from our impending fate, and, that, under these circumstances, the ties between master and servant were dissolved. For my own part, without knowing why, I could not help believing that some unexpected assistance would yet rescue us from so horrible a fate. Alas! I little anticipated the sacrifice that my rescue was to cost.

The thunder had now ceased, and the storm had sunk to a gentle gale; the songs of the birds were again heard in the neighboring forest, and the sunbeams sparkled in the drops that hung from the leaves. We saw through the aperture that all nature was reviving after the wild war of elements which had so recently taken place; but the contrast only made our situation the more terrible. We were in a grave from which there was no deliverance; and a monster, worse than the fabled Cerberus, kept watch over us. The tiger had laid himself down beside his whelps. He was a beautiful animal, of great size and strength, and his limbs being stretched out at their full length, displayed his immense power of muscle. A double row of great teeth stood far enough apart to show his large red tongue, from which the white foam fell in large drops. All at once, another roar was heard at a distance, and the tiger immediately rose and answered it with a mournful howl. At the same instant, our Indians uttered a shriek, which announced that some new danger threatened us. A few moments confirmed our worst fears, for another tiger, not quite so large as the former, came rapidly towards the spot where we were.

“This enemy will prove more cruel than the other,” said Wharton; “for this is the female, and she knows no pity for those who deprive her of her young.”

The howls which the tigress gave when she had examined the bodies of her cubs, surpassed everything of the horrible that we had yet heard; and the tiger mingled his mournful cries with hers. Suddenly her roaring was lowered to a hoarse growling, and we saw her anxiously stretch out her head, extend her wide and smoking nostrils, and look as if she were determined to discover immediately the murderers of her young. Her eyes quickly fell upon us, and she made a spring forward with the intention of penetrating to our place of refuge. Perhaps she might have been enabled by her immense strength to push away the stone, had we not, with all our united power, held it against her. When she found that all her efforts were fruitless she rejoined the tiger, who lay stretched beside his cubs, and he arose and added his howls to her hollow roarings. They stood together for a few moments, as if in consultation, and then suddenly went off at a rapid pace, and disappeared from our sight. Their howling died away in the distance, and then entirely ceased. We now began to entertain better hopes of our condition; but Wharton shook his head.

“Do not flatter yourselves,” said he, “with the belief that these animals will let us escape out of their sight till they have had their revenge. The hours we have to live are numbered.”

Nevertheless, there still appeared a chance for our rescue, for, to our surprise, we saw both our Indians standing before the entrance, and heard them call to us to seize the only possibility of our yet saving ourselves by instant flight, for that the tigers had only gone round the height to seek another inlet to the cave, with which they were no doubt acquainted. In the greatest haste the stone was pushed aside, and we stepped forth from what we had considered a living grave. Wharton was the last who left it; he was unwilling to lose his double-barreled gun, and stopped to take it up; the rest of us only thought of making our escape. We now heard once more the roaring of the tigers, though at a distance; and, following the example of our guides, we precipitately struck into a sidepath. From the number of roots and branches of trees with which the storm had strewed our way, and the slipperiness of the road, our flight was slow and difficult. Wharton, though an active seaman, had a heavy step, and had great difficulty in keeping pace with us, and we were often obliged to slacken our own on his account.

We had proceeded thus for about a quarter of an hour, when we found that our way led along the edge of a rocky cliff, with innumerable fissures. We had just entered upon it, when suddenly the Indians, who were before us, uttered one of their piercing shrieks, and we immediately became aware that the tigers were in pursuit of us. Urged by despair, we rushed towards the breaks, or gulfs, in our way, over which was thrown a bridge of reeds, that sprang up and down at every step, and could be trodden with safety by the light foot of the Indians alone. Deep in the hollow below rushed an impetuous stream, and a thousand pointed and jagged rocks threatened destruction on every side. Lincoln, my huntsman, and myself, passed over the chasm in safety; but Wharton was still in the middle of the waving bridge, and endeavoring to steady himself, when both the tigers were seen to issue from the adjoining forest; and, the moment they descried us they bounded towards us with dreadful roarings. Meanwhile, Wharton had nearly gained the safe side of the gulf, and we were all clambering the rocky cliff, except Lincoln, who remained at the reedy bridge to assist his friend to step upon firm ground. Wharton, though the ferocious animals were close upon him, never lost his courage or presence of mind.

As soon as he had gained the edge of the cliff, he knelt down, and, with the edge of his sword, divided the fastenings by which the bridge was attached to the rock. He expected an effectual barrier would thus be put to the farther progress of our pursuers; but he was mistaken; for he had scarcely accomplished his task, when the tigress, without a moment’s pause, rushed towards the chasm, and attempted to bound over. It was a fearful sight to see the mighty animal, suspended for a moment in the air above the abyss; but the scene passed like a flash of lightning. Her strength was not equal to the distance; she fell into the gulf, and before she reached the bottom, was torn into a thousand pieces by the jagged points of the rocks. Her fate did not in the least dismay her companion; he followed her with an immense spring, and reached the opposite side, but only with his fore-claws, and thus he clung to the edge of the precipice, endeavoring to gain a footing. The Indians again uttered a wild shriek, as if all hope had been lost. But Wharton, who was nearest to the edge of the rock, advanced courageously towards the tiger, and struck his sword into the animal’s breast. Enraged beyond all measure, the wild beast collected all his strength, and with a violent effort, fixing one of his hind-legs upon the edge of the cliff, he seized Wharton by the thigh. The heroic man still preserved his fortitude; he grasped the trunk of à tree with his left hand, to steady and support himself, while with his right he wrenched and violently turned the sword that was still in the breast of the tiger.

All this was the work of an instant. The Indians, Frank, and myself hastened to his assistance; but Lincoln, who was already at his side, had seized Wharton’s gun, which lay near by, upon the ground, and struck so powerful a blow with the butt-end upon the head of the tiger, that the animal, stunned and overpowered, let go his hold and fell back into the abyss. All would have been well, had it ended thus; but the unfortunate Lincoln had not calculated upon the force of his blow; he staggered forward, reeled upon the edge of the precipice, extended his hand to seize upon anything to save himself—but in vain. His foot slipped; for an instant he hovered over the gulf, and then was plunged into it to rise no more!—_Edinburgh Literary Journal._

WHALE HUNTING

BY J. ROSS BROWNE

“There she blows!” was sung out from the mast-head.

“Where away?” demanded the captain.

“Three points off the lee bow, sir.”

“Raise up your wheel. Steady!”

“Steady, sir.”

“Mast-head, ahoy! Do you see that whale now?”

“Aye, aye, sir! A school of sperm whales! There she blows! There she breaches!”

“Sing out! Sing out every time!”

“Aye, aye, sir! There she blows! There—there—thar’ she blows—blowes—blo-o-o-s!”

“How far off!”

“Two miles and a half!”

“Thunder and lightning! so near! Call all hands! Clew up the fore-t’gallant-sail—there! belay! Hard down your wheel! Haul aback the main yard! Get your tubs in your boats! Bear a hand! Clear your falls! Stand by all to lower! All ready?”

“All ready, sir!”

“Lower away!”

Down went the boats with a splash. Each boat’s crew sprang over the rail, and in an instant the larboard, starboard and waist boats were manned. There was great rivalry in getting the start. The waist-boat got off in pretty good time; and away went all three, dashing the water high over their bows. Nothing could be more exciting than the chase.

The larboard boat, commanded by the mate, and the waist-boat, by the second mate, were head and head.

“Give way, my lads, give way!” shouted our headsman; “we gain on them; give way! A long, steady stroke! That’s the way to tell it!”

“Aye, aye!” cried Tabor, our boat-steerer. “What d’ye say, boys? Shall we lick ’em?”

“Pull! pull like vengeance!” echoed the crew; and we danced over the waves, scarcely seeming to touch them.

The chase was now truly soul-stirring. Sometimes the larboard, then the starboard, then the waist-boat took the lead. It was a severe trial of skill and muscle. After we had run two miles at this rate, the whales turned flukes, going dead to windward.

“Now for it, my lads!” cried our headsman. “We’ll have them the next rising. Now pile it on! a long, steady pull! That’s it! Don’t give out! Half an hour more, and they’re our whales!”

The other boats had veered off at either side of us, and continued the chase with renewed ardor. In about half an hour we lay on our oars to look around for the whales.

“There she blows! right ahead!” shouted Tabor, fairly dancing with delight.

“There she blows! There she blows!”

“Oh, Lord, boys, spring!” cried our headsman.

“Spring it is! What d’ye say, now, chummies? Shall we take those whales?”

To this general appeal every man replied by putting his weight on his oar, and exerting his utmost strength. The boat flew through the water with incredible swiftness, scarcely rising to the waves.

A large bull whale lay about a quarter of a mile ahead of us, lazily rolling in the trough of the sea. The larboard and starboard boats were far to leeward of us, tugging hard to get a chance at the other whales, which were now blowing in every direction.

“Give way! give way, my hearties!” cried our headsman, putting his weight against the aft oar. “Do you love gin? A bottle of gin to the best man! Oh, pile it on while you have breath! pile it on!”

“On with the beef, chummies! Smash every oar! double ’em up, or break ’em!”

“Every devil’s imp of you, pull! No talking; lay back to it; now or never!”

On dashed the boat, cleaving its way through the rough sea as if the briny element were blue smoke. The whale, however, turned flukes before we could reach him. When he appeared again above the surface of the water, it was evident that he had milled while down, by which maneuver he gained on us nearly a mile. The chase was now almost hopeless, as he was making to windward rapidly. A heavy, black cloud was on the horizon, portending an approaching squall, and the barque was fast fading from sight. Still we were not to be baffled by discouraging circumstances of this kind, and we braced our sinews for a grand and final effort.

“Never give up, my lads!” said the headsman, in a cheering voice. “Mark my words, we’ll have that whale yet. Only think he’s ours, and there’s no mistake about it, he will be ours. Now for a hard, steady pull! Give way!”

“Give way, sir! Give way, all!”

“There she blows! Oh, pull my lively lads! Only a mile off! There she blows!”

The wind by this time had increased almost to a gale, and the heavy black clouds were scattering over us far and wide. Part of the squall had passed off to leeward and entirely concealed the barque. Our situation was rather unpleasant: in a rough sea, the other boats out of sight, and each moment the wind increasing.

We continued to strain every muscle till we were hard upon the whale. Tabor sprang to the bow, and stood by with the harpoon.

“Softly, softly, my lads,” said the headsman.

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Hush-h-h! softly. Now’s your time, Tabor!”

Tabor let fly the harpoon, and buried the iron.

“Give him another!”

“Aye, aye! Stern all!”

“Stern all!” thundered the headsman.

“Stern all!”

And, as we rapidly backed from the whale, he flung his tremendous flukes high in the air, covering us with a cloud of spray. He then sounded, making the line whiz as it passed through the chocks. When he rose to the surface again, we hauled up, and the second mate stood ready in the bow to dispatch him with lances.

“Spouting blood!” said Tabor. “He’s a dead whale! He won’t need much lancing.”

It was true enough; for, before the officer could get within dart of him, he commenced his dying struggles. The sea was crimsoned with his blood. By the time we had reached him, he was belly up. We lay upon our oars a moment to witness his last throes, and, when he had turned his head toward the sun, a loud, simultaneous cheer burst from every lip.

A low, rumbling sound, like the roar of a distant waterfall, now reached our ears. Each moment it grew louder.

The whole expansive arch of the heavens became dark with clouds tossing, flying, swelling, and whirling over and over, like the surges of an angry sea. A white cloud, gleaming against the black mass behind it, came sweeping toward us, stretching forth its long, white arms, as if to grasp us in its fatal embrace. Louder and still louder it growled; yet the air was still and heavy around us. Now the white cloud spread, whirled over, and lost its hoary head; now it wore the mane and forefeet of a lion; now the heads of a dragon, with their tremendous jaws extended. Writhing, hissing, roaring, it swept toward us. The demon of wrath could not have assumed a more frightful form. The whole face of the ocean was hidden in utter darkness, save within a circle of a few hundred yards. Our little boat floated on a sea almost unruffled by a breath of wind. The heavy swell rolled lazily past us; yet a death-like calmness reigned in the air. Beyond the circle all was strife; within, all peace. We gazed anxiously in each other’s faces; but not a word was spoken. Even the veteran harpooner looked upon the clouds with a face of unusual solemnity, as we lay upon our oars, awed to silence by the sublimity of the scene. The ominous stillness of everything within the circle became painful. For many long minutes the surface of the water remained nearly smooth. We dreaded, but longed for a change. This state of suspense was growing intolerable. I could hear the deep, long-drawn respirations of those around me; I saw the quick, anxious glances they turned to windward; and I almost fancied I could read every thought that passed within their breasts.

Suddenly a white streak of foam appeared within a hundred yards. Scarcely had we unshipped our oars, when the squall burst upon us with stunning violence. The weather side of the boat was raised high out of the water, and the rushing foam dashed over the gunwale in torrents. We soon trimmed her, however, and, by hard bailing, got her clear of water. It is utterly impossible to conceive the violence of the wind. Small as the surface exposed to the squall was, we flew through the foaming seas, dragging the dead body of the whale after us with incredible velocity. Thus situated, entirely at the mercy of the wind and sea, we continued every moment to increase our distance from the barque. When the squall abated, we came to under the lee of the whale, and looked to leeward for the barque. Not a speck could be seen on the horizon! Night was rapidly approaching, and we were alone upon the broad, angry ocean!

“Ship your oars,” said the headsman; “we’ll not part company with old blubber yet. If we can’t make the barque, we can make land somewhere.”

“Aye, aye,” said Tabor, with a sly leer, “and live on roast-beef and turkey while we’re making it.”

With heavy hearts and many misgivings we shipped our oars, heartily wishing the whale in the devil’s try-pots; for we thought it rather hard that our lives should be risked for a few barrels of oil. For two hours we pulled a long, lazy, dogged stroke, without a sign of relief. At last Tabor stood up on the bow to look out, and we lay on our oars.

“Well, Tabor, what d’ye see?” was the general inquiry.

“Why,” said Tabor, coolly rolling the quid from his weather to his lee cheek, “I see a cussed old barque that looks like Granny Howland’s wash-tub, with a few broomsticks rigged up in the middle of it.”

“Pull, you devils!” cried our headsman; “there’s duff in the cook’s coppers.”

“Yes! I think I smell it,” said Tabor.

It was nearly dark when we arrived alongside of the barque with our prize; but what was our surprise to find that the starboard and larboard boats had killed five whales between them! They were all of a small size, and did not average more than fifteen barrels each.

That night not a breath of air ruffled the clear, broad ocean as it swelled beneath and around us, forming a multitude of mirrors that reflected all the beauties of the splendid canopy above. The moon arose with unusual brilliancy. It was a night for the winged spirits of the air. I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in walking the decks beneath the soft moonbeams, thinking of past times. Silence reigned over the deep. The calm, broad ocean presented a beautiful simile of repose, and the light, shadowy clouds floated motionless in the air, as if in awe of the mighty wilderness of waters beneath them. A clear, silvery light beamed over the glassy swell; and far away the moon’s rays, casting their soft and delicate glow over the whole scene, gradually vanished in a dreamy haze upon the horizon. I gazed with pensive feelings upon this scene; so calm, so heavenly, so unrivaled in its loveliness; and I thought, with a sigh, of the coming day: the fiery, tropical sun; the heat and smoke of the try-works; and all the realities of a whaleman’s life. I have heard of the solitude of the desert; but what can compare with that of the ocean at such a time as this?

Never had the sea looked more beautiful than it did that night.

It was a source of pleasure to feel that, notwithstanding the wretched life I led, there were still left a few of the better feelings of my nature. A passage in the “Vision of Don Roderic” occurred to me as singularly expressive of the checkered fortunes of a seafarer. Well might I hope the light cloud which occasionally obscured the moon’s brightness might prove a happy omen of my future fate:

“Melting, as a wreath of snow it hangs
In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes
The orb in richer beauty than her own;
Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene.”

—From “Etchings of a Whaling Cruise,” by kind permission of _Harper & Brothers_, Publishers, New York.

THE MAN IN THE SHADOW

BY R. W. CHILD

The late afternoon sunlight slanted down into the busy street through the trees of the Public Garden. It had been the sort of day which whispers of other scenes, old faces, gentle memories and painted possibilities. Now along the street came the ebb-tide of the day’s work swept out from the business part of the city and jostling homeward.

Among the home-goers was a man distinguished a little from the rest by a refined and patient expression. His shoulders sloped as if they had borne much; his eyes were open in a stare as if astounded at the repetition of life’s misfortunes; and his clothes, from his derby hat, shiny from his wife’s endless brushings, to his shoes, flattened by the monotony of his daily life, told of the practice of much respectable economy. Trouble had felt of his throat, one would say, but never had succeeded in throttling him. There was a quiet, reserved strength in the furrows of his forehead and in the solidity of his chin, and the wrinkles at the corner of his blue eyes declared that there was a fund of persistent hope in Carter Clews.

Looking up suddenly he saw four men coming down the steps of a hotel toward an open carriage which had drawn up to the curb. Three were inclined to the stoutness of middle age, and all were laughing prosperously, and chatting vociferously of Commencement dinners and baseball games and class reunions; it was evident that they were four successful men on a holiday and straining to be young again.

Carter Clews smiled with boyish pleasure, for one of them was “Newt” Riggs, who used to row on the crew and was now a corporation attorney in Chicago; and there was Billy Drowson, who used to flunk examinations as easily as if he meant to do it; and the third was Joe Crane, who was making his two hundred thousand a year in metal refining in Colorado; and the little man was Lapham, the surgeon, who had been marshal of the class.

The last had just seated himself comfortably in the carriage, when Clews succeeded in pushing his way into the gap they had left in the crowd. Both Joseph Crane and Lapham, seeing him take a step toward them, opened their eyes in innocent surprise; neither of them recognized him. He stopped for a moment of embarrassed hesitation, and in that moment he felt with the sharp old pang that he belonged among them no more. They were successful men.

Carter Clews stepped back into the gray shadow of the portico. The carriage started away with a laugh and the scrape of a wheel on the curb, and Clews started on his way once more. His daily trudge to and from his office was the result of a calculation that enough car fare each year was saved to buy an extra gown for his daughter. Life had toyed with him, showing her splendors and snatching them from his fingers; had taught him culture and then laughed at him.

The rattle of his key brought his wife to the door, and the usual smiles and kisses of welcome reminded him of the old duty of keeping his feelings to himself.

“Was there any mail to-day?”

“There was a postal-card came to-day for you, dad. It had been to all of the four places we have lived since we came back from Iowa, and so it was late in getting here. It was the announcement of the twenty-fifth anniversary dinner of your class; you’ll go, won’t you?”

“Where’s the postal?”

“Do go, dad, we don’t like to have you forgotten. It’s only six. The dinner’s at eight. You’ll have plenty of time, father.”

Clews took the card, holding it under the light of the lamp on the center-table. His fingers trembled a little as he read it.

“The last dinner I went to was in our Senior year, just before I graduated and went West; I was toastmaster at that dinner. It was a spring night like this. I remember a little crowd of us sat under a tree in the college yard and talked until daylight. We promised each other, half in fun, that the one who got to be forty-five years old and wasn’t successful should jump into the river. And then we went up to my room for a cold bath, and I built a fire and heated the poker and burned my name into the mantel-piece.”

He tossed the card aside. His wife could see upon his face the unmistakable sign that the accumulation of years of disappointment was no longer to be contained in silence.

“I’ve been a miserable fizzle! Unknown and forgotten because I deserve it!”

Edith looked straight at him. “That is not true,” she said softly.

“Perhaps it’s a bad dream! It’s been my fault. No wonder I’m forgotten! Everybody flocks around a victor, but who cares where the man is who failed to do big things? Once he marched in the front line promising a great deal, and now he’s got to watch the procession from the sidewalk. It would be better, if a man can’t make himself felt and has got to walk around unknown—to keep his promise and—”

“Don’t, father.”

He looked up into his daughter’s face, and seeing the trembling of her upper lip, drew a long breath and squared his shoulders.

“Well, perhaps we all have our compensations.”

“You are going to the class dinner, aren’t you?”

“No, I think I won’t go this time. Perhaps next year—”

“Oh, yes, for me! I’ll get your evening clothes. They’re put away.”

When he appeared in them a little later, he looked doubtfully at himself in the mirror, then suddenly smiled.

“I’ve had them ever since we were married. Their style looks rather quaint, doesn’t it? But I’ve had some very happy minutes inside the old coat. Do you remember this tie, Alice?”

“Why, for mercy’s sake! That was the first thing I ever made you!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he answered.

As he went slowly out into the hallway and down the noisy wooden stairs, his wife and daughter leaned over the banisters looking at him anxiously.

At last he turned the corner into the avenue. As he looked, he saw a little group of laughing men going up the steps; then he squared his shoulders, and walked briskly across the street and up the steps into the lobby.

The clerk leaned over the desk toward him. “Seventy-six?” Clews nodded: “Yes, my class—Seventy-six.”

“Just down at the end of that corridor.”

There were others standing with him at the checkroom, who nodded to him.

“Did you go to the game?” asked one.

“No. How did it come out?”

“Great guns! don’t you know how it came out? Why, we beat ’em! My boy plays first base. I go to all the games.”

“I wish I could. I wish I had gone to-day, but my work is rather confining. I have a daughter, and, of course, if I had a son, he’d be out there at the University too.”

“There are several prominent members of the class here to-night. Drowson is here, and Crane is toastmaster. We’re late, I think.”

With his new acquaintance Clews followed a knot of men who opened the door, exposing two large tables filled with diners. The noise within burst out and drew the attention of several guests of the hotel, who peered down the corridor with mild curiosity.

When the man who was with Clews hesitated for a moment, a dozen voices rose up to greet him, and several men stood up to shout, “Oh, Billy, here’s a seat!” or “Here you are, Lawton!”

Clews was lonely. Of the men who sat near him he remembered only two as acquaintances of undergraduate days, and the old associations recalled by their faces were so hazy that he was convinced that he had never known either of them well. They certainly did not recognize him. He determined grimly never to suffer another experience like this.

“The world likes success and sunlight,” he said to himself. “I’ll fight it out alone after this, and in my own little corner.”

A waiter finally thrust a demi-tasse of coffee deftly over Clew’s elbow. Crane had introduced Drowson with an accompaniment of cheers and hand-clapping, and Drowson had made a speech which had impressed every one, and Collingwood had been cajoled into singing an old song. Chairs were gradually moved back a little from the table, the room became foggy with the smoke that curled from the cigars, and a contented fullness and laughter tugged at nearly a hundred waistcoats.

Crane, the toastmaster, was rapping for silence.

“Before we break up,” he said, “I want you to drink one more toast with me. We have toasted ourselves and each other, but this toast is to a man who is not here.”

The interest and curiosity of every one was aroused. Even Clews leaned back in his chair to listen; it was plainly going to be a eulogy of some classman who had died.

“Twenty-five years ago, after our last college dinner, there were six men in our class sitting together under a tree in the yard and talking about what we would do. We said we would all be successful at forty-five. If not, we were going to jump into the river. I was one of those men—Billy Drowson was another; Wright was there—he died the next year. Then there was Lapham and Riggs. But there was another. He was a prominent figure in our class—the smartest one of the six—very honorable and good-hearted. I will not name him. He is not here. We all thought he would have a brilliant career. He came out of college and was married, and his father died and left him a mother and two sisters and an inheritance of debts. That cut him off from the professional schools, and he went West, and I have found out that he went into a business where there was no chance in the world of advancement. But it had to be done because that offered a way of bearing the burdens and obligations that were on him. It was just like him. Then he had to take care of a wife and three others besides.

“His health became very bad—he used to work sixteen hours a day sometimes, and when he was forty years old he found himself very much out of order. Then he came back East. Part of his burdens had been removed, but it was too late to start life as he might have started it once. He had burned out in the service like a faithful, honest, well-made candle. His light had been dim, but it had also been steady. I suppose he is alive, although I don’t know. But all of us who knew him best are sure that wherever he is, he is still putting up a good fight, and though he hasn’t got the cheers and the lime-light, he’s pulling mighty well. I know it!”

The room was very still while Crane paused.

“We’ve tried to locate him, but we lost the scent after we found he had come back from Iowa. We had planned to go back to-night, Drowson and Lapham and Riggs and myself and this other man, and sit under the tree in the yard where twenty-five years ago we’d promised to reach success, before we came back to attend this dinner. I feel sure that this missing man—this lost member of the class, I might say, for I can’t find any one who knows where he is—ought to be there. We think he comes as near success as any one of us.

“We learned years ago at the University that faithful duty really counted; the kind of success we are looking for isn’t always gilt-edged; the band isn’t always playing for it to march by! When I looked up this man I found a good, clean, honest story—a story of devotion and loyalty and the kind of courage that holds out when nobody is looking on or waving hats! I think we all ought to be glad he is a ‘Seventy-six’ man, and that we are not so narrow or ignorant as to count him a lost cause and a failure. I want you to drink a toast to him with me—gentlemen, to the man who does his job in a shadow!”

The whole class came to its feet together! Clews realized that toast was to him. Had his head been cool, he would have arisen with the rest unmarked and unknown—it was the old custom of remaining seated when so honored that betrayed him. It left him a second behind the rest, and the speaker’s big blue eyes were upon him at once. Crane lowered his glass and exclaimed, “Good God!”

Clews stumbled back into his chair. “Seventy-six” raised its voice in a great, generous roar. Clews looked up with wet cheeks and smiled like a pleased boy. This was his class, cheering—and for him!

Later in the night Clews returned to his wife and daughter. Governor William Drowson was with him.

“Alice,” said Carter Clews, “this is Billy. I roomed with him when I was a freshman. He’s going to spend the night with me.”

A WINDSTORM IN THE FORESTS

BY JOHN MUIR