Little Bobtail; or, The Wreck of the Penobscot. — Edition Insights

CHAPTER I. SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE 11

CHAPTER II. THE END OF A SAD STORY 29

CHAPTER III. LITTLE BOBTAIL 47

CHAPTER IV. THE JANTY YACHT 65

CHAPTER VI. CAPTAIN CHINKS 99

CHAPTER VII. IN THE CABIN OF THE SKYLARK 117

CHAPTER VIII. A CHANCE FOR BUSINESS 135

CHAPTER IX. THE PENOBSCOT 153

CHAPTER X. GRACE MONTAGUE 171

CHAPTER XI. THE FIVE HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL 189

CHAPTER XII. CAPTAIN CHIVES IS INDIFFERENT 207

CHAPTER XIII. THE EXAMINATION 225

CHAPTER XIV. THE DISCHARGE 243

CHAPTER XV. A TRIP TO BAR HARBOR 260

CHAPTER XVI. THE CHASE 278

CHAPTER XVII. THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT 296

CHAPTER XVIII. ROBERT BARKESDALE MONTAGUE 313

THE WRECK OF THE PENOBSCOT.

SIXTEEN YEARS BEFORE.

"If you do, Edward, you are no son of mine," said the Honorable Peter Montague, wrathfully, to the young gentleman who stood before him with bowed head. "If you connect yourself in any manner with the family of Richard Medway, I will disown you; I will never speak to you; I will never permit you to come into my presence again!"

"I won't argue the matter," interposed the irate old gentleman. "You know that Medway and I are sworn foes; that he has injured me in my prospects, in my name, and reputation. I wouldn't forgive him if he went down on his knees and sued for my pardon. He has injured me in that manner and to that degree that there is no possibility of reconciliation."

"But Mr. Medway has no such feelings towards you. He respects you, in spite of your differences," added Edward Montague, in the gentlest of tones.

"I don't care what his feelings are towards me. After injuring me as he has, he can afford to be magnanimous. After robbing me of my hopes and my reputation, he can talk very flippantly about burying the hatchet. I tell you again there must be no relations of any kind between his family and mine. I am astonished and indignant, Edward, to think that you should allow yourself to be caught in any such trap."

"Trap, father!" exclaimed the young man, a slight flush of indignation spreading over his handsome face.

"Yes, a trap, Edward," stormed Mr. Montague. "I am a rich man,--all the world knows it,--and you are my only son. I am worth a million of dollars, at the least,--not in book accounts and bad debts, but in real estate, stocks, bonds, and mortgages. You are a prize in the lottery, Edward."

The old man looked at his son with a sneer on his face, which was called forth by the thought that any one, least of all his bitter personal enemy, should aspire to hold any relations with this paragon of wealth.

"I do not think that Sara Medway or her father covets your wealth," added Edward, in a very mildly deprecatory tone.

"You are nothing but a boy! you don't know the world. You have been at your books till you are twenty-one years old, and now you are as innocent of all knowledge of the ways of men as a child in its cradle."

"But, father, I know that Sara Medway is not an adventurer," added Edward, who was more anxious to defend the lady implicated than himself.

"You don't know anything about it," raved the old gentleman, angered anew by the protest of the son.

"She is as gentle as she is beautiful; and I am sure she is not capable of thinking a mercenary thought."

"Stuff! You talk like a baby, that knows nothing of the world--that's all."

"But you don't know her," suggested Edward, who was actually so simple as to believe that this consideration ought to have some influence upon the sentence of his father.

"I know her father, and that's enough. The chances are, that she is like him. But, whether she is like him or not, there can be no relations between his family and mine. Do you understand me, Edward?" demanded the Honorable Mr. Montague, sternly.

"You think you do, you puppy!" thundered the old gentleman.

"I was not aware that you were prejudiced against Miss Medway," added Edward, musing, as though he did not desire to understand his father.

"I hate the whole race of them, and I will have nothing to do or say to any of them; and you shall not, either."

The young man made no reply; and silence is sometimes more impudent, and sometimes expresses more firmness, than speech. At any rate, at this time and under these circumstances, it indicated that Edward Montague had a mind, a will of his own, and that, though he did not wish to provoke his father to wrath, he intended to follow his own inclination, rather than consult the unreasonable prejudices of his father. Whether this was a correct interpretation of the son's purposes or not, the father so regarded it, and his wrath increased accordingly.

"If I haven't spoken plainly enough, I will leave you no chance of misunderstanding me. If you marry the girl, I will disown you. Can you understand that? If you marry her, I will never see you or speak to you again. Do you think you can understand that? If you marry her, not a dollar of my property shall ever be yours. Do you fully comprehend me? I mean all I say, literally and exactly. I won't leave you even the hope of breaking my will when I am dead. I will give away every penny before I die. I will found a hospital, or an insane asylum for just such lunatics as you are, and every dollar I possess shall be in its coffers before I am put in the ground. I hope you understand me, Edward."

"I think I do, sir," replied the young man, sadly.

"You _think_ you do!"

"It is not possible to misunderstand you, father; I fully understand your views."

"Well, what have you to say?" stormed the father.

"I do not see that anything can be said."

"Of course I can only submit."

"You begin to be sensible. You are my son, my only son, Edward," said the old gentleman, in a milder tone. "All my hopes are in you. I have never been hard with you."

"You have not, father."

"But I would rather lose every dollar I have in the world to-day, and begin life anew at the age of sixty, than see you the husband of Medway's daughter. I mean just what I say, and nothing less. It would break my heart."

The young man wanted to say that it would break his heart not to be the husband of Sara Medway; but he had learned to temporize and be insincere before the unreasonable wrath of his father, and he was silent.

"You are twenty-one now. You have gone through college, and have only to study your profession. You needn't make hard work of it, for you will not be obliged to drudge for a living; but you may wish to go into politics, and as a lawyer you will succeed better. You shall have all the money you want. I have already decided to give you an allowance of five thousand a year, and you can check it from the bank as you want it. Go to Europe for the next year or two, if you wish; travel in your own country first, if you like. Your health is somewhat shaken by your confinement in college, and a couple of years' recreation will do you good. You needn't hurry about your profession. Please yourself, Edward, in everything except this Medway matter; and don't let me hear another word about this girl; don't go near her; don't write to her."

The Honorable Mr. Montague, having delivered himself of his harsh threat, and having smoothed it over in the most gingerly manner he could, walked out of the library, where the conversation had taken place. He evidently felt relieved, and, perhaps, thought that he had bravely met a great responsibility, and had done his whole duty faithfully to his son. He honestly believed that the Honorable Mr. Medway was a villain of the blackest dye, not only politically, but morally and socially; and, this postulate admitted, it followed, by his narrow reasoning, that Mrs. Medway, Miss Medway, and all that related to the fountain Medway were, utterly vile and villanous. He hated the father, and he could not help hating the daughter.

Mr. Montague was a Whig, and Mr. Medway was a Democrat; or, Mr. Montague was a Democrat, and Mr. Medway was a Whig; we cannot tell just how this was; it is enough to say that they were on opposite sides in politics. Mr. Montague was a wealthy man, and Mr. Medway was not; and both of them were nominated for Congress in the same district, in the State of Maine. It was a close contest, and party rancor was very bitter. Not only the public acts, but the private lives of the candidates were criticised in the severest manner by the opposition; and an unbiassed spectator, believing all that was said, would have promptly concluded that both of them were unmitigated scoundrels. Mr. Montague had a skeleton in an almost forgotten closet, and, somehow, this skeleton stalked out into the political arena, and perhaps frightened away some of its owner's adherents. Perhaps it was a forgotten and repented sin; but Mr. Montague's opponents made the most of it. Now, this gentleman, from certain circumstances which need not be explained, was satisfied that Mr. Medway had trotted out this skeleton and held it up as a bugbear to the people, and he hated his rival with all his mind, heart, and soul.

The election came, and Mr. Montague was defeated by a very small majority. He had been sure that he should be chosen, and the result intensified his hatred of his successful opponent to a degree which made it little short of insanity. Years hardly moderated its fervor, though it ceased to find frequent expression. The hope of long years was frustrated; the crown of glory and success was denied him, he firmly believed, by the villany of his rival in exposing the skeleton in the closet. He was a defeated candidate. The prestige was against him; and, in the state of parties, he could not hope to be nominated again. His enemy had overwhelmed him once and for all.

It is fair to say that Mr. Medway knew nothing about the skeleton, had not brought it forward, and did not even believe in its existence.

The Honorable Mr. Medway went to Congress, and was once re-elected, though he did not particularly distinguish himself as an orator or a blackguard. He was a quiet, sensible man, who always voted on party lines. He had a wife and one daughter, who endured Washington life for one term, but after this preferred to spend the winters with Mrs. Medway's sister in Brunswick. This lady's husband was a professor in the college, and some of the students occasionally visited in his family. Edward Montague was one of this number.

Sara Medway was a beautiful girl of his own age; and the young man, having been absent during the political contest, and neither knowing nor caring anything about its merits or demerits, was stupid enough to fall in love with the professor's fair guest. He was very attentive to her, and the affair became town talk, as such affairs usually do. His father heard of it; but he had no opportunity to remonstrate with him in a very decided manner until after Edward was graduated. When he went home, the interview we have narrated occurred. The young man was confounded at the violence of his father, and astonished to find that the old gentleman, who had always been indulgent to the last degree, even to his follies and vices, could be so harsh and implacable. There could be no mistaking his father's meaning; and Edward was obliged to accept the issue.

Mr. Medway had finished his second congressional term, and come home with his family. Edward tried hard to obey his father, and travelled till October. When he returned he heard with dismay that Sara Medway was ill, and had some of the symptoms of incipient consumption. He had not seen her for three months. Though not engaged, he was confident that she reciprocated his affection; and his conscience smote him as he thought his abrupt termination of their acquaintance might have affected her health. But Edward dreaded his father's anger, while he could not wholly resist his impulses.

One evening he stealthily called at the house of Mr. Medway, and was cordially welcomed by all, and especially by Sara. More than ever before he realized the depth of her affection, and traced in her looks, her tones, and the blushes upon her pale cheek, the triumphal joy with which she again welcomed him to her presence. He could not tell her that he should come no more; but, while her mother left the room for a few moments, he spoke a whole volume in a few words, and she frankly declared her sentiments towards him. In a word, they were engaged.

Before he bade her adieu for the night, her father came home. Ho knew his daughter's preference,--not that she had in words betrayed the secret of her soul,--and was rejoiced to see the young man. He expressed his satisfaction without reserve. Edward was troubled, not alone at the prospect of losing his father's fortune, but with the fear of his father's wrath. He dreaded the rupture that would separate the only son from his father. Mr. Medway invited him to smoke a cigar in the library. Edward disclosed what had passed between himself and Sara, and detailed his interview with his father. Mr. Medway was astonished and shocked at the unreasonableness of his late rival. He knew that Mr. Montague disliked him, avoided him, and refused to take part in any enterprise with him; but he had no suspicion of the depth of his hatred. He was sorely troubled because his own presumed errors were visited upon his innocent daughter.

Sara was sad and moody after Edward ceased so suddenly to visit her, and her parents believed that her health had been impaired by her sorrow. Her father hoped and believed that the return of Edward would prove to be the panacea to restore her; and the young man's confession appalled him. He could not counsel him to forsake fortune and family for his daughter's sake, even while he feared that his refusal to do so would be fatal to her. He could give no advice, though the young man asked for it. He volunteered to conceal the fact of Edward's visit, which was several times repeated with the same privacy.

Sara's health improved as her cheerfulness returned; but her physician dreaded the long, cold winter. About this time appeared a volume entitled Gan-Eden, or Pictures of Cuba, which fell into Mr. Medway's hands. He read it, and was fully impressed with the desirableness of Cuba as a winter residence for consumptives. He suggested the thought to the doctor, and the result was, that Mr. Medway went to the island with his wife and daughter. Edward saw her before her departure, and their plighting was renewed, with the hope of meeting in the spring.

When she had gone, he was moody and discontented. A few weeks later Tom Barkesdale, his chum in college, who resided in New Orleans, came to his home to spend a few days. Edward and his father were courteous and munificent hosts, and did all that was possible to make the guest happy. He was happy, but he could not help seeing that his old college friend was not.

"What's the matter with you, Ned?" said Tom, as they sailed in a small yacht on the bright waters of Penobscot Bay, on one of the soft days of the Indian summer. "You are as blue as a Yankee whetstone."

"Am I? I was not aware of it," replied Edward, shaking off his moodiness for the moment.

"Yes, you are. If I stop talking for a moment, you sink away into a gloomy dream. You seem to me to be half muddled. What ails you?"

"I don't believe you. You haven't seemed at all natural since I came. I hope I'm not in the way of anything."

"Certainly not, Tom. You are never in the way."

"But, candidly and seriously, now, what ails you?"

"Nothing at all ails me, my dear fellow. If anything did, I would tell you sooner than I would my own father."

"Not in love--are you, Ned?" added Tom, straightening up, and looking full into the face of his friend. "By the way, where is the daughter of that member of Congress whom you used to be sweet upon?"

"She has gone to Cuba to spend the winter," replied Edward.

"I see just how the land lies now. She has gone to Cuba for her health, and you are pining away in solitude in the frozen north. But, Ned, didn't you write me that the affair had slipped up, fallen through, or something of that sort?"

"I thought it had; but I didn't know myself," replied the lover, with a sigh.

"O, ho! I see. She's a beautiful girl. Upon my word, I envy you, Ned. If you hadn't stepped in before me, my dear fellow, I should have fallen into that trap myself."

"Don't say anything about a trap, Tom. You make me shudder."

"What ails you, Ned? Isn't it all smooth--the course of true love, and all that sort of thing? Has she given you the mitten?"

"No, no. Everything is lovely so far as she is concerned."

"Is her father inimical? Does her mother dislike you, or her grandmother frown upon your hopes?"

"No. Her father and mother are entirely satisfied to let the affair take its course."

"Then what are you moping about?" demanded Tom.

"The opposition comes from my father," answered Edward, as he tacked the boat, and stood off on a long stretch, evidently with the intention of telling his friend all about it.

"What has your father to do with it?" asked Tom.

"He dislikes her father."

"But, if I understand you correctly, you don't purpose to marry her father."

"There is an old feud, a political affair, between them. The row occurred while I was away from home, fitting for college," added Edward, as he proceeded to disclose his present relations with Sara Medway, and to explain the nature and intensity of his father's opposition to the match.

"That's awkward, Ned," said Tom. "Your governor is a hard case on a feud."

"But in everything else he is as indulgent as he can be. I tried to be dutiful, even in a matter of this kind; and I did not see Miss Medway for three months. Then I heard she was ill, and my conscience reproached me. I called to see her. I shall never forget the expression of joy she bestowed upon me. She is as much attached to me as I am to her, and I know that if I desert her she will die of grief."

"You have a good opinion of yourself, Ned."

"I am in earnest. I think so. I made the first advances, not she."

"I should hope not," laughed Tom.

"And for that reason I feel a sense of responsibility, in addition to my devotion to Sara. Now you know all. What can I do?"

"Upon my word, Ned, that's a hard question; and a man must be a Solon to advise you."

"You are the sole un who can advise me, Tom," replied Edward, with a sickly smile.

"That's a lovesick pun. You are in a tight place. If you hold on, you will be frozen to death; if you let go, you will be burned to death. But I am inclined to think, my dear fellow, from what I have seen of you since I came here, that there is still a third consideration. If you obey your governor, the girl will die of grief; if you marry her, you lose fortune and father; but if you retain fortune and father, you may die of grief yourself. You are moping now; you look pale, and the situation is wearing upon you."

"I'll tell you. I'm going to read law this winter with Colonel Bushnel, in New Orleans. Come with me, and we will read law together. Before spring we shall be able to solve the problem."

The boat returned to the town. Edward liked the plan, for Louisiana was nearer Cuba than Maine was. His father did not seriously object; and in another fortnight both the young men were in the Crescent City.

THE END OF A SAD STORY.