Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Nor could they continue the voyage at night. By doing so, they would be in danger of losing their course, their craft, and themselves!

  You may smile at the idea. You will ask — a little scornfully, perhaps — how a canoe, or any other craft, drifting down a deep river to its destination, could possibly go astray. Does not the current point out the path, — the broad water-way not to be mistaken?

  So it might appear to one seated in a skiff, and floating down the tranquil Thames, with its well-defined banks. But far different is the aspect of the stupendous Solimoës to the voyager gliding through its gapo.

  I have made use of a word of strange sound, and still stranger signification. Perhaps it is new to your eye, as your ear. You will become better acquainted with it before the end of our voyage; for into the “Gapo” it is my intention to take you, where ill-luck carried the galatea and her crew.

  On leaving Coary, it was not the design of her owner to attempt taking his craft, so indifferently manned, all the way to Pará. He knew there were several civilized settlements between, — as Barra at the mouth of the Rio Negro, Obidos below it, Santarem, and others. At one or other of these places he expected to obtain a supply of tapuyos, to replace the crew who had so provokingly forsaken him.

  The voyage to the nearest of them, however, would take several days, at the rate of speed the galatea was now making; and the thought of being delayed on their route became each hour more irksome. The ex-miner, who had not seen his beloved brother during half a score of years, was impatient once more to embrace him. He had been, already, several months travelling towards him by land and water; and just as he was beginning to believe that the most difficult half of the journey had been accomplished, he found himself delayed by an obstruction vexatious as unexpected.

  The first night after his departure from Coary, he consented that the galatea should lie to, — moored to some bushes that grew upon the banks of the river.

  On the second night, however, he acted with less prudence. His impatience to make way prompted him to the resolution to keep on. The night was clear, — a full moon shining conspicuously above, which is not always the case in the skies of the Solimoës.

  There was to be no sail set, no use made of the paddles. The crew were fatigued, and wanted rest and repose. The current alone was to favor their progress; and as it appeared to be running nearly two miles an hour, it should advance them between twenty and thirty miles before the morning.

  The Mundurucú made an attempt to dissuade his “patron” from the course he designed pursuing; but his advice was disregarded, — perhaps because ill-understood, — and the galatea glided on.

  Who could mistake that broad expanse of water — upon which the moon shone so clearly — for aught else than the true channel of the Solimoës? Not Tipperary Tom, who, in the second watch of the night, — the owner himself having kept the first, — acted as steersman of the galatea.

  The others had gone to sleep. Trevannion and the three young people under the tolda; Mozey and the Mundurucú along the staging known as the “hold.” The birds and monkeys were at rest on their respective perches, and in their respective cages, — all was silent in the galatea, and around, — all save the rippling of the water, as it parted to the cleaving of her keel.

  CHAPTER V.

  THE GALATEA AGROUND.

  Little experienced as he was in the art of navigation, the steersman was not inattentive to his duty. Previously to his taking the rudder, he had been admonished about the importance of keeping the craft in the channel of the stream, and to this had he been giving his attention.

  It so chanced, however, that he had arrived at a place where there were two channels, — as if an island was interposed in the middle of the river, causing it to branch at an acute angle. Which of these was the right one? Which should be taken? These were the questions that occurred to Tipperary Tom.

  At first he thought of awakening his master, and consulting him, but on once more glancing at the two channels, he became half convinced that the broader one must be the proper route to be followed.

  “Bay Japers!” muttered he to himself. “Shure I can’t be mistaken. The biggest av the two ought to be the mane sthrame. Anyway, I won’t wake the masther. I’ll lave it to the ship to choose for hersilf.” Saying this he relaxed his hold upon the steering oar, and permitted the galatea to drift with the current.

  Sure enough, the little craft inclined towards the branch that appeared the broader one; and in ten minutes’ time had made such way that the other opening was no longer visible from her decks. The steersman, confident of being on the right course, gave himself no further uneasiness; but, once more renewing his hold upon the steering oar, guided the galatea in the middle of the channel.

  Notwithstanding all absence of suspicion as to having gone astray, he could not help noticing that the banks on each side appeared to be singularly irregular, as if here and there indented by deep bays, or reaches of water. Some of these opened out vistas of shining surface, apparently illimitable, while the dark patches that separated them looked more like clumps of trees half submerged under water, than stretches of solid earth.

  As the galatea continued her course, this puzzling phenomenon ceased to be a conjecture; Tipperary Tom saw that he was no longer steering down a river between two boundary banks, but on a broad expanse of water, stretching as far as eye could reach, with no other boundary than that afforded by a flooded forest.

  There was nothing in all this to excite alarm, — at least in the mind of Tipperary Tom. The Mundurucú, had he been awake, might have shown some uneasiness at the situation. But the Indian was asleep, — perhaps dreaming of some Múra enemy, — whose head he would have been happy to embalm.

  Tom simply supposed himself to be in some part of the Solimoës, flooded beyond its banks, as he had seen it in more places than one. With this confidence, he stuck faithfully to his steering oar, and allowed the galatea to glide on. It was only when the reach of water — upon which the craft was drifting — began to narrow, or rather after it had narrowed to a surprising degree, that the steersman began to suspect himself of having taken the wrong course.

  His suspicions became stronger, at length terminating in a conviction that such was the truth, when the galatea arrived at a part where less than a cable’s length lay between her beam-ends and the bushes that stood out of the water on both sides of her. Too surely had he strayed from the “mane sthrame.” The craft that carried him could no longer be in the channel of the mighty Solimoës!

  The steersman was alarmed, and this very alarm hindered him from following the only prudent course he could have taken under the circumstances. He should have aroused his fellow-voyagers, and proclaimed the error into which he had fallen. He did not do so. A sense of shame at having neglected his duty, or rather at having performed it in an indifferent manner, — a species of regret not uncommon among his countrymen, — hindered him from disclosing the truth, and taking steps to avert any evil consequences that might spring from it.

  He knew nothing of the great river on which they were voyaging. There might be such a strait as that through which the galatea was gliding. The channel might widen below; and, after all, he might have steered in the proper direction. With such conjectures, strengthened by such hopes, he permitted the vessel to float on.

  The channel did widen again; and the galatea once more rode upon open water. The steersman was restored to confidence and contentment. Only for a short while did this state of mind continue. Again the clear water became contracted, this time to a very strip, while on either side extended reaches and estuaries, bordered by half-submerged bushes, — some of them opening apparently to the sky horizon, wider and freer from obstruction than that upon which the galatea was holding her course.

  The steersman no longer thought of continuing his course, which he was now convinced must be the wrong one. Bearing with all his strength upon the steering oar, he endeavored to direct the galatea back into the channel thro
ugh which he had come; but partly from the drifting of the current, and partly owing to the deceptive light of the moon, he could no longer recognize the latter, and, dropping the rudder in despair, he permitted the vessel to drift whichever way the current might carry her!

  Before Tipperary Tom could summon courage to make known to his companions the dilemma into which he had conducted them, the galatea had drifted among the tree-tops of the flooded forest, where she was instantly “brought to anchor.”

  The crashing of broken boughs roused her crew from their slumbers. The ex-miner, followed by his children, rushed forth from the tolda. He was not only alarmed, but perplexed, by the unaccountable occurrence. Mozey was equally in a muddle. The only one who appeared to comprehend the situation was the old Indian, who showed sufficient uneasiness as to its consequences by the terrified manner in which he called out: “The Gapo! The Gapo!”

  Mayne Reid.

  (To be continued.)

  CHARADES.

  NO. 1 An old man lay on a bed of death, Slowly drawing each labored breath; His pulse was felt by a friendly hand, While the doctor issued a stern command To swallow my first without delay, If he wished to live till another day. At this the patient looked my second, And slowly spoke: “When Death has beckoned, In vain the doctor’s healing art; I now am called, and I depart; I’m glad I’ve lasted till my third.” The listeners scarcely caught the word With which escaped the unfettered soul, And finished then his long — my whole. H. C.

  NO. 2 When I’m my first, I lie in bed; My second wins me gold; My third I keep safe in my head; My fourth you may behold In all its pride, when victory Shall bid my whole light up the sky.

  ARITHMETICAL PUZZLES.

  NO. 1.

  In a gale of wind, the top part of a flagstaff in my neighbor’s garden was broken off, and struck the ground in my garden at a distance of 15 feet from the bottom of the pole, and in its fall broke two vases, worth $63.25 apiece. My neighbor, in paying for these vases, made four payments. The second payment was twice as much as the first; the third amounted to three times as much as the first; and the last amounted to five times as much as the first.

  Supposing the broken piece of flagstaff to measure 39 feet, what was the length of the whole pole, and what did my neighbor pay at each payment?

  NO. 2.

  100 — 1 — 5 — 1 — 50.

  This is what all young people ought to be.

  ENIGMA. No. 1.

  I am composed of 13 letters. My 8, 10, is an abrupt dismissal. My 11, 5, 7, 8, is not short. My 9, 1, 3, 12, goes well with a knife. My 13, 12, 6, 7, 12, is an unpleasant animal. My 13, 1, 3, 3, 4, is what you will be if you can’t discover me. My 4, 1, 11, 12, is part of an egg. My 9, 3, 5, 8, 13, a Frenchman would eat. My 9, 2, 7, you like now. My whole I hope you will always like.

  ILLUSTRATED REBUS. — No. 1.

  H. M. T.

  VON RAIL.

  There was an old Dutchman, Von Rail,

  Who had an ambition to sail,

  So he put out to sea, In a fit of high glee,

  That hilarious old person, Von Rail.

  UNCOLLECTED STORIES

  CONTENTS

  CHRISTMAS IN POGANUC

  LITTLE CAPTAIN TROTT

  CHRISTMAS IN POGANUC

  The First Christmas.

  Can any of us look back to the earlier days of our mortal pilgrimage and remember the helpless sense of desolation and loneliness caused by being forced to go off to the stillness and darkness of a solitary bed far from all the beloved voices and employments and sights of life? Can we remember lying, hearing distant voices, and laughs of more fortunate, older people and the opening and shutting of distant doors, that told of scenes of animation and interest from which we were excluded? How doleful sounded the tick of the clock, and how dismal was the darkness as sunshine faded from the window, leaving only a square of dusky dimness in place of daylight!

  All who remember these will sympathize with Dolly, who was hustled off to bed by Nabby the minute supper was over, that she might have the decks clear for action.

  “Now be a good girl; shut your eyes, and say your prayers, and go right to sleep,” had been Nabby’s parting injunction as she went out, closing the door after her.

  The little head sunk into the pillow, and Dolly recited her usual liturgy of “Our Father who art in heaven,” and “I pray God to bless my dear father and mother and all my dear friends and relations, and make me a good girl,” and ending with

  “‘Now I lay me down to sleep.’”

  But sleep she could not. The wide, bright, wistful blue eyes lay shining like two stars toward the fading light in the window, and the little ears were strained to catch every sound. She heard the shouts of Tom and Bill and the loud barking of Spring as they swept out of the door; and the sound went to her heart. Spring — her faithful attendant, the most loving and sympathetic of dogs, her friend and confidential counselor in many a solitary ramble — Spring had gone with the boys to see the sight, and left her alone. She began to pity herself and cry softly on her pillow. For a while she could hear Nabby’s energetic movements below, washing up dishes, putting back chairs, and giving energetic thumps and bangs here and there, as her way was of producing order. But by and by that was all over, and she heard the loud shutting of the kitchen door and Nabby’s voice chatting with her attendant as she went off to the scene of gaiety.

  In those simple, innocent days in New England villages nobody thought of locking house doors at night. There was in those times no idea either of tramps or burglars, and many a night in summer had Dolly lain awake and heard the voices of tree-toads and whip-poor-wills mingling with the whisper of leaves and the swaying of elm boughs, while the great outside door of the house lay broad open in the moonlight. But then this was when everybody was in the house and asleep, when the door of her parents’ room stood open on the front hall, and she knew she could run to the paternal bed in a minute for protection. Now, however, she knew the house was empty. Everybody had gone out of it; and there is something fearful to a little lonely body in the possibilities of a great, empty house. She got up and opened her door, and the “tick-tock” of the old kitchen clock for a moment seemed like company; but pretty soon its ticking began to strike louder and louder with a nervous insistency on her ear, till the nerves quivered and vibrated, and she couldn’t go to sleep. She lay and listened to all the noises outside. It was a still, clear, freezing night, when the least sound clinked with a metallic resonance. She heard the runners of sleighs squeaking and crunching over the frozen road, and the lively jingle of bells. They would come nearer, nearer, pass by the house, and go off in the distance. Those were the happy folks going to see the gold star and the Christmas greens in the church. The gold star, the Christmas greens, had all the more attraction from their vagueness. Dolly was a fanciful little creature, and the clear air and romantic scenery of a mountain town had fed her imagination. Stories she had never read, except in the Bible and the Pilgrim’s Progress, but her very soul had vibrated with the descriptions of the celestial city — something vague, bright, glorious, lying beyond some dark river; and Nabby’s rude account of what was going on in the church suggested those images.

  Finally a bright thought popped into her little head. She could see the church from the front windows of the house; she would go there and look. In haste she sprang out of bed and dressed herself. It was sharp and freezing in the fireless chamber, but Dolly’s blood had a racing, healthy tingle to it; she didn’t mind cold. She wrapped her cloak around her and tied on her hood and ran to the front windows. There it was, to be sure — the little church with its sharp-pointed windows, every pane of which was sending streams of light across the glittering snow. There was a crowd around the door, and men and boys looking in at the windows. Dolly’s soul was fired. But the elm boughs a little obstructed her vision; she thought she would go down and look at it from the yard. So down-stairs she ran, but as she opened the door the sound of the chant rolled out into the darknes
s with sweet and solemn cadence:

  “Glory be to God on high; and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

  Dolly’s soul was all aglow — her nerves tingled and vibrated; she thought of the bells ringing in the celestial city; she could no longer contain herself, but faster and faster the little hooded form scudded across the snowy plain and pushed in among the dark cluster of spectators at the door. All made way for the child, and in a moment, whether in the body or out she could not tell, Dolly was sitting in a little nook under a bower of spruce, gazing at the star and listening to the voices:

  “We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, we glorify Thee, we give thanks to Thee for Thy great glory, O Lord God, Heavenly King, God, the Father Almighty.”

  Her heart throbbed and beat; she trembled with a strange happiness and sat as one entranced till the music was over. Then came reading, the rustle and murmur of people kneeling, and then they all rose and there was the solemn buzz of voices repeating the Creed with a curious lulling sound to her ear. There was old Mr. Danforth with his spectacles on, reading with a pompous tone, as if to witness a good confession for the church; and there were Squire Lewis and old Ma’am Lewis; and there was one place where they all bowed their heads and all the ladies made courtesies — all of which entertained her mightily.

  When the sermon began Dolly got fast asleep, and slept as quietly as a pet lamb in a meadow, lying in a little warm roll back under the shadows of the spruces. She was so tired and so sound asleep that she did not wake when the service ended, lying serenely curled up, and having perhaps pleasant dreams. She might have had the fortunes of little Goody Two-Shoes, whose history was detailed in one of the few children’s books then printed, had not two friends united to find her out.