Drowned Gold/Chapter 1

HERE is one word that I can't see on a map, or on the stern of a ship, or elsewhere, that doesn't cause me to smile, and that word is "Esperanza." And if ever a man had a well-confirmed right to smile at the sight of something always suggestive, I deem myself justified; for from beginning to end, from the day I first read that name until now, never did a name enter more conspicuously into a man's life than it did into mine. It made me, unmade me, made me again, undid me again, and finally put me where I am.

As a start, I was born on a "wind-jammer," called the Esperanza, and owned by my father, while she labored most valiantly for her life in a tropical hurricane, and aboard which my mother was voyaging for her health. A young doctor who had opportunely taken a cheap passage from Boston to Trinidad, by dint of clinging to stanchion and life-line, reached my father's side and bellowed the news that there was another passenger aboard, and my father, who had been on watch and fighting the storm for nearly twenty-four hours, turned haggard, anxious eyes to the doctor's face, and shouted, "And—my wife?" "As well as could be expected, sir."

"Thank God!" my father replied, and bellowed an order to the helmsman. He did not ask concerning me, it appears. It was twenty hours later before he saw me, and not until the hurricane had begun to break, and he had "shot the sun." It is therefore a matter of fairly accurate record that my birthplace was about 65° 30' W. by 24° 30' N., and it would seem that I belong to the sea by parentage and heredity, as well as by first appearance. My father prospered from that day, in his own way, clinging always to his faith in God's brave winds to speed his fortunes, and scorning steam. When he came to be the owner of a considerable fleet of "wind-jammers," and retired to the home he built near Cotuit, Massachusetts,—where he could always hear the roar of the sea,—and found it best to incorporate his holdings into a com- pany of which he owned nearly eighty per cent of the stock, he chose the name of "The Esperanza Sailing Company." He was a stern and bearded man, sparing of speech or display of affection; but I knew that he loved me when he chose that name. I could have handled a full-rigger before I was sixteen years of age, save for lack of that wisdom which is gained only by experience, and I was not happy on that day, when, coming into harbor as second mate of the Esperanza III, my father gruffly^ told me that I was not to go out with her again. I had hoped that I should be given the first mate's berth, at least.

"My friend, Congressman Walker," my father continued, without a word of praise for my achievements, solicitous inquiry for my health, or mark of affection, "has got you an appointment to Annapolis. You are to go there by the next train, report yourself, and be examined to see whether all that I have spent in time, money, and personal effort for your education, have been wasted. If you can qualify and then stick it through, you will become a sailor for your country, a gentleman by training, and"—his voice broke queerly and became husky,—"your mother and I will be very proud of you!"

My heart pumped savagely. I suddenly discerned that my father was getting old, and should have liked to put my arms around him, there on the deck, but dared not, for I had always stood in awe of him. I saw through a mist brought on by this remarkable betrayal of his feelings; and when I lifted my eyes he was trudging sturdily away over the dock, with his sailor's balanced and unmistakable stride.

I had never even thought of going to Annapolis. "Kid-gloved sailors," we who had been educated with tar on our hands called those gentlemen of the Navy; but I drew my wages at my father's office and obeyed his command. I passed the preliminary examinations and was entered on the Naval Academy's register before I wired him of my success. I still have his letter in reply:

But the letter didn't hurt. I knew him too well. I read between the lines all that his heart cried, but which his hands were dumb to write.

He came to see me once, at the Academy, and strode like an old viking around the grounds, silent, grim, but observing. He was there nearly a whole hour, and I was astounded when the Commandant in passing us suddenly stopped, rushed toward him, ignoring me, and called him by his first name, not only with evidence of respect, but affection. My father waved me away, and for a long time these two superiors of mine of whom I stood in awe, paced backward and forward over the parade. I was actually astonished when my father laughed at something the Commandant said, and did not know until years had passed that these two had been boyhood shipmates and friends.

My father was not there when I graduated, but sent messages by my mother. He was too busy experimenting with a yacht that he had built mostly with his own hands on extemporized ways, and that he had caused to be laid down just where the lawn of our garden in Cotuit met the beach. He came aboard the first ship to which I was ordered, and gravely inspected her from fore to aft, making no comment, asking now and then a question, and staring up at her basket masts as if disapproving of anything in top-hamper that could not carry sail. He fought shy of introductions, sniffed at the luxury of my cabin, merely poked his head into the ward room, and neglected to look back at me after he stepped on the deck landing of the side ladder; but I saw that for a long time he stood on the edge of the pier where he was landed, staring at the cruiser. Again I had that strange, crying desire to go ashore and put my arms around him; and somehow my awe and reverence increased, and there came to me with poignancy the knowledge that I had never fully appreciated his rugged worth and native greatness. I sustained some immense wish to melt from him the hardened outer shell and know the splendid love and warmth that glowed fervently beneath! I always remember him thus, standing on the edge of the pier, firmly set upon his legs and feet, and scanning with a sailor's clear eye the ship on which his only son abode, for it was the last time I ever saw him.

And I've told of him that one may understand why, being the son of such a father, speech, exposition of inner feelings, or an outward show of emotion, have been difficult to me throughout my life.

By a certain exploit, which doesn't matter now, while in command of a new submarine, I gained some favor, and, more as vacation given as reward, I think, was one of the lucky ones chosen to go on one of our best cruisers sent abroad to a certain regatta to represent the United States in a rather imposing array of squadrons. And I conceive this to be the beginning of the game that Fate had set wherein four of us were to play as best we might; for it was in a meeting in that foreign land that the first three of us who were to participate in the adventure came together.

There are no blue-water men afloat who do not know of Torbay, that rare and beautiful indentation in the Devonshire coast of England. There are but few globe-trotters who have not visited it, and those who have not are to be pitied. Noble cliffs and headlands, all variegated with beautiful colors, ranging from brilliant reds to somber grays, scarcely altered in appearance since those stirring days when the great Armada was given its death-blow almost in their shadows, shelter this queen of bays. Scarcely changed is it since the day when the great Napoleon paced the deck of a British warship at anchor and sighed to rest on those beautiful shores. Names that thrill the history of the seas are connected with it; Drake, Raleigh, Nelson, and a score of others knew it well, and sometimes adventured from it. On its shores still stands the ancient abbey where a great Spanish sea captain, defeated, was entertained. And even then Torquay was a city of delight. When we steamed into it on that placid August morning, and saluted and were met by thunderous salutes in return, the bay was filled not only with trim yachts, but by men-o'-war from all nations, come to represent their countries, and Torquay was in gala attire for the anticipated visit of a king and queen.

Very well do I remember that it was on the second day after our arrival, when there came, dancing and curtsying over the tiny sparkling waves, a gay little motor-boat from whose jack fluttered an American flag. It was that which attracted my attention; for our flag, alas! was not so familiar a sight as it should have been in foreign bays. A girl was at the wheel, and such a girl! She wore no hat, and the sun caught glints of fire from hair that was like profuse red gold. Her face, uplifted, was such a one as we who love our country, and have pride in her, like to idealize as the American woman's face, calm and dignified in repose, but ever ready to laughter, to light, and to friendliness. She gave an order in a voice that was like a rich contralto note fitted to the sea, and the man stopped his engines, then reversed, and the boat came to a beautiful and well-executed halt. A great bulk of a man, seated in the stern, hailed, and there was that in his face that spoke of command and of great seas. No one could have been more surprised than I when he asked if Lieutenant-Commander Thomas Hale was aboard. I had never met my visitor; but saw, as he came up the side ladder, that he was gnarled and twisted, and suffering, evidently from rheumatism.

"You are Mr. Hale?" he queried, when, assisted by two seamen, he reached the deck and confronted me. "Your father, old Tom, and I are lifelong friends," he continued, in his heavy voice that came astonishingly from one so perceptibly an invalid. "He wrote me that you were coming. I am Sterritt, Henry Sterritt."

"Captain Sterritt, of the Sterritt Salvage and Wrecking Company?" I replied, recalling that name that was distinguished by a hundred tales of his valor over our windswept Atlantic coast, and that had always been coupled in my mind with storms, gallant rescues, and fearless endeavor. Not a hamlet of the New England coast that had not some story to tell of his deeds, of his honor, of how he might have accumulated wealth had he not shared with his little army of valiant men. The story of the wrecking tug, Eagle, fighting her way with this man at the wheel, to rescue those aboard a liner lost off Shovels Shoals, still thrilled the minds of clean American youth.



"This is my daughter, Marty," he explained, and I was acutely conscious of her presence. I had never seen such a woman as this! Tall she was, and strong, and lithe. Taller than most women, as I knew by comparison, for I am an inch above the American "six-foot," and her eyes were but little below the level of mine. A man who is above normal height never fails to note, with a little of surprise, when he meets eyes so nearly level with his own. And strong she was, for I, who am so inordinately broad-shouldered, observe such characteristics. Long previous I had become accustomed to being called "The Viking," and yet, I swear, as she stood there, with the breeze ruffling her hair, and the glint of the waves reflected from the seas in the infinite depths of her blue and fearless eyes, the appellation came to me like a shock, for here stood before me one who might have fought valiantly with the sea-rovers of old. It was fitting that she should have sprung from the loins of that old lion of the sea, who, come to sad days of torture and travail, stood, gnarled, bent, and pain-racked, by her side.

"Is it a visiting day, or do we intrude?" she asked, with an abrupt and mischievous smile.

The ice was broken, but I felt abashed; for I stood there like one dumbfounded by some blazing glory of light.

I laughed to hide my embarrassment.

"There are still seven days in a week," I said. "And of these, on such an occasion, there are but two when visitors are denied. This is not one of them." And I had a sufficient recovery of my senses to conduct them from a place where a file of marines, trying to appear unconcerned, but with yawning ears, hovered about, and where a strange amount of ship duties seemed to draw a considerable number of deck men. And it was thus I first met one who was to play a part in my life, a part that was not to be without a clash, such as was given when a mystic of old struck loudly upon a gong calling its hearers to war; for ours was not the smooth way of the firm lands, but befitting those who, being of the sea, dwell upon, yet struggle perpetually with it.