South, West and North

Front matter

A complete Novel by H. BEDFORD-JONES

Author of “The Star Goes North,” “The Star of Dreams,” etc.

Bound South. I

BOUND SOUTH

RICHARD HAMPTON, until an hour ago first mate of the brig Acadian, stared across Boston Harbor, and under his fingers the broad gold pieces in his pocket gave off a dull clink. He was aware of a man coming down the wharf, but he did not look around until the stranger addressed him affably:

“A brisk day, sir, a brisk January day! You are a seaman, I take it?”

Hampton turned and coolly surveyed the speaker. A swift flash of interest glimmered in his gray eyes; he had not thought to see such a man in all Boston, and particularly on Lewis' Wharf, this cold afternoon of January twenty-third. It was not the affluent external aspect of the man that interested him; he passed over the silk hat and rich broadcloth, the velvet collar, the heavy gold fob, the handsome ebony stick. It was the face of the man that held his gaze—a bronzed and high-boned face, full of weather-wrinkles like his own, whose dark eyes gave him look for look and in their arrogance held a peculiar glassy appearance. The face was assertive, self-confident, insolent in its expression of superiority and its air of experience. These two men were much alike, not in any facial resemblance but in a certain mutual self-reliance, a cool aloofness from all around. Each was stamped as a man of positive, downright action, able to take care of himself under any conditions.

“Why take me for a seaman, sir?” demanded Hampton, with no softening of his bleak gaze.

“Because of your interest in the Capitol yonder,” and the other swung his stick toward the ship moored at the wharf, just beyond them. “You regard her with a seaman's eye. And you have rubbed off the corners in a way that sets you apart from these poor greenhorns. An officer, beyond doubt. My name, sir, is James Day.”

“Mine is Richard Hampton, and you are right. I am a ship's mate, and would have had command next voyage had not the Acadian, across the harbor, been sold to a California company.”

The two shook hands. Hampton encountered a strong, energetic grip, and a much hornier palm than to be looked for in so well-dressed a man. Day chuckled, and pointed again at the ship close by, and now ready to cast off.

“From your air, you seem to know her, sir.”

“Aye, and heaven help the poor fools!” said Hampton, with cynical eye. “Her skipper is a hard one; old Proctor is the worst manhandler afloat, and a stubborn, opinionated man to boot.”

A burst of yells and quick voices aboard the ship interrupted them, and suddenly her decks were alive with men. All were staring up toward the town, such as were not at work; Hampton and his companion likewise turned, as to them drifted the lively strains of a fife-and-drum corps, and gazed up the street.

“Gold and Bibles!” said Hampton, with a curt laugh. “It's a little gold the poor fools will ever see! They've been up at the Tabernacle Church listening to a sermon. They might better have been down at the docks listening to the truth about what's ahead of 'em.”

Day gave him a shrewd, sidelong glance, but kept silence. This was the gold year, the year of '49, and few men in all New England would have agreed with the voiced sentiments of Richard Hampton. Certainly those sentiments were shared by none of the approaching mob, whose shrill clamor of voices was sweeping down to the wharf and echoing out across the water. The Capitol was the finest ship yet to leave for California, and the Naumkeag Company of Salem, now embarking, was the largest and best-equipped organization that had so far left Boston for the gold-diggings.

“There goes 'Susannah!'” and Day chuckled. “By the time they've rounded the Horn they'll be singing a different sort of tune, eh?”

A roar of voices swelled out, after the fife and drums, in one of the countless variations of the great song which was sweeping the country from Maine to Mexico. The fifes skirled high, the drums rolled, as down to the wharf came the head of the procession—the Naumkeag Company, two hundred-odd strong, armed to the teeth with rifles, pistols, bowies, each man carrying a large Bible, gay banners flying in the cold wind. Behind and around trooped a great mob of friends and relatives, curious townsfolk, envious neighbors. Salem men and Boston crowd all joined in the roaring chorus that went lifting across the bay:

“I came from Salem City With my shovel on my knee, I'm bound for California The nuggets for to see! 'Twas bitter cold the day I left, Ahead 'tis warm and dry, And gold-dust for the picking-up— Oh, brothers, don't you cry!

“Oh, California, That's the land for me! I'm bound for Sacramento With my shovel on my knee!”

Out on the wharf poured the wild throng, women weeping, boys yelling, men shouting wild farewells and wilder prophecies of a wealthy return. Salem folk poured down to see the company off, just as folk were pouring down to many another New England wharf to see such companies depart—just as, in those first frantic golden days, other companies Were being seen off from many a wharf in France and England and Germany, and even in distant Australia.

Richard Hampton and his companion drew well over to one side, out of the rush of folk. All the Salem men knew Dick Hampton, however, and he was promptly recognized. As the company trooped past, a storm of excited shouts and greetings was hurled at him, eager flashing faces were turned to him, for he had been three months away from home this voyage.

“Join up, Dick, join up! Good ship, good seaman—come along!”

“There's Dick Hampton, home from sea! See you in Sacramento, lad!”

“Gold ahead of us, Dick—pitch in and get your share before it's all picked up! Eli's gone to the diggings, Dick! We're out to beat the Salem Mechanics' Company—cap'n's promised to pass 'em this side Callao-”

Hampton waved his hand as the company stamped past, and his cool exterior showed no sign of the sudden heart-leap within him at Eli's name. Eli gone! What did that mean? Then, as he listened to the excited cries, the wild promises of gold, the farewells, he drew out a hand from his pocket and began to juggle a number of broad pieces.

“Gold!” he muttered. “Better look at it now, for it's all the gold you'll see!”

“Right,” acclaimed a voice at his side. Half-startled, he turned to meet the dark and glassy eyes of James Day. “You're no fool—saw that at once, Mr. Hampton. Know the game, eh?”

“I know the sea,” said Hampton, “and I know what these poor are up against at the end of the voyage. Yes, I know the game.”

“Right. Come along, if you're free. I want a quiet word with you.”

Day took his arm, and they worked along the edge of the wharf, out of the tide of crowding humanity. The business of the harbor was in full blast, for on every side other ships were fitting out in mad haste—the brig Almena was sailing in a day or two with the Bay State Mining and Trading Company, and others were getting ready in a frenzy to reach California before all the gold was gone. Reaching the head of the wharf, beyond the throng, Day halted and gave Hampton a friendly smile.

“These New England farmers and whalers and army men don't know the game, but you do; show that in your phiz, you do! At the same time, go slow in your notions, sir. I'm vice-president of the Beverly Panama Gold Company. You know how much better the Panama route could be, if there was any one along to show the way and to pull ropes. I know all those countries down there. We've organized a company, keeping our plans dark; we've got a brig chartered for Chagres and have arranged for passage from Panama to 'Frisco. It's no poor man's party, either. Shares cost five hundred, the Panama passage north is extra. You're a good man, and I'd like to have you with us. I'll offer you fourth mate's berth to Chagres, your wages to be remitted as passage money, and the company will pay your way over the Isthmus. We want one or two men who know how to handle themselves and others. Think it over, sir.”

With this rapid speech, Day produced a cheroot, strode a few paces away, and began to watch the departing ship.

Hampton jingled the gold in his pocket, then thoughtfully got out his pipe and lighted it. He was quite aware of the high compliment that had been paid him, and found it puzzling. Any company could open its books, and have every berth, every bit of stock, subscribed in a day's time. There was no trouble about men wanting to go—the difficulty lay in getting passage. If, as men did, a man were to lay the keel of a schooner or brig on the ocean-side of his farm land, he could have an entire company formed and paid up before the ship's timbers were in place. Military companies were forming and drilling—companies of wealthy men, of mechanics, of college men, were all in a mad rush of preparation, competing for ships. The fever had gripped deep and promised to drain New England of its best blood. If Day had really secured a brig for Chagres, his company was in luck.

But—why this offer? Hampton was forced to take the explanation at face value. He knew that few of these companies, except possibly one or two from Nantucket way composed exclusively of whaling skippers, contained men who were leaders or who knew what they would face in California; while the Panama route was a chronicle of horror for all who had taken it, although as yet none of those at home would believe the fact. Men like Dick Hampton or this Day, older or steadier men who had keen ability and the strength of character to meet peril by sea or land, were not easily picked out. Greenhorns were many, experienced hands were few. Thus reflecting, Hampton walked up beside Day, who turned to meet him.

“I haven't the California fever, Mr. Day2”

“Precisely why I want you, sir.”

“Well, what about you?” demanded Hampton. “You're not a New Englander. You're not a Beverly man, or I'd know of you. I'd like to know with whom I'm working.”

“Right,” Day nodded quiet acceptance of the demand. “I'll tell you frankly, Hampton, that I'm in this game to make money. A chap in Panama put me on to it, and I came up from Mexico for that purpose. Companies are pouring across the isthmus—and what happens? Even if they get across the isthmus, which most of them don't, they reach Panama and stick there. They can't get passage north to 'Frisco for love or money. The coasters are filled up with South Americans bound for the diggings, and the other ships can't hold a tenth of the greenhorns; even when passage is arranged in advance, the contracts are broken.”

“True enough,” said Hampton. “I've heard all about it.”

“Right. Here's the lay, now! I've got two schooners at work, carrying passengers north from Panama. I come up here, organize a company, guarantee 'em first-class passage through, and no delay; and keep my word. Why, some of those poor have been in Panama for months, and die like flies from fever and plague! My company has none o' that. They get across the isthmus in my care, step into one or both o' my schooners, and off they go—slick! Also, they pay for the privilege, and pay high. They ought to. They'll be picking up nuggets in Sacramento before these folks here today will round the Horn! They're willing to pay extra, and I want only those who can afford to pay well for value received. I make money, and it's fair and square.”

Hampton nodded. “Fair and square, sir. Well, I'm free of the gold fever, and I'm called home to Salem on an errand I can't postpone. At the same time, I'd like to think over your offer, if I may.”

“Right. What's your experience?”

“I'm just home from first mate aboard the brig Acadian—she's across the harbor now, bought and fitting for 'Frisco with the Hampshire & Holyoke Company. I've not been around the Horn, but I've been every where else; across the isthmus and up the west coast, too.”

“You'll do,” said James Day decisively. “I'll keep open the berth for three days—until an hour of sailing time. By the way, we have a family going from your town—Jedediah Barnes and his daughter. Do you know them?”

Hampton slowly turned and looked at the speaker. He was an inch shorter than Day, yet tall enough, and wider through the shoulders. His face was thin and almost too harshly curved; one guessed that he could be a hard master, and so he was, though seamen liked him since he knew his business thoroughly. What spoke most from him was the poise of his head, the quiet tensity of his eyes, the deep firmness of his facial lines. Now, as he looked at Day, his gray eyes were level and hard, showing no emotion, but for an instant his teeth clenched on his pipe-stem. His chief business at home had been with Nelly Barnes.

“Jed Barnes? Yes, I know him. But he has—why, it's impossible! Nelly can't be going.”

“She is, though.” Day chuckled. His eyes were on the crowd, not on the man beside him. “Both going out. They're the only Salem folks with us.”

“Why? Barnes has plenty of money.”

“Like every one else, he wants more. He's sold out everything and is going to California to stay. Nice girl, Nelly! We've several married women in the company, and she'll be taken care of, you can be sure.”

Hampton did not answer. He dimly realized that speeches were being made down the wharf as the lines of the Capitol were cast off, but the voice of Day rung in his brain. Nelly Barnes going to California! It seemed preposterous. He had not been home for three months, and much might have occurred in that time—his own brother, apparently, had gone. Yet Nelly Barnes, of all people!

“Three days, eh?” he said slowly. “Thanks, Mr. Day. I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Day nodded. “And keep your mouth shut, sir. It's known that we're going, of course, but we want no talking about our plans and so forth. We've made up our company quietly, picked the best men we could find, and are getting off for work, without any flourish of trumpets. Banners and Bibles are barred. So are pistols.”

Day chuckled, but Hampton did not respond. With a curt farewell he turned and strode away. He had some accounts to settle, had to arrange about his chest and belongings; he could not get off for home before the early morning.

As he reached the head of the wharf, a sudden whirl of fifes and a lifting roar of voices from the crowd behind him burst into song. Hampton found himself keeping pace to the air, and then cursed it with sudden bitterness as the words impacted upon his brain.

Oh, California, That's the land for me! I'm off for Sacramento With my shovel on my knee!

Bound South. II

II

DICK HAMPTON, swinging along the frozen snowy road, came to the crossing of the little-used hill road from Lynn, and paused. He was four miles from home. One way lay South Salem and Marblehead, while on ahead lay Salem and Beverly. At this last fork, Hampton stood still and gazed a long while, and at last decided heavily that he must turn to the left for his father's farm and Peabody; and there was no joy in him at the decision.

So he turned—then he paused and stood motionless again, with dark premonitions stirring bitterly in his heart as he stared. For, coming from South Salem way, a loaded wagon was hard upon him, with two figures perched atop of the barrels and boxes; and Hampton recognized those figures at once. One of them had been heavily in his mind, the other joyously, this long while, and he did not know whether to bless or curse the fortune of this meeting. He knew the fine Havana shawl which was about the shoulders of Nelly Barnes as the gift he had brought her, his last voyage from the south. And, seeing that these twain were on their way to Beverly, he knew that James Day had spoken truth.

Jed Barnes was a hard, ruthless, utterly honest attorney who had never prospered at his profession. Fortunately he had farms outside Salem which paid him good money. Between him and Dick Hampton was no lost love. Barnes regarded all seamen as roaring certain of eternal damnation, and Hampton in particular as a mate, a killer of men; for this jaundiced regard there was a reason, though it lay not in Hampton's keeping. Years ago Jed Barnes had lost his only son at sea, murdered by the brutality of one yet unknown to fame—one “Bully” Martin who was to be infamous enough in later years. This loss made Jed Barnes curse all seamen impartially.

“Back, are ye? Back again, eh?”

Barnes had perceived Hampton, and pulled up his team as the wagon reached the crossroads. His stooped figure, his thin and lined features, loomed up above his daughter. Nelly gave Hampton a smile that was half-frightened, tremulous, wholly sad. Something terrible and unuttered lay in that smile, comprehending both greeting and farewell.

“Aye, back,” said Hampton. “I stopped in Boston to see some of those poor 2 starting for California. Well, Nelly, how are you? Where bound?”

Before the girl could reply, her father broke in sharply.

“What d'ye mean by that?” he demanded nasally. “Poor 2, huh?”

“Just that,” said Hampton, meeting his bleak gaze. “Oh, it's pitiful enough! They're going out to face conditions they know nothing about2”

“How d'ye know so much about them, huh?”

“I've heard direct. They all dream of gold, and it's little they'll ever see. And if I knew any one going by the Panama route, I'd beg them on my knees to stay home.”

“Why?” snapped old Jed angrily.

Hampton hesitated. Well he knew that his words were all hopeless, yet the sight of Nelly's eyes drew an ache into his heart. He had to say what he could to stop this folly, even though it were futile.

“Why? Because of lies told 'em, and what they don't know. The rotten food, the awful trip over the isthmus, the robbery and extortion, the impossibility of getting beyond Panama even if they get that far—they don't know these things! The fever that runs like fire through second-growth, the scores and hundreds living in tents, camped about the blue bay, waiting for ships that don't come—or, if they come, are full already2”

“Yah!” Jed Barnes drawled out the word nasally, scornfully. “Well, we're goin', and we got no time to waste yammering neither. Ye'd better git on home, Dick. Eli's gone, and I hear a letter has come from him. Might int'rest ye some. Gid'ap, there—gid'ap!”

He shook the lines, and the horses heaved at the traces.

“Goodby, Nelly,” said Hampton, and the words stuck in his throat. For a long moment he met the eyes of the girl as he looked up at her—met her brave, clear, fine-hearted eyes which were fastened upon him so wistfully and longingly, sending him a tacit message which made the heart leap in him for sheer astounded wonder.

“Goodby, Dick,” she said simply, and her voice drooped.

Then the horses were dragging the load forward, and the wagon creaked on. Dick Hampton stood gazing after it, but Nelly did not turn again.

His hammering pulses ached. A younger man would have leaped after that wagon, would have uttered madly impulsive things; but Hampton stood silent, chilling his inner eagerness, cruelly master of himself and his emotions. After all, there was nothing between them! He read love in her eyes now, this minute, as he had wakened to love in his own heart, but it had not been uttered.

Presently he turned and trudged along toward home; not that he wanted to go there in the least. His will drove him onward, while his emotions flayed him without mercy. The adventurer and lover in him was crying out for Beverly, thirsting for that brig bound south to Chagres, and now more than ever in this terrible moment when he knew definitely that Nelly Barnes would be aboard her. Hampton knew only too well to what a hell the Beverly Panama Gold Company was departing, and in James Day he had singularly little faith—for some very obscure reason. It meant nothing to Hampton that the stooped man on the wagon hated him; he felt curiously above Jed Barnes. It was of Nelly that he thought. He might be of service on that voyage, he would surely be of service on the journey across the isthmus and beyond!

Nonetheless, there burned in his brain the words of Jed Barnes, forcing him to his duty. He must get news of Eli—that was imperative. A certain duty had come up. It drove him on, and would not be denied. Twice he had heard of Eli, and his heart was heavy. Nor had he missed the acerbity in Jed Barnes' tone at mention of that letter. And what now awaited him, with Eli gone, at the place he called home? His mother dead, his father a hard, bitter hard man, stern and cold as granite, narrow of vision and biting of tongue. Only too well did Dick Hampton feel that his own destiny lay well away; conflict with the cruel green meadows of the sea was sweeter to him than conflict with the implacable stony meadows of this land. He looked around at the snow-clad fields, the bleak stone fences, and cursed—yet he went on and on. Beverly must wait. Nelly must wait. First of all came duty, hard though it might be.

As he strode on along the road, a sudden laugh twisted his lips mirthlessly. What would Jed Barnes say, did he know of the invitation from James Day? Enough and to spare, no doubt. Barnes was like all the other greenhorns, taking a wagon filled with flour-barrels and other truck to ship to Eldorado. Flour! Why, there was a street in 'Frisco town paved with that useless stuff—spoiled and laid to fill the sand. Hampton had met a man in Havana, just back from Chagres and the other side, who had cursed the golden land most horribly, telling bare tales of its realities. Here, however, no man would believe these things, at least until another year or two; until letters came back and the broken tide of men began to straggle home once more to the New England hills—broken seamen and gentlemen, farmers and merchants, lure of gold gone glimmering from their hearts.

As he strode along, thus thinking, Hampton came suddenly to a halt; he stood listening, head cocked to one side, nostrils sniffing the cold air. No house was near at hand, yet he caught the sweet odor of wood-smoke, and with it the scent of meat at broil. Then he made out a thin thread of gray smoke, ascending from the heart of a bare and leafless thicket which stood close to the road; and, next moment, the voice of a singing man came from that same thicket, causing Hampton's eyes to widen in astounded recognition. It was a song that he knew, and a song he had heard many a time under grayer and sunnier skies, in long watches of the night or when men were clawing aloft and fighting the wind to reef the struggling canvas. He had never heard it except on the lips of one man—and now it came cheerily, like a ghost-song to numb his astonished senses:

“A little black bull came down from the mountain, Ri tura lingtum, ri tura lay! A little black bull came down from the mountain, Ri tura lingtum, diddle diddle aye!”

Hampton wakened to life and action. He went crashing forward through the thicket, until he came upon an opening and stood there staring. Over the tiny fire was set a plucked fowl on a spit, and above the fire, gaping amazed at the intruder, was Job Warlock. Broad and squat and dark was Job Warlock, a man with Ojibway Indian blood in his veins, a man who had sailed the seven seas and bore the marks of them all; his face flat and heavy, his light blue eyes all alive and glowing like jewels, his reefer jacket and trousers of fine cloth, with flat gold hoops dangling from his ear lobes.

“You!” cried Hampton.

“You!” echoed Job Warlock in equal astonishment, then leaped forward, yelled joyously, and struck hands.

Dick Hampton was taken back by this meeting, back across a year's time to that terrible winter's voyage from Bristol to Rio—an ice-sheeted ship, hammering through gales on gales with storm jib and to'gallant close-reefed barely keeping her but from under the roaring seas, and green water rolling waist-high across the decks. There men suffered or died, worked, sang, kept the ship going, saved each other, laughed or whimpered. Those tremendous arms of Job Warlock had saved Dick Hampton more than once, and more than once had Hampton's wide shoulders and lightning agility repaid the debt. Somehow the two men had grown close in those days, talking often of home and what lay behind them; the powerful half-Indian from Michigan forests, the keenly efficient New Englander from his rocky hillsides, found between them singular bonds of liking and friendship. Bosun and mate, they were both far above the forecastle level, holding glimpses of higher things than grog and women; they comprehended each other's barely hinted dreams and found strange, queer tales in the stars by night.

“You, by the crooked tree!” exclaimed Job Warlock, though only a Michigan 'Jibway could have told what that expression meant. “You, Dick!”

“You here, of all places!” cried Hampton, astounded. “What does it mean, Job? I thought you'd gone into the Melbourne packets2”

Warlock grinned widely. He had a wide, toothful grin, not reserved for mirth alone.

“Sit ye down, Dick—the world's a good place, so hurray! Bird's done and I'm hungry. Why, it means that I came to get news of ye, what else? I've waited for the day I could come to the home ye told me of, lad, and ask word of ye.”

“But—here in this thicket?” Hampton sat down on some spread evergreens, and glanced around. “Why in these trees, Job Warlock? The farm's not far away2”

“Not far is far enough, as the Injun said when he rubbed his belly.” Warlock, stooping over the fire, looked up and chuckled. “Your daddy, bless his soul, wanted no heathen foreign man wi' hoops in ears to be hanging about his door, and said so. Bless him, what a tongue! Well, I went away and sneaked back again, stole one of his hens, and here I be. And luck brought ye to me, lad—the world's a good place, so hurray! All's well and lights burning.”

Dick Hampton compressed his lips. Yes, he might have known what reception his father would give this man—a dour and bitter one! Astonishment at their meeting died out, giving place to harsh anger. He could imagine what long travail it had cost Job Warlock to reach this spot on friendship's errand—only to get a sanctimonious curse and a godly reprimand!

But now Warlock took the fowl from the fire, slipped out his knife and placed half the bird in Hampton's lap.

“Injun does it!” said he cheerfully. “Have a bite of your own meat, lad! Injun does it, and a bit o' salt might help, but here's rum to wash it down. Come now, come now, ain't the world a good place? Hurray!”

From beside the fire he took a half-filled bottle of warm rum. Hampton bit into the meat, warmed himself with liquor, began to enjoy life. Here was a friend, here was a man never at a loss in any emergency—Injun blood indeed, true blood, true man!

Job Warlock ate ravenously, tearing at the meat, gulping it, washing it down with swigs of rum, until his share was gone and Hampton not half-finished. Then he leaned back and stuffed a pipe.

“Little black bull came down from the mountain,”

chanted he, and grinned. “Ho, lad! Jumped ship at New York—came over in her to get here, and a wonder ship she was, with Bully Forbes drivin' her! One o' them new Bluenose ships, and a holy 2, I can tell you. Bless me, how we did go! Never seen such a ship before. All stays and backstays of eleven-inch Russian hemp, tawps'ls roped from clew to , Bluenose ship and Glascow gear—and lokee, lad! Dry as a bone, yet running fifteen knots on a bowline with yards braced sharp! Ye hear that! And sail—bless me, but ye should ha' seen Bully Forbes crack on! Going into the Melbourne trade, he is, next v'yage. Running west'ard, we'd sight 'em with double-reefed tawps'ls, and we'd be doin' our fourteen close-hauled, wi' three royals and main-skysail booming! I came to bring ye the news o' them new ships, lad. You and me, we'll work back to England and ship wi' the Blackwall frigates, eh?”

Hampton lighted his pipe, smiling at Warlock's wild enthusiasm over these new ships and even sharing it in a measure.