Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 34, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 September 1893 — UNCLE JERRY'S STORY [ARTICLE]

UNCLE JERRY'S STORY

BY G. P. GREELE.

“Tell me,about it, Uncle Jerry," I said, lying full length in the -warm sand, letting my eyes alternately rest on the smiling water at my feet, or follow the motion of the brush in Uncle Jerry’s horny hand as it splashid a vigorous coat of green over the worn sides of his old boat.

He was a character in his quiet way—the skipper par excellence of the little seaport of L ; an autocrat whose word was law in his native town, and who had been, since the days of our childhood, the epitome of all that was worth knowing in sea-lore. We were great friends, he and I, and many a long summer day had I spent beside the bent old frame, watching his rough fingers mend nets or sails with the deftneßa grown from long practice, and listening to his tales with keen enjoyment; but there was one incident of his life cm which be had never touched, nor could any amount of coaxing induce him to approach it It had happened while I was in Europe. The horror of it roused the neighborhood, and they said, those who knew, that Uncle Jerry was never the same again. Whether that was so or not I found him greatly changed on my return after six years’ absence. This afternoon, for the first time, he betrayed a willingness to confide in me, and I settled myself in the shade, by the bow of the boat, and waited. Presently Uncle Jerry began: “It were nigh five years ago. The year before the hotel was built. The cove was crowded. It seemed like we all had mor’n we could make comfortable, and the boarders was crowded inter old Miss Holt’s in a way that did seem wonderful when we heerd how they lived in their big city homes—reg’lar palaces, the gals thet come with ’em to take keer the’r clo’s said.

“Ihedjest bought a new sail-boat, a fifty-footer, an’ a reg'lar goer;' I calculated ter make a heap out o’ pleasure parties sn’ seeh—an’ I did. In the raornin’s I went lobsterin’, ’cause Miss Holt's folks bed to her sea things, an’ every afternoon I ‘red’ up in my blue coat with brass buttons an’ sailed skipper of the sloop yacht Foam. “I tuk the same crowd pretty reg’lar, an’ in time I got to know ’em well. They waa as nice a lot of young things as ever came in my path; but they was carcless-like. an’ they didn’t allays think. “The girls was healthy an’ hearty, an’ iny! but they did go it lively. There wasn’t nothin’ they didn’t try. Tennis, an' ridin’, an’ rowin', an’ shootin’ at targets made o’ white paper, an’ sailin’, The sailin’ bothered me. They was all over tbc boat at once, an’ nothin’ would do but X must larn em to sail. I bed to tell ’em I wouldn’t take ’em if they wam’t quieter, an’after that they kinder settled down.

“I grew powerful fond of ’em all, but there wa» one little girl I tuk a special shine to. She wasn’t very strong—l heard tell she was jest gettin’ over a fever. She had a sickly look, but you coukTeee she’d been bonny. “ Her eye* was blue an' round, an’ her teeth was little an’ white—like Miss Holt’s Sunday china. They’d cut off her hair when »he was sick, an’ it was all over her head in little short otirls, like iny ’Lize when she was a babe. “ I remember a trick she bad of takin’ off her cap an’ lettin’ the wind blow her hair, an* if the day was damp it would carl up tight, an’ she’d run her fingers thro’ it an’ pull it out straight to see how it was growin.’ “As I said, she warn’t very strong, an’ when they all got to larkin’ it seemed like she couldn’t stand it, for she’d leave the rest, an’ with her little polite bow she’d come an’ say, so gentle like: * Unde Jerry, do you mind if I stay here with your I was mighty glad to have her, an' she seemed to know it, for she’d settle herself in a pile of cushions an’ sit there quiet as a mouse. “Gradually the rest of ’em kinder forgot her, and by-an’-by she’d come right away from the start, an’ I got so used to havin'’ her there at my right hand that when she stayed home 1 felt real lonesome.

“She begged me to larn her how to steer, an’ when I saw she meant it I showed her one thing and another; an’ somehow she never forgot what I told her. An’one day she says to me: ‘Uncle Jerry, I believe I could sail a boat as well as any one if I were only stronger.’ Bless her heart! I’d have trusted her soonor'n any young foliar in the party if she’d had a little more muscle in her arm. “When August come I begun to see she wans't happy. She grew paler an’ thinner, an’ her eyes was so wistful-like it made my heart ache to sec them. “There was a young feller iu the partynamed Grey. He was a likely chap, about twenty, I reckon. He had lots of money, an’ I heard from some of the ladies’ gals that he used to be a great friend o’ Miss May’s before she was sick; but he was a great sport, an’ after she begun to go about, an’ he found she couldn’t do things he did, he jest naturally slipped away from her and tuk to goin’ with Miss Julie Webb. “Miss Julie was mighty pretty, with frowserty light hair, a mouth big enough to swaDer a doughnut hull, an’ rows of teeth “like pearls,’ I beard Mr Grey say. They looked strong enough to bite ncJls, ’an she showed ’em all the time. When she warn’t talkin’ she was laughin’. She bad a voice like a steamwhisfle. There warn’t nothin’ she couldn’t do except keep still, an’ bein’ Mr. Hugh was always doin’ himselt, they spent roost of their time together. “Miss May used to watch ’em with that heart-breakin’ look on her dear face, an’ finally Miss Julie took to jokin’ her, aayin*: ‘May don’t you want to play tennisf or Til run you a race on the ponies this afernoon, May,' or ‘Why don’t yon wake up, May? What are you dreaming about?’ But Miss May never answered Miss Julie a word, ah’ finally •be? stopped even that, an’ left her altogether atone. “Pm getting to my story now. I hnia't never told it before. It hurts **•» tow, after all these years.

‘Tve given you an idea pretty much how things went on till the afternoon they ended—forme, anyway—fori never sailed that boat again. “It was tho 10th of August, The month had been very hot, and we hadn't had any sailin’ breeze for four days, but thatmornin’ a nice stiff breeze begun to come in from the sea. It was a squally breeze, an’ I didn’t jest like it, hut after a time it settled down, an’ I concluded it would stay clear till next mornin’.

“Well, I was settin’ in mydoormeudin’ a sail for my cat-boat, when I heard the crowd »-comin’. I always knew ’em by Miss Julie’s voice. I most generally could hear that by the time they left Miss Holt’s door. “They had a couple of city fellers down from the city for the day, - an’ nothin’ would do but I must take ’em sailin’. I wouldn’t have gone, but jest at the last minute little Miss May. come up an’ tuk m.v old brown fist in her two little white paws, an’ sez she: ‘Oh, Uncle Jerry, do go! I’in going home tomorrow, an’ I want one more sail, an’ this is my last chance.’ An’ so it, was, poor lass! but not in the way she meant. Well, I couldn’t say no. She made me think of the little one I lost twenty years ago, an’ so—we started. “The tide was runnin’ out, an’ the wind was due east, which made the whitecaps fly; blit I put in a tack' and, started for the mouth of the bay. Jest about the time we got out from under the cliffs the squall struck us, an’ I saw ray mistake. “The Foam heeled over till her stormdeck was two feet imder water. I threw her head up into the wind, but aa she came around a cross sea struck her bow, an’ when I looked for Tom to take in sail. Tom waa gone.” U ncle Jerry laid down his paint-brush just here and gazed with dim eyes over the smiling bay, living over again the great tragedy of his simple life. And I sat upright, and burying my hands deep in the white sand about me, tried to absorb all my faculties in-the act of listening, following Uncle Jerry's knotty forefinger as it pointed to the distant horizon hill, and gave meaning to his words. “Well. I didn't dare tell them young things what had happened. I saw they'd need all their oourage before they got home, if the Lord ever let them get there at all.

“I looked at little Miss May, an’ there she sat, her head on her knees, her two little hands over her face—somehow she’d never looked so small before. Jest then she raised her head. She was white—but then she always was that—but I can tell you a cold chill went down my back when 1 heard her give a great laugh. I thought she’d gone clean out of her mind with fear, but it was nothin’ of the kind, for the next moment she says, still jokin’ like: ‘The idea of Tom’s bein’ such a coward! Hugh, will you an’ the bovs git down the sail for the captain? Tom’s below an’ can’t do anvthing.’ “Then I knew she knew, an’ that she saw our danger as plain as I did. “The boys sprang for’ard, but they hadn’t time to reef it, so they jest cut it away an’ tried to reef the jib instead. Those boys meant well, but every minute waa precious, an’ it did seem to me they tcok an hour to get it done. “The mast bent like a fish-pole, an’ every minute I thought to hear it crack. All this time the water waa cornin’ over the sides, an’ little Miss May stood there up to her kneea in ii, coaxin’ those great healthy boys an’ girls, nn’ scoldin' when she couldn’t keep ’em quiet without it. “There was no use makin’ light of our danger now. It didn’t need tellin’— they all saw it. Then, na the boys turned to come aft, the city feller lost his footin’ an’ over he went after Tom. “ Mr. Hugh an’ the other feller just looked at each other an’ staggered to their places—an’ then they ran in to Miss May. She didn’t give ’em time to git more scart. She jest handed ’em two buckets and said, kinder stern: • Here, don't be cowards. If we must die, let’s die bravely ; but in the meantimework.’

“I bad given up then, an’ kinder resigned myself to what was comin.’ I had time to look around, for the tiller was lashed fast—no man could hold it in a sea like that—au’ I can remember Miss May as plain as if it was yisterday. “ They told me afterward that her grandfather was a famous sea captain that went downstandin’on the bridge of his ship; an’l guess she tuk after him, an’ it come to the top when it was wanted, ’cause she was as cool as a oowciunbcr. As fast as the others got scared, she grew quiet; an’ her voice, that was so soft an’ gentle when she used to sit lieside me, rang like a bell as she told ’em what to do. It seemed queer to sec her standin’ there among them great girls that had laughed at her ’cause she couldn’t keep up to ’em, an’ they cryin’ an’ screamiu’—an’ the men warn’t much better. “She was wet to the skin now, standin’ pretty well forward, as she was, every wave that come aboard splashed over her. “The wind or somethin’ had brought the color to her cheeks, an’ every now an’ then she’d take her cap oil an’ shake the water from her hair. She seemed to grow taller, too, an’ her voice, which the wind brought back to me, sounded for all the world like the last echo o’ the fog-bell t'other side the bar. “YVe were gettin’ on now. With that wind at our backs an’ the racin’ cut of the Foam we could’t help it. We were in past the lighthouse, an’ I begun to think we’d weather it. Jest then there was a report like a pistol, an’ I went heelin’ to leeward with my arm in flinders. I remember thinkin’ that was the eud o’ things, an’ then I fainted.” Uncle Jerry drew out a gorgeous red cotton handkerchief and mopped his brow, from which the perspiration was rolling in streams; then he continued : “When I come to, there was Miss May and Mr. Hugh holdin’ the tiller with all the’r might. The derned rope I had used to lash the handle had broke. They told me afterward that when it happened Mr. Hugh an’Miss May sprang to it, an’ between ’em they managed to keep her head before the wind.

“My arm was painin’ me jest awful, but I managed so put my well shoulder to the wheel, so to speak, an’ found I could help considerable. The rope had got pushed about the painter of the dory, an’ was trailin’ in the water behind. “The girls had kinder waked up, all but Miss Julie. She couldn’t seem to get over her fear, but sat there as white as a ghost with her teeth chatterin’. Miss May looked at her a minute, then she got up and went over to her. I never knew, but thinkin’ of it afterward, it seemed to me she must have felt somethin’ of what was cornin’. “Miss May stood there so sweet an’ tender, an’ sez she: “Never mind, Julie dear, the worst Is over. I feel sure you'll reach home safely an’be happy. ’ Then sudden-like she stooped an’ kissed Miss Julie, an’ come back to Mr. Hugh an' me. “I think Mr. Hugh’s eyes begun to be opened then, for be gave her the

queerest look. She met hia eyes, an’ for a moment her bright new color went away; then she turned to me an’ said, so pitiful: ‘Poor Uncle Jerry! Hugh, help me to lash the rudder again; Uncle Jerry can't stand much more.’ “I moved a little over, an’ they both reached for the rope. The next moment Miss May gave a horrid, groaning cry, an' Mr. Hugh was in the water holding on by the rope. Miss May's face was deathly pale, an’ she was all bent over in the queerest way—telling Mr. Hugh to be patient. She didn't seem able to move, an’ I remember I waa sorter cross at the idea of her givin’ out jest when she was most needed. I called one of the boys, an’ between us we got Mr. Hugh on board, Miss May all the time leantn’ more an' more over the side, till I feared she’d be over, too. I warned her. but she only said, ‘No fear of that, Uncle Jerry ’ an’ laid her head down on the side of the boat. I might have kuown —dear lass, dear lass!” Uncle Jerry paused to control the quiver in his old voioe. “As we pulled Mr. Hugh on board there was a sudden jerk, an’ Miss May went over. I saw then what the trouble had been. The rope that held the dory was only partly out. an’ the sudden pull Mr. Hugh had given it had hauled it tight an’ drawn Mias May’s arms tight across her chest.

“The pain must have been awful, for when we found her both arms were broken an’ there was a great dent across her chest where the breath had been knocked out of her, almost. “She knew if she said anything Mr. Hugh would let go, so after that first cry she nevar let a sound pass her lips. “For a second or two the rope held her up, an’ I thought I could save her, but she knew better. As I started to pull her in her dear face came above the foam about it. She tried to shake the water from her eyes in the old wav. “ ‘Good-bye, Uncle Jerry,' she says, her soft voice all hoarse and strained with tho aeoay she was in—then she looked at Mr. Hugh, an’ that look has haunted me ever since. It was so full of love! You could see all she cared for him, an’ all she’d suffered, kinder, in her eves. ‘Good-bye, Hugh, my dear, dear Hugh,’ she said, an’ his name, as it left her lips, was the last sound she made; then the water closed over her an’ she never rosejagain.” Uncle care to conceal the honest tbsfc rolled down his cheeks, and soiopthlqgTn my own eyes blurred the sea vision. Neither spoke for a minute,, then I said: “Did you say they found hers” Unele Jeriy. replied,gruffly: “I found her myself, after the storm, lyin’ on a bed of sea-weed, that same lovin’ look on her faco. I didn’t tell no one, for I oouldn’t bear no one to tetch her. I got my wagon un’ lined it with clover an’ ferns that [ cut on purjiose, an’ tuk her up to Miss Holt’s, an’ laid her on the little bed she’d slept in all summer. The next day her friends come and tuk her home. “It closed the season at Miss Holt’s, an’ I sold the Foam for twenty dollars to get her out o’ the hay, an’ Ijhain’t never took a pleasure party since. Guess I won’t paint any more ter-day.” And gathering up his brushes, Uncle Jerry loft me abruptly and started through the heavy sands for home, while I moved my seat out of reach of the incoming tide and watched his stooping figure till it vanished in tho door of his cabin, and meditated on what I had heard.—[Frank Leslie's Weekly.