Ambrose Fecit, or, The peer and the printer :: :: University of Virginia Library

“It's a long story,” said the captain.
“I have been at home two weeks, and
would have been at home two or three
years sooner, only after escaping being
drowned, I suffered shipwreck. Boy,
bring my plates and things here—we'll
mess together this hitch, and I'll spin
my yarn.”

The captain's story was a rather long
one, and I shall give only the main
particulars. He had gone aft that
night, and was looking out into the
distance, when he thought he made out
a vessel on the larboard quarter. He

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stepped on the bulwarks, just at one
of the davits, to take a better look,
when he was suddenly jostled, and
losing his footing, fell overboard. The
whole thing was done so suddenly, that
he had not only no suspicion who his
assailant might be, but no time to do
more than utter a sharp cry, before he
touched the water, and went down.
When he arose to the surface the ship
was already some distance off. He
was a good swimmer, and desperately
kept himself up, though with little hope
to escape death. He swam on in the
wake of the vessel, hoping his loss
would be discovered, and something
thrown over as a buoy. Presently
something came sweeping against him
and he grappled it. It proved to be
one of the hen-coops that we had tossed
over, and it gave him courage. The
support rested him, and he managed
to take off his cravat with one hand, tie
it to two of the slats of the coop, and
make a kind of becket, into which he
placed his left arm. Thus supported
he hoped to float until daylight, when
possibly some passing vessel might
hear his hail, and pick him up. He
got occasional glimpses of the light of
some ship, which he supposed to be
the Mary Perkins, as it really was, retracing
her track in search of him,
but she was too far to leeward to hear
or see. He lost all sight of this at
last, and judged that she had given
him up. At length there came the
lights of a large vessel almost bearing
down on him, and he sung out lustily.
The wind had lulled somewhat, and by
a mere apparent chance, they heard
his cry. The vessel was hove to, and
a boat was lowered, though it came
near being swamped, and he was taken
on board. The vessel was the
Maubila, from Boston to Calcutta, with
a cargo of ice. She reported having
passed a large vessel a short time before,
with which she nearly came into
collision, and it was the narrow escape
from this accident which made her
string the lanterns the captain saw.
The master of the ship told him that
they intended to stop at no port on
their way out, but he would put him
on board some homeward-bound ship,
if possible. They passed one or two,
but the sea was so rough that communication
was impracticable. They next
hoped to meet with some vessel, under
better circumstances, when they weathered
the Cape. This they did not do,
for the vessel he was in was wrecked
off the coast of Zanguebar, and although
the crew, with the exception
of one landsman, was saved, the ship
and cargo were entirely gone. The
wrecked people were treated better by
the natives than they expected, being
only plundered of the lighter articles
on them, while their clothes were left
untouched. There they remained, prisoners
among a set of savages, for
over three years. During this time several
of the party died. At length an
English man-of-war, cruising in those
waters, heard by some means of Christians
and white men being prisoners,
and sent on shore to demand them.
After some quibbling, the survivors
were given up. Taken on board the
frigate, they were all conveyed to Calcutta.
From there he took passage to
England, and so got home.

The conduct of Van Kline on shipboard,
and his subsequent madness,
had been made known to Peabody,
and though the evidence was not conclusive,
he had no doubt as to who it
was that had shoved him overboard.

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He said that but for the insanity of
Van Kline he would have been arrested.
Now he intended to keep the matter
as quiet as possible, for the sake
of his younger brother, who was
“sweet” on Van Kline's daughter. I
told him that I had some facts to communicate
which I thought would interest
him and his brother too, if they
would meet me at an hour fixed on the
following morning. He agreed to that,
and after I had arranged for my start
for Virginia with Archbold, which was
to take place the following week, we
all parted.

Punctual to the hour next day, the
captain came, bringing with him a
young man about twenty-eight years
old, a plain, matter-of-fact looking person,
whom he introduced as his brother
Joe, and whom I found was a shipbuilder,
with a very fair run of custom.

We three sat down, and I proceeded
to tell them of my acquaintanceship
with Amelia, of her character, her
struggles and her sufferings. This involved,
necessarily, an exposition of
her father's temper and temptations,
the progress of his remorse, and the
insanity which had resulted. I did
not spare even what she had said to
me with regard to herself, which otherwise
I should have regarded as a confidential
communication. I told all I
knew, and gave my own views with
regard to it. When I came to that
part referring to the rejection of him,
and her motives for it, tears stood in
the eyes of the younger Peabody, and
even the elder brother was visibly affected.

“The question is now, Captain,” I
said, “whether you will let your natural
resentment at the wrong you have
endured, and the captivity and suffering
it has caused you, stand in the way
of the peace of a young woman so single-hearted,
upright and courageous as
Amelia Van Kline?”

“And of mine too, brother,” added
Joe.

Capt. Peabody thundered out, “No,
by —!” I won't write the last
word, for the captain was excited, and
was not of pious habits. “No,” he
continued, “but what must I do?”

“The very sight of you would be a
balm to her; for your existence relieves
him of the evil act, whatever
may have been his intent; but your
forgiveness of him would complete the
good work.”

“I do forgive him,” exclaimed the
seaman, “for that girl's sake, from my
very soul.”

The younger brother grasped his
hand, and wrung it with both his. I
took things more coolly; but then I
was not in love with Amelia, and I
wasn't given to enthusiasm.

It was arranged between us that I
was to call on Amelia first, to prepare
her for an interview, and the rest were
to be within hail.

When I came to the house, I found
Mrs. M`Manus ready for a start.

“Where away,” I asked, “and
where is Amelia?”

“She is getting ready to visit her
father, and I am going with her. He
has been very ill for some time, and
has entirely recovered his reason.”

“So! the flashing up of the wick
before the candle goes out.”

“Yes; they have sent word that he
may not probably live this night
through.”

“And his wife?”

“She is not in a fit condition to be

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carried to him, and we have concealed
the fact of his danger from her. It
would only fret her, and it will be as
easy if he dies to break the news to
her. A neighbor, whose discretion we
can confide in, remains with her till
our return.”

“Have you any objection to my
using your parlor for an interview between
Amelia and a couple of her
friends?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then, when she comes down, leave
the room to her and me for a few moments.
I will explain presently.”

When Amelia entered, Mrs. M`Manus
left as I had requested.

“Amelia,” said I, “may I go with
you?”

“Surely.”

“And take two friends along?”

“Friends!”

“Yes. I have some news of Captain
Peabody.”

“Captain Peabody!”

“Yes; can you bear good news?
The Captain is not dead!”

She would have fallen, had I not
caught her.

“Sit down,” I said, “and compose
yourself. The Captain is not dead.
Wait awhile.”

I joined Mrs. M`Manus in the next
room, and beckoning from the window
to my companions, who were in sight,
and anxiously awaiting my signal. I
then hurriedly explained matters to
Mac's wife.

We two heard the door of the outer
room open; a half scream; some sobbing;
low murmured words which
grew higher, and then Captain Peabody
came into the room rubbing his
hands. The Captain's eyes were very
red, but there was a pleasant smile on
his face as he said:

“Excuse me, ma'am, for intruding
here; but that couple have a good
deal to say to each other, and a little
time to say it in, and I reckon I'm rather
in the way.”

The captain rubbed his hands. A
happy man was the captain. Mrs.
M`Manus overflowed with delight.

“Captain,” she said, “you're an angel.”

“Thank 'ee, ma'am,” said the captain,
“of a Dutch build, strong and
stout.”

“I wish John was here,” said Mrs.
M`Manus.

I fancied John's honest face when
he would hear the particulars, and
wished he were there also.

We talked over the matter awhile,
and then interrupted the lovers; even
Amelia, fond daughter though she was,
having grown oblivious of time. Joseph
started to get a couple of coaches,
and we were soon on our way, the
captain and I in one coach, and Joseph
and the two ladies in another.

On our arrival at the asylum, I asked
for the chief resident physician, a
man as noted for his genial manners
as for his skill. I inquired from him
Van Kline's condition.

“Very bad,” he answered. “The
chances are very much against him,
unless we have something pleasurable
to excite him. Who have you with the
daughter and her friend?”

“You have heard of Captain Peabody.
The elder is he.”

“The man whom Van Kline fancies
he drowned.”

“Yes; can he see him?”

“In his present condition, no. He

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is very weak, and it may do mischief.”

“Pardon me,” I said, “but I may
mention in confidence that Van Kline
had some reason for supposing he had
drowned the captain.”

“Ah!” that is a different affair. He
may go in.”

Amelia and I entered the apartment
first, it having been settled that we
should prepare him. He did not recognize
me. I spoke to him.

“Mr. Van Kline, don't you remember
me? Don't you remember Mr. Brooks,
who came passenger with you on the
Mary Perkins?”

He stared on me in fear, and his
sunken eyes lit up. I was afraid lest
the insane fit would return, so I hurried
matters.

“They tell me,” I said, “you fancied
when you were sick that you had
pushed Captain Peabody overboard,
though he's in the next room, alive and
well.”

He raised himself in bed and trembled.

“Then you know it too. Well—ah,
dead! dead! drowned! drowned!”

“Drowned! nonsense!” I rejoined,
as I went to the door. “Come in,
Captain. Here is Van Kline, who will
have it that you were drowned at sea,
whether or no.”

Peabody entered, walked forth to
the mate's bed, and put forth his hand.
Van Kline turned pale, and crouched
back, looking up suspiciously from under
his eye-brows.

“Why, Van,” exclaimed Peabody,
“won't you take your old Captain by
the hand when he comes to see you?”

Van Kline shivered, put forth his
hand tremulously, and touched the
Captain's palm. The next instant he
grasped the other's arm, felt it over,
and with a shriek, followed by a fit of
loud laughter, fell forward on his face.
We raised him at once. I thought he
was dead, but he had only fainted.
When he recovered, he saw his old
commander again, and we awaited the
result with anxiety.

“Alive!” he exclaimed, “alive!
Thank God!”

Every heart echoed the words, except
that of the doctor. He was not
much given to impulse, or perhaps was
too much accustomed to such scenes.
He was watching the case with a curious
and professional eye.

“Leave us alone together,” said Van
Kline. “Stand back, that we may
talk without being heard.”

We drew back, and the two talked
together a long while in low, earnest
tones. Whatever it was passed between
them, it seemed to satisfy Van
Kline, who looked grateful, and pressed
the other's hand.

Amelia went forward, and Captain
Peabody joined us. The doctor went
forward too.

“Hold on, messmate!” said the
Captain; “let the girl get her father's
dying blessing, and hear his last words
alone.”

The doctor paid no attention to the
remonstrance, but went forward, felt
the sick man's pulse, and asked him
one or two questions.

“Dying!” said he. “Not a bit of
it. All the faculty could hardly kill
him,” he continued, smiling. “He'll
get well, and quickly too.”

And so it proved. Van Kline rallied
from that out, and finally recovered.
As I never saw him again, I
will content myself with telling the
rest of his history. He lived afterwards

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with his son-in-law, Joseph Peabody,
and died, I learn, about three
years since—his wife having long preceded
him—his son-in-law and daughter,
with their three children, standing
around his death-bed.