 | CHAPTER LIV.
THE LAST OF LADFORD. The new priest in Conception Bay |  |
54. CHAPTER LIV.
THE LAST OF LADFORD.
WHILE the counsel lingered talking in the court-room,
after the withdrawal of the judges, the
Attorney-General, leaving his papers and other
matters in the hands of his clerk, proposed to Mr. Wellon
a walk; an invitation which the Minister readily accepted.
In passing out, the lawyer beckoned to Lane's shipmate,
who had come from St. John's with the messenger;
and, as they went, they listened to the story of the last of
Ladford; which, in such shape as that it shall be best
understood, (though not in the man's words,) we give the
reader.
Where Trinity and Placentia Bays cut nearly through
the Island, the distance across the tongue of land, in the
narrowest part, is only three or four miles, while the
nearest way by water is some three hundred; yet, so hard
is the crossing, and so much more used are our Newfoundlanders
to going afloat than afoot, that all traffic and travel
in that day, took the sea-passage,—perhaps, still do so.
There is a town, Placentia, once—in its French days
—far more important than now; and, even in the time of
our story, having a good deal of stir of business. Several
schooners lay in the harbor, and one—the Ice-Blink—was
being engaged in caulking, and painting, taughtening
rigging, and scraping down and slushing masts. The
schooner's destination was to St. John's, but she was
temporarily to go up the coast toward Cape Ray, to relieve
the people of a Quebec emigrant-ship, wrecked somewhere
near La Poile.
During this time, a man made his appearance in Placentia,
giving his name as Lane, and supposed by the
people there to be a deserter from the man-of-war on the
station, — the Surinam. His ways were strange; he
“studied,” as they said, a good deal; read his little Bible
and Prayer-book much; was quiet, and had such “old-fashioned
ways” as to raise a laugh now and then at first;
but, at length, was found to know so much, and to be so
handy, that, in three days' time, he was not only a valued
hand at the schooner, but was in that sort of esteem that
he was put at the sculling-oar when he went with others
up the Bay, or outside. This was our man, Ladford.
On the whole, though some thought “'e wasn' gezac'ly
right, mubbe,” yet a general deference towards him began
to establish itself. If he was “somew'y strange,” in the
eyes of the crew with whom he was just brought together,
yet they saw, at once, that he was a “proper knowledgeable
man,” and they accordingly thought his strangeness
to arise from the possession of special spiritual gifts, connected
with his abstraction and study of the Word of God.
It was asserted, indeed, that a very ugly look had been
seen in his face; but, as his uniform expression was very
sad, and his manner was uniformly gentle, this assertion
was swallowed up and lost sight of, in the general impression
of his character; one which was diffused everywhere
by those public carriers, the children, and prevailed to
the great part of the population of Placentia.
The wind does not always blow from the same quarter,
and it changed, after a couple of days, for the waiters in
Great Placentia Harbor, and came in from something
south of east. The moment that it was settled that the
breeze would hold, the “Ice-Blink” got herself ready to
start, with sails filling and flapping, and streamer, and
pennon, and house-flag, and union-jack, all flaunting gayly
in the wind. Shortly before casting off from the stage,
another circumstance gave occasion to remark, and added
to the mystery of Ladford's character. He had somehow
set his mind on taking along with them, in the schooner,
a very large punt that he had used a good deal in the
Bay; and, at this last moment, he seemed so earnest for
it, that it was determined to take the boat, although, as
had been objected to him, it lumbered up the deck greatly.
So it was got on board to his satisfaction.
A musket was fired from the schooner, and the “Ice-Blink”
gallantly left the stage. It was a pleasant afternoon,
and all things seemed to conspire to help them forward,—weather,
and wind, and tide,—and these Placentia
men know the way, and the headlands, and islands, and
harbors along the way, as a Londoner knows the Strand,
and Temple-Bar, and St. Paul's Cathedral; or an Edinburgh
man, Prince's Street, and the North Loch, and the
Castle. It is a dangerous coast to strangers. The rocks
near Cape Race have caught many a ship, and St. Shott's
has had its share of the fearful spoil, and more than one
other place between that and Cape Ray. The very
natives and familiars of this shore may be carried out of
their reckoning by unexpected currents, which, sometimes,
seeming to be set going by the winds, defy calculation of
become stormy, there is Fortune Bay, just on the other
side of Cape Chapeau Rouge, with some good shelters in
it, and, on the other hand, St. Peter's in Miquelon, to
make for.
The wind falls light and the weather continues clear
and warm, as they go down the Bay and over toward the
Cape; and the long evening, until late into the night, is
spent, as sailing men are wont to spend a good deal of
their time, and these men especially, looking for a short
trip only, were tempted to spend much of theirs, in talking.
What Ladford did and said, we beg the reader to observe.
The watch below staid on deck; and except the man
at the helm and a look-out forward, all hands were gathered
together, amidships, between the great punt and the
weather bulwarks. They had had several songs—some
of them of the singers' own making—and these last had
a melancholy burden of shipwreck or loss of shipmates,
and then the conversation took a gloomy character; and
at length turned to the supernatural, as is so common
with our fishermen and with other superstitious people.
From dwelling for a good while together on the mysterious
noises and happenings in a certain cove in Hermitage
Bay, which was supposed to be haunted, and about
which most of them had strange stories to tell, (often exaggerations
or wonderful alterations of some one common
stock,) they passed to speaking of the sight of mountains
under water, which in some parts of the island are
seen, fathom after fathom, hundreds of fathoms down below
the surface. To one unaccustomed to the sight of
these in the clear water, they have a most startling and
dreadful look. Though the highest point be, perhaps,
rugged sides of these vast mountains, into their far rifts
and clefts, is stretched wide with terror, as, with the long
swell of the sea, the perfectly transparent element lets
you slowly settle towards these awful depths.
Ladford sate still; awake or asleep he took no part in
the conversation, but at length, while they still spoke of
these fearful sunken or never-trodden peaks, the silent
stranger first broke silence. In common language, though
above that of his companions, and sitting as unmoved as
he had before been sitting, he touched upon the different
subjects of their former talk, and told them of things
which he had done and seen, or which had happened at his
very side; but, he said, there was one thing that a man
found out, if he only went in the way of it, and that was,
that one needn't be under fear of any thing if he only had
something to hold on to; and as the man went on, in his
quiet way, sometimes reasoning, sometimes describing his
experience, sometimes expressing strong conviction, the
silence was kept about his single voice, not even broken
by words of assent.
The voice seemed to come down from some heights of
spiritual wisdom, clear and fresh, and when he spoke of
hidden things and mysteries, and took their mountain-depths
buried in clear water for his illustration, using,
sometimes, the language of Holy Scripture, he fairly
opened to his hearers a new world, and there were few,
if any, of those about him that did not listen attentively;
though, of course, some heard him in such a way as to be
ready to make a little fun out of his wisdom, by-and-by.
As his voice ceased, it was as if an attraction had
ceased to be exerted; the crew shifted their postures and
filled their pipes; and when they found the silence to last,
place was empty; and one of his shipmates, going
below, heard a slow, regular breathing of a sleeper; and
presently, drawing gently near, and feeling, found that it
was Ladford sleeping. It was not long before a strange
voice made its way into the darkness in which the sleeping
and the waking man were, (for the latter had thrown
himself down to rest,) a voice like none the fisherman
knew, and he started up and fled, in great alarm, to the
deck once more. Coming, as it did, directly after their
discussion, there is little cause to wonder at his being put
in terror by it. Several of the men, however, immediately
went down, and the skipper, taking a light with
them; and having ascertained that no one was there, in
the body, except the single man asleep, awaited, eagerly,
a repetition of the wonder; the light being, first, carefully
shaded.
Presently a strange sound came again—not like the
voice of man or woman—and it spoke English words.
Then, using their lamp once more, they found that though
Ladford's eyes were fast in slumber, yet his lips were
moving and the words were his. They were uncommonly
soft, and with a peculiar distinctness of their own, much
as if some finer organ than that with which he framed his
waking speech, gave utterance to them, or as if some finer
being, having found this body sleeping, had taken possession
of it for a while. Broken sentences, not understood,
came first from him, while they were listening, and
by-and-by he said:—
“Take those letters and make his name. The letters
are there;” and he said it so distinctly that the men began
to search for them, about the place, but in vain.
“'E's dreamun,” said they, “mubbe it's about some
child 'e've ahad and loss'd un.”
So they stood still and listened for more: “I s'pose it's
no harm, we listenin'?” said one of them. The sleeper
soon spoke again:—
“Put them all round.—L—O—R—D.”
The men looked at each other wondering, and leaned
forward, casting glances at the sides of the rude place and
the walls, and giving a gleam from the light, which showed
nothing but bunk or bulkhead there, with little articles of
apparel here and there hanging.
“It's the cap'n o' the man-o'-war, mubbe,” suggested
one of the men, recurring to the general conjecture about
their shipmate's history.
“J's first, you know,” went on the sleeping man;
“E—S—U—S.”
“That's pretty, now; isn't it?” said one of the witnesses
of the scene, when, after a moment, they had all
come to the knowledge of his meaning; and every man
of them uncovered his head.
“Do 'ee think 'e is all alone?” was suggested.
The lantern was cautiously held to his face, and, as
they bent over and gazed upon him, they could not but
see the lovely look that lay in his features; but there was
none with him that they could see. His clothes were
what the reader may remember as his better dress, and
they were coarse enough; yet, where his sou'wester had
fallen aside, it looked almost as if scales were cleaving off
from about the brightness of the face. They lingered a
little, and then left him there, at rest.
The morrow came calmly over sea and land, with the
wind blowing gently from the same quarter as on the day
before. By the time that they could well make out the land,
they found themselves abreast of Cape Chapeau Rouge,
and seven or eight miles to windward of it. No one
when his watch was called; he had worked hard the day
before, and, moreover, the deference already yielded to
him was increased by the story of the night scene, which
was now generally known on board.
He came up, looking pale and thoughtful, but taking
no notice of the curious glances that his comrades cast at
him. The wind freshened a little, veering rather more
to the southward as they had expected. Ladford, who
had kept himself apart, was standing on the leeward side
of the deck, looking over the water, abstractedly, when,
suddenly, his eyes were drawn toward the bow, and fixed
in that direction. He shaded them with his hand, and
then his lips moved without sound. Presently he looked
at the large boat which he had induced them to bring,
and then back again toward the bow.
“What punt is that?” he asked, in a low, even voice,
keeping his eyes still fixed.
There were plenty to hear him,—for he was constantly
observed,—and some one answered, catching, unwittingly,
the same tone,—
“There's ne'er a punt where you're looking, at all.”
“What punt is that?” repeated he; “there! by the
bow!”
The answer to this repeated question was to the same
effect; but given in a faint voice, and rather aside to the
rest than addressed to the asker.
“Do ye see?” asked the latter again, where they saw
nothing. “Do ye see her? —See who go there!” (he
now raised his right hand, slowly, and pointed.) “Who
are they going over the bow?” His eye kept steadily
fixed, unwinking and unwavering, rather wider than is
natural, and he next drew up to the bulwark, and looked
over, and began, gravely, to count.
“One, two, three, four,” he told, up to “fourteen;”
then an anxious expression came upon his face, and,
almost immediately, he repeated his count, in the same
way, and to the same end; and then put his hand to his
brow, and passed it over his face as he withdrew it. He
then gave one slow, fixed look towards the spot in which
he had seen the punt and the men, and then turned slowly
away, and took his place with some sail-makers, who
made room for him very readily.
The men who had witnessed this singular scene did not
meddle with him, nor even talk about it aloud; they spoke
of it, in a low voice, by themselves, and some of them
went forward to see if there was any thing thereabouts
that he could have mistaken for what he thought himself
to have seen. Others were satisfied, without going forward,
that the old seaman had had a “visage;” and they
speculated upon it, from time to time, during the day, as
portending something.
“'E've got the number of all hands, only one short,”
said some one. “There's fifteen of we, all told.”
In Ladford's immediate neighborhood, there was little
talking; yet any question, (generally repeated once or
oftener,) he answered in a few pleasant words, perfectly
rightly. He took a double turn at the helm, where old
habit made him do the utmost justice to the schooner's
sailing.
Day wore away, and night came on. This second
night they were less talkative than on the former one; a
light breeze bore them on; there was no working of the
vessel, and the men were mostly gathered about the capstan.
Ladford was below, and had turned in; there was
nothing noticeable about him this night, and all was quiet,
except for snatches of talk among the men on deck.
“'Twas in British Channel we were run down that
time,” said one of these. “Took us just about amidships;
but, for all that, she was a long time goun down;
had time to get aboard o' the ship, and we were a mile
off by the time. She was a tough old thing, that brig.”
“I should have thought she'd 'a' broke you all to
pieces,” said another.
“Why, no! it wa'n't a very hard knock she gave us,
seeminly,—the knock was n'. In course she put her long
nose in over us, and got foul with our standun riggin' a'
both sides; we had to cut away. There! twasn' much
harder than that, now.”
“What?” asked several voices.
“Just that little thump, whatever it was,” said the teller
of the story.
Scarcely any one had noticed the little shock to which
he called their attention; and so the general opinion was
that he had forgotten.
While they were expressing this opinion, the man at
the helm cried out; and all at the same instant, and by a
common impulse, started up and cried:—
“She's going down! she's sinking! God have mercy
upon us! We're lost men!” and the other cries of sudden
terror and dismay.
The skipper was as sudden and stern as lightning, but
perfectly self-possessed, as were the greater part of these
hardy men, who had seen worse things than this. There
was not a minute. There was a rush, as of a mill-stream,
and an unsteady settling of the ship rather over to port,
(that is away from the wind,) and down by the head,—
but all in an instant.
“The big punt!” was the cry; and over the deck of
that foundering schooner, like men that tread the crackling,
large punt is got out, over the bow,—over the lee-bow,—
and just as they are, without stop or stay, without saving
any thing, or trying to save any thing, every man goes
over into her, and they shove off, clear.
“Is there any one behind?” asks the skipper. “Don't
give way yet!—Hilloa, there, aboard! Who's aboard,
there?” thundered the skipper.
“Not a living soul!” was the general answer; and
they could see the whole deck empty. In one breath,
almost, all life had passed out of the great schooner into
the boat.
“Hold on a bit!” said the skipper, standing aft, with
the sculling oar in hand. The water was up to the bends;
presently it was up to the chains; they couldn't tell how
high it was.
“Give way, boys! Give way, all! For your life,
now!” said the skipper.
The punt shot away, leaving the schooner rocking, for
the last time, upon the surface of the deep. All eyes
were fixed in silence upon her, in the dimness of the night,
about three hundred yards off. There was something
solemn or awful in the sight of the deserted vessel, tall
and ghastly, going through the last, alone. It was like a
living tragedy. She rocked a little to and fro—but very
little. The men, in their own misfortune, felt sad for her.
“It's cruel!” said the skipper. “It's hard to see her
go that way! but isn't she a lady!”
He was proud of her, and of the way in which she was
going to her end, while his heart was full of her loss; but
there was a change, soon enough.
“What's that?” “Sure enough!” “Count! for
God's sake!” shouted different voices. “Three,—and
Good God! there's some one aboard! We're one short!
Let's have a try for him!”
But at the instant, with a sort of wail from under her
deck, down went the Ice-Blink, sails and all, fathom by
fathom,—the waters coming together with a great swash,
—and the Deep had swallowed her up! She was gone!
—“But we're all here,” said one of the saved men,
when they began to breathe again. “Who's missun?”
No, no. There were but fourteen of them. “And
where's the Old Sailor?” asked the skipper. Sure
enough, he was missing!
“And this is 'e's punt; and was n' there fourteen went
over the bow? an' was n' that a visage?”
“Come, come, boys! Let's pull there again, and we
may pick up somethun,” said the skipper. He did not
say “somebody,” but “something.”
They searched all about the place; but nothing was to
be found; nor could they even make out what had sunk
their schooner. If it had been spring, the ice might have
done it; as it was, they had not been run down,—they
had not struck a rock.—It might have been a floating
wreck, perhaps, that had cut through her; but they could
not tell.
And the Old Sailor was gone with her! If it was for
the interest of Father Nicholas that he should not appear
at the Court in Harbor Grace,—if it was for the interest
of justice that he should,—it is settled already. Alone,
in that great schooner for his coffin, with the tall masts
over him, and sail set, under the deep water, sleeps the
body of William Ladford, or Warrener Lane, once smuggler
and sinner, to await the General Rising.
His shipwrecked mates pulled, heavy-hearted, for the
night,) said that he could see the Old Sailor with his hand
over his eyes, as in the morning of that day; and it was
also asserted (and it may be so) that the fatal word
“Fourteen” came over the water to the punt.
A gale headed the boat off; and after narrowly escaping
swamping, (it was the great punt, under God, that
saved them,) the crew got on board a lumber-ship, out of
the St. Lawrence, and having been carried half-way
across the ocean, happening to meet a Newfoundland vessel,
were transferred to her.
This was the last of Ladford's story. It was soon
spread among his former neighbors, and divided the interest
of the trial. It is a common fate for fishermen to be
drowned; but the man's death was singular and strange,
as much of his life had been. There were abundant witnesses
of all the facts, and often is the tale told in Placentia,
and very often among the people of Peterport.
Shortly after the Minister's return from his walk with
the Attorney-General, Jesse Hill presented himself in the
parlor at the Bay-Harbor parsonage, and drawing down
his red forelock, by way of salutation to Mr. Wellon,
said:—
“Sarvunt, sir! I made so bold”—(here he stole a
glance toward the entry, and Isaac came to his support,)
—“Pareson, ef ee'd be so well-plased, sir,” he went on,
leaving his exordium, and rushing to his subject, “we
wants to git Willium Ladford's pardon, sir.” Mr. Wellon
looked at him in surprise.
“He's pardoned in Paradise, long before this, I hope,
Jesse,” said he.
“I know, sir; but I means the pardon from the Governor,
sir; that's the paper. You know we can't bury
stones with writings on 'em put up in churches in England;
an' so a good many of us thought we'd ax for 'e's
pardon, an' put un in a frame an' hang un up in the
school-house for a sort of a grave-stone, like.”
The Parson's surprise had changed into a different feeling,
before Jesse had done speaking; and he assured him
that he would do his best to get what they wanted, and
they might hang it up in the church, if they liked.
We may anticipate sufficiently the time to say that the
Document, engrossed and bearing its seal, was afterward
secured and presented to Jesse for the rest. Jesse Hill
asked the Minister to be “so well-plased to read it,” and
having secured its being made plain that the Warrener
Lane in the writing was the man usually known as “William
Ladford,” Jesse insisted, in the name of his neighbors,
on paying the charges, “for they things cost money,”
and having been satisfied in this respect also, took the
paper thankfully away.
It is now a tablet to the memory of poor Lane, or Ladford,
in the church at Peterport.
| CHAPTER LIV.
THE LAST OF LADFORD. The new priest in Conception Bay | |