Pocket Island

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OTHER BOOKS
BY
CHARLES CLARK MUNN

UNCLE TERRY. A Story of the Maine Coast. Richly bound in crimson silk
cloth with gold and vignette of heroine. Illustrated by HELENA
HIGGINBOTHAM. Gilt top. 370 pp. Price, $1.50.

See description in back of book.

ROCKHAVEN. The Story of a Scheme. (In preparation. To be published in
the Spring of 1902.)

See announcement in back of book.

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POCKET ISLAND

_A Story of Country Life in New England_

By

CHARLES CLARK MUNN

Author of "Uncle Terry" and "Rockhaven"

New York International Association of Newspapers and Authors 1901

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Copyright, 1901, by Charles Clark Munn

All Rights Reserved

POCKET ISLAND

NORTH RIVER BINDERY PRINTERS AND BINDERS
NEW YORK CITY, N. Y.

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CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. PAGE
Pocket Island 11

CHAPTER II.
The Sea Fox 18

CHAPTER III.
Nemesis 24

CHAPTER IV.
The Boy 31

CHAPTER V.
The Boy's First Party 41

CHAPTER VI.
Serious Thoughts 49

CHAPTER VII.
Liddy 58

CHAPTER VIII.
The Husking-Bee 66

CHAPTER IX.
Good Advice 74

CHAPTER X.
History 82

CHAPTER XI
War Clouds 91

CHAPTER XII.
A Day in the Woods 100

CHAPTER XIII.
The Girl I Left Behind Me 107

CHAPTER XIV.
Beside the Camp Fire 117

CHAPTER XV.
Mysteries 125

CHAPTER XVI.
The Grasp of Death 132

CHAPTER XVII.
Those Who Wait 137

CHAPTER XVIII.
A Few Bright Days 146

CHAPTER XIX.
Among the Wounded 156

CHAPTER XX.
Plans for Happiness 164

CHAPTER XXI.
Blue Hill 174

CHAPTER XXII.
The Maine Coast 182

CHAPTER XXIII.
Big Spoon Island 191

CHAPTER XXIV.
Pocket Island 199

CHAPTER XXV.
The Smuggler's Cave 208

CHAPTER XXVI.
The Fate of a Miser 216

CHAPTER XXVII.
Conclusion 224

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POCKET ISLAND.

CHAPTER I.

POCKET ISLAND.

In the year 185- a Polish Jew peddler named Wolf and a roving Micmac
Indian met at a small village on Annapolis Bay, in Nova Scotia, and
there and then formed a partnership.

It was one of those chance meetings between two atoms tossed hither and
thither in the whirligig of life; for the peddler, shrewd, calculating
and unscrupulous, was wandering along the Acadian shores driving hard
bargains in small wares; and the Indian, like his race, fond of a
roaming life, was drifting about the bay in a small sloop he owned,
fishing where he would, hunting when he chose, stopping a week in some
uninhabited cove to set traps, or lounging in a village drinking or
gambling.

The Jew had a little money and, what was of more value, brains and
audacity. He also knew the conditions then prevalent along the Maine
coast, and all the risks, as well as the profit, to be obtained in
smuggling liquor. Rum was cheap in Nova Scotia and dear in Maine. The
Indian with his sloop formed one means to an end; his money and cunning
the other. A verbal compact to join these two forces on the basis of
share and share alike for mutual profit, was entered into, and Captain
Wolf and the Sea Fox, as the sloop was named, with the Indian and his
dog for crew, began their career.

As a preliminary some fifty kegs of assorted liquors, as many empty
mackerel kits, a small stock of oil clothing, sea boots, fishing gear,
tobaccos, etc., were purchased and stowed away on the sloop, and then
she set sail.

There were along the coast of Maine in those days many uninhabited
islands seldom visited. Fishermen avoided them, for the deep sea
furnished safer and more profitable ground; coasters gave them a wide
berth, and there were no others to disturb them. Among these, and lying
midway between Monhegan and Big Spoon Islands, and distant from the Isle
au Haut, the nearest inhabited one, about twenty miles, was a freak of
nature known as "The Pocket," or Pocket Island, as shown on the maps.
This merits a brief description. It was hollow. That is, from a general
view it appeared like an attempt to inclose a small portion of the sea
within high, fir-covered walls. It resembled a horseshoe with the points
drawn close. Neptune beat Jove, however, leaving a narrow fissure
connecting the inclosed water and the outer ocean, and through this the
tides flowed fiercely; but so protected was the inner harbor that never
a ripple disturbed its surface. It was this harbor that gave the island
its name.

Occasionally a shipwreck occurred here. In 1842 the British barque
Lancaster was driven on to this island in a winter night snowstorm, and
all hands perished. Five of the crew were washed ashore alive, only to
freeze among the snow-covered rocks. The vessel went entirely to pieces
in one night and the wreck was not discovered until two years after by a
stray fisherman, who suddenly came upon the bleaching bones and grinning
skulls of those unfortunate sailors. The island was a menace to coasters
and bore an uncanny reputation. It was said to be haunted. During a
night storm a tall man had been seen, by a flash of lightning, standing
on a cliff. Strange sounds like the cries of dying men had been heard.
When the waves were high, a noise like that made by a bellowing bull was
noticed. The ocean and its storms play queer pranks at times, especially
at night. White bursts of foam leaping over black rocks assume ghostly
shape. Dark and grotesque figures appear crawling into or out of
fissures, or hiding behind rocks. Hideous and devilish, snarling and
snapping, sounds issue from caverns. In darkness an uninhabited coast
becomes peopled with demons who sport and scream and leap in hellish
glee.

Such a spot was Pocket Island.

Nature also played another prank here, and as if to furnish a lair for
some sea monster she hollowed a cavern in the island, with an entrance
below tidewater and at the head of this harbor. Inside and above
tide-level it broadened into a small room. As if to still further
isolate the island all about it were countless rocks and ledges bare
only at low tide and, like a serried cordon of black fangs, ready to
bite and destroy any vessel that approached. It is probable that the
Indians who formerly inhabited the Maine coast had explored this island
and discovered the cave. An Indian is always looking for such things. It
is his nature. It may be this wandering and half-civilized remnant of a
nearly extinct tribe whom the Jew had compacted with, knew of this sea
cavern and piloted his sloop into the safe shelter of "the pocket." And
it was a secure shelter. No one came here; no one was likely to. Its
uncanny reputation, added to the almost impassable barricade of rocks
and ledges all about, made it what Captain Wolf needed--a veritable
burrow for a sea fox. Here he brought his cargo of contraband spirits
and stored them in the cave. Here he repacked kegs of rum inside of
empty mackerel kits, storing them aboard the sloop with genuine ones. By
this ruse he almost obliterated the chance of detection. Like a sly fox,
he was always on guard. Even when the sloop was safe at anchor, he
worked only in the cave. When all was ready, he and his swarthy partner
would wait till low tide, then load the dozen or more rum-charged kits
and set sail for the coast. In these ventures Wolf realized what his
race have always wanted--the Jew's one per cent.

In this island cave nature had placed a curiosity, known as a rocking
stone. In was a boulder of many tons' weight near the wall of the room,
and so poised that a push of the hand at one particular point would move
it easily. When so moved a little niche in the rock-wall back of it was
exposed. Wolf had discovered this one day while alone in the cave and
utilized it as a hiding place for his money.

Here he would come alone and, taking out the increasing bags of coin,
empty them on a flat stone and, by the light of a lamp, count their
contents again and again. Those shining coins were his god and all his
religion; and in this damp and dark sea cavern and by the dim light of a
lamp he came to worship.

The Indian could neither read nor write, add nor subtract, and while he
knew the value of coins, he was unable to compute them. Wolf knew this
and, unprincipled as he was, he not only defied all law in smuggling,
but he had from the first defied all justice, and cheated his partner in
the division of profit. As the Indian was never present when either
buying or selling took place, and had no knowledge of arithmetic, this
was an easy matter. Wolf gave him a little money, of course. He needed
him and his vessel; also his help in sailing her. Not only was the
Indian a faithful helper, but he held his tongue as well, which was very
important. When in some Nova Scotia port the money Wolf gave him as his
share was usually spent in drinking and gambling, which suited Wolf, who
only desired to use him as a medium.

An Indian has no sense of economy, no thought of the morrow. To hunt,
fish and eat to-day and let the future provide for itself is enough. If
he works one day, it is that he may spend the next. Among the aborigines
thrift was an unknown quantity, and the scattered remnants of those
tribes existing to-day are the same. As they were hundreds of years ago,
so are they now. They were satisfied with bark wigwams then; a board and
a mud hovel is enough to-day. They cannot comprehend a white man's
ambition to work that he may dress and live well, and all money and all
thought spent in civilizing the Indian has only resulted in degrading
him. He absorbs all the white man's vices and none of his virtues. Not
only that, but the effort to redeem him has warped and twisted him into
a cunning and revengeful creature; all malice and no honor. So true is
this that the fact has crystalized itself into the universal belief that
the only good Indian is a dead one.

Such a one, though not comprehended by Wolf, was his partner. While that
fox-like Jew was reaping rich profit and deluding himself in believing
he was successfully cheating an Indian, he was only sowing the seed that
soon or late was destined to end in murder.

CHAPTER II.

THE SEA FOX.

While Neal Dow and his associates were conducting an organized crusade
against the sale of liquor in Maine, and that fruitless legislation
known as the Maine Law was being enforced, there entered a small coast
port in that State one day a sloop called the Sea Fox, manned by a white
man, an Indian and a dog.

The white man had sinister black eyes; the Indian was tall and swarthy.
He and the dog remained on board the sloop; the Jew, or, as he called
himself, Captain Wolf, came ashore. He declared himself to be a small
coast trader in search of choice lots of fish, and incidentally having
for sale clothing, tobacco and various small wares. He lounged about the
wharves and buildings devoted to curing fish, talking fish and fishing
to all. He seemed to be in search of information, and appeared ready and
willing to buy small and choice lots of cured fish at a low price; also
to sell the assortment of wares he carried. He invited prospective
buyers to visit his sloop, and exerted himself to interest them. While
he seemed anxious to sell, he made no sales; and though willing to buy
he bought nothing. He was in no hurry. He just ran in to look the market
over and see if there was a chance to buy at a price that would enable
him to make a fair profit. If not, he might come again, or may be he
could do better elsewhere. His mission appeared innocent and natural
enough and he and his small craft were duly accepted for what they
appeared to be.

Had any one, however, examined the dozen or so kits of mackerel which
appeared as part of his cargo, they would have found, not fish, but a
species of bait ofttimes used by fishermen; and could they have read
between the lines of Captain Wolf's innocent inquiries they would have
learned that fishing information was the thing he cared least about.
Though Wolf talked trade, but did no trading; was anxious to buy, and
bought not; willing to sell and sold not; it need not be inferred he
transacted no business. Had any of these coast residents been blessed
with the occult ability to see beyond the apparent facts, and to
overhear, they might have learned of certain hard, if illegal, bargains
made between Wolf and one or more of their number, and they might have
witnessed late at night various mysterious movements of a small boat
passing from shore to the sloop empty, and returning laden with
apparently harmless kits of fish. Had these good people been still more
watchful they would have seen the Sea Fox spread her sails and depart
before dawn. Whence Wolf came no one knew; whither he went, no one
guessed. Like a strange bird of prey, like a fox at night, he stole into
port on occasions wide apart and unexpected, and as mysteriously went
his way.

The coast of Maine was particularly well adapted to aid Captain Wolf in
his peculiar enterprise. The great tide of summer travel had not then
started and its countless bays, coves and inlets were unmolested.
Wherever a safe harbor occurred a small village had clustered about it
and the larger islands only were inhabited. The residents of these
hamlets were mainly engaged in fishing or coasting, and of a guileless
nature. They were honest themselves, and not easy to suspect dishonesty
in others. Into these ports Wolf could sail unsuspected, and, like the
cunning fox he was, easily dupe them by his role of innocent trader till
he found some one as unscrupulous as he, who was willing to take the
chance and share his illegal profit.

While he played his role of fox by day and smuggled by night, it was not
without risk. The crusaders against the liquor traffic had an organized
force of spies and reformers. In every town there was one or more, and
as the reformers received half of all fines or value of liquor seized it
may be seen that the Sea Fox had enemies. No one knew it any better than
Wolf, and, like the human fox he was, no one was any more capable of
guarding against them. Well skilled in the most adroit kind of
deception, in comparison to his enemies he was as the fox is to the
rabbit, the hawk to the chicken. Frequently he would set traps for his
pursuers, and, giving them apparent reason for suspicion, would thus
invite a search. On these occasions, it is needless to say, no liquor
was found on board the Sea Fox. To discover his enemies by the method of
inviting pursuit and then doubling on his track as Reynard does was
child's play to him. In each town he had an accomplice who dare not, if
he would, betray him.

Captain Wolf was also a miser. He loved gold as none but misers do. To
him it was wife, child and heaven all in one, and its chink as he
counted it was the sweetest of music. For four years he played his role
and continually reaped rich reward, and then he resolved to quit. But,
true to his nature, before doing so he decided to play the hyena. He had
for all these years cheated the law; now he planned to cheat those who
aided him. To this end he set a trap. When a fox sets a trap he sets it
well. Wolf began by circulating an alluring story of a chance to share
in the distribution of a large cargo of contraband spirits, provided
those who could so share would buy a _pro rata_ large amount at reduced
price. Having thus set and baited his trap, he proceeded to spring it.
He had, in his wanderings, obtained a formula for the manufacture of
spurious brandy. All that was required was a few cheap chemicals and
water. He purchased the former; on Pocket Island there was a spring that
furnished the latter. Feeling sure that those whom he had duped would
not dare to expose him, he yet acted cautiously and began his cheating
at widely separated points. He had usually disposed of small lots at a
time. He doubled and sometimes trebled these, and the hoard of silver
and gold behind the rocking stone grew rapidly. Trip after trip he made
to the various ports he had been accustomed to visit, never calling at
the same one twice, and at each springing his well-set trap, pocketing
his almost stolen money and disappearing, leaving behind him curses and
threats of revenge. When all whom he could thus dupe were robbed by this
wily Jew and he had secured all the profit they, as his accomplices, had
made, Captain Wolf and the Sea Fox sailed away to his unknown lair at
Pocket Island, and were never heard of afterward.

CHAPTER III.

NEMESIS.

While Captain Wolf was carrying out his scheme to rob his accomplices in
smuggling, he was planning a still more despicable act, and that was to
take his hoard of money, stow all valuables on the sloop, sail to a Nova
Scotia port, and when near it, to kill the Indian, sell the Sea Fox and
cross the ocean.

There were several weighty reasons for this. In the first place, those
bags of coin behind the rocking stone weighed on his mind. He was a
miser, and never before had he so much wealth he could call his own. A
few hundred dollars at the most were all he had ever possessed. Now he
had thousands. Money was his god, and to escape from danger and carry it
with him seemed prudent. He was aware he was suspected of being, and in
fact was known to be, a smuggler. While as yet undiscovered in his
island lair, he might at any time be pounced upon. His act of swindling
his accomplices, he knew well, would create revengeful enemies, who
would spare neither time nor money to hunt him down.

Then there was the Indian whom he had also robbed from the start. He
might become suspicious and betray him, or worse yet, discover the
secret of the rocking stone. Wolf had discovered it by accident; why
might not the Indian? With murder in his heart, Wolf for the first time
began to be afraid. He put the pistols he had always carried in perfect
order and ready for instant use. So far as he had discovered, the Indian
possessed neither knife nor pistol; but nevertheless Wolf feared him,
and the more he realized the danger he had incurred in duping his
assistants in smuggling, and how much he was really in the power of his
giant-framed partner, the more his fears grew. It may be thought it was
conscience working in him; but it was not, for such as he have none. It
was guilty fear, and that only. This so preyed upon his mind during his
last trip to the coast that he could hardly sleep. Then he began to
imagine that the Indian was suspicious of him. To allay that danger he
doubled the small share of profit he had given his partner, knowing full
well if he had no chance to spend it, it would all come back to him in
the end. Then he set about deceiving him by an offer to buy the Sea Fox
and pay what he believed the Indian would consider a fabulous price. It
was a fatal mistake. The Indian had no real idea of the value of his
sloop. It had come to him as payment for his share of a successful
fishing-trip to The Banks years before, and he had become attached to
that craft. It had been his home, his floating wigwam, for a long time,
and for Wolf to want to buy it hurt him.

"Me no sell boat," he said, when the offer was made. "Me want sloop long
time."

Wolf, who valued all things from a miser's standpoint, could not
understand that there might lurk in the Indian a tinge of sentiment. He
was mistaken, and the mistake was a little pitfall placed in his way.

There was another which he was also to blame for, and yet, like the
first, he was not aware of it. In the cave where he had stored his cargo
and prepared it for smuggling, he kept a large can of cheap and highly
inflammable oil on a rock shelf, just above the flat stone where he, by
the light of two lamps, had counted his wealth time and again. True to
his nature, when he bought the oil he bought the cheapest, and unknown
to him the can had sprung a leak and while he had been absent for weeks
at a time, the oil had run out, saturating the rock below and forming
little pools on the cave floor among the loose stones. Wolf had not
noticed this, or, if he had, had thought nothing of it. Neither did he
realize how fate could utilize his miser's instinct in purchasing the
cheap can as a means to bring together and bless two lives unknown to
him. We seldom do notice the snags in life that usually trip us.

By the time the last voyage of the Sea Fox had been made and she
returned to The Pocket, the relations between Wolf and the Indian were
in danger of rupture. Wolf distrusted his partner, and yet believed he
had lulled all suspicion. He had never failed before in duping any one
he had set out to; why should he in this case? Still, he was uneasy and
resolved to end it all as soon as possible. But Indians have one
peculiarity that will baffle even the shrewdest Jew. They never talk.
Their faces are always as expressionless as a graven image. While
contemplating the most cruel murder they never show the least change in
expression, nor do their eyes show the faintest shadow of an emotion.
They are stolid, surly and Sphinx-like always. Wolf's partner was like
his race, and not even by the droop of an eyelid did he betray the
slowly gathering storm of hate and rage within. He brooded over the
hurt he felt when Wolf had wanted to buy his sloop, and believing the
Jew meant to rob him of her, he grew suspicious and watched Wolf. Not by
word or sign did he show it, and the Jew saw it not. Wolf watched the
Indian as closely, only the Indian knew it, and Wolf did not. It was now
Wolf against fox and fox against Wolf, and the swarthy fox was getting
the best of it. Meanwhile the loading of the sloop for her final
departure proceeded.

Wolf had planned to use the Indian's help to the last, and when all was
ready, enter the cave, secure the money about his person and sail away.
The cave entrance was under water for about two hours of high tide, and
Wolf waited until a day came when the tide served early. He had planned
to go in just before the rising water closed the entrance, thus securing
himself from intrusion; and then, when the tide fell away, to come out
ready to start. The day and hour came and he entered the cave.

Unknown to him the Indian followed!

Wolf lighted a lamp and sat down. When the sea had closed the entrance,
no sound entered. Wolf waited. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed, and
all sound of the ocean ceased. He believed himself alone. He lighted the
other lamp, placing both on the flat rock. Then he went to the rocking
stone, and pushing it back, took from the niche, one by one, the bags of
coin. These he carried to the table stone and poured their contents into
a glittering pile.

From behind a rock a pair of sinister eyes watched him!

He felt that he had two hours of absolute seclusion and need not hurry.
He began to slowly pile the coins in little stacks and count them. There
was no reason for haste and he counted carefully. He enjoyed this beyond
all else in his vile life, and desired to prolong the pleasure. The
money was all his, and he gloated over it. No sense of awe at his
separation from all things human in that damp, silent cavern, still as a
tomb, came over him. No thought of the murder he was soon to commit; no
feeling of remorse, no impulse of good; no thought of the future or of
God--entered his soul. Only the miser's joy of possession. Not a sound
entered the cavern and only the chink of the coin, as he counted it,
disturbed the deathly silence.

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