Brave and Bold

H >> Horatio Alger, Jr. >> Brave and Bold

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"That's a good beginning," thought Robert. "I wish mother knew how well
I have succeeded so far. I'll just write and let her know that I have
arrived safe. To-morrow perhaps I shall have better news to tell."

He went back to his hotel, and feeling hungry, made a substantial meal.
He found the restaurants moderate in price, and within his means.

Six o'clock found him ringing the bell of a handsome brownstone house on
Fifth avenue. Though not disposed to be shy, he felt a little
embarrassed as the door opened and a servant in livery stood before him.

"Is Mr. Morgan at home?" inquired Robert.

"Yes, sir," said the servant, glancing speculatively at the neat but
coarse garments of our hero.

"He invited me to dine with him," said Robert.

"Won't you walk in, sir?" said the servant, with another glance of wild
surprise at the dress of the dinner guest. "If you'll walk in here,"
opening the door of a sumptuously furnished parlor, "I will announce
you. What name shall I say?"

"Robert Rushton."

Robert entered the parlor, and sat down on a sofa. He looked around him
with a little, pardonable curiosity, for he had never before been in an
elegant city mansion.

"I wonder whether I shall ever be rich enough to live like this!" he
thought.

The room, though elegant, was dark, and to our hero, who was used to
bright, sunny rooms, it seemed a little gloomy. He mentally decided that
he would prefer a plain country house; not so plain, indeed, as the
little cottage where his mother lived, but as nice, perhaps, as the
superintendent's house, which was the finest in the village, and the
most magnificent he had until this time known. Its glories were wholly
eclipsed by the house he was in, but Robert thought he would prefer it.
While he was looking about him, Mr. Morgan entered, and his warm and
cordial manner made his boy guest feel quite at his ease.

"I must make you acquainted with my wife and children," he said. "They
have heard of you, and are anxious to see you."

Mrs. Morgan gave Robert a reception as warm as her husband had done.

"So this is the young hero of whom I have heard!" she said.

"I am afraid you give me too much credit," said Robert, modestly.

This modest disclaimer produced a still more favorable impression upon
both Mr. and Mrs. Morgan.

I do not propose to speak in detail of the dinner that followed. The
merchant and his wife succeeded in making Robert feel entirely at home,
and he displayed an ease and self-possession wholly free from boldness
that won their good opinion.

When the dinner was over, Mr. Morgan commenced:

"Now, Robert, dinner being over, let us come to business. Tell me your
plans, and I will consider how I can promote them."

In reply, Robert communicated the particulars, already known to the
reader, of his father's letter, his own conviction of his still living,
and his desire to go in search of him.

"I am afraid you will be disappointed," said the merchant, "in the
object of your expedition. It may, however, be pleasant for you to see
something of the world, and luckily it is in my power to help you. I
have a vessel which sails for Calcutta early next week. You shall go as
a passenger."

"Couldn't I go as cabin-boy?" asked Robert. "I am afraid the price of a
ticket will be beyond my means."

"I think not," said the merchant, smiling, "since you will go free. As
you do not propose to follow the sea, it will not be worth while to go
as cabin-boy. Besides, It interfere with your liberty to leave the
vessel whenever you deemed it desirable in order to carry on your
search for your father."

"You are very kind, Mr. Morgan," said Robert, gratefully.

"So I ought to be and mean to be," said the merchant. "You know I am in
your debt."

We pass over the few and simple preparations which Robert made for his
long voyage. In these he was aided by Mrs. Morgan, who sent on board,
without his knowledge, a trunk containing a complete outfit,
considerably better than the contents of the humble carpetbag he had
brought from home.

He didn't go on board till the morning on which the ship was to sail. He
went down into the cabin, and did not come up until the ship had
actually started. Coming on deck, he saw a figure which seemed familiar
to him. From his dress, and the commands he appeared to be issuing,
Robert judged that it was the mate. He tried to think where he could
have met him, when the mate turned full around, and, alike to his
surprise and dismay, he recognized Ben Haley, whom he had wounded in his
successful attempt to rob his uncle.

CHAPTER XXV.

A DECLARATION OF WAR.

If Robert was surprised, Ben Haley had even more reason for
astonishment. He had supposed his young enemy, as he chose to consider
him, quietly living at home in the small village of Millville. He was
far from expecting to meet him on shipboard bound to India. There was
one difference, however, between the surprise felt by the two. Robert
was disagreeably surprised, but a flash of satisfaction lit up the face
of the mate, as he realized that the boy who had wounded him was on the
same ship, and consequently, as he supposed, in his power.

"How came you here?" he exclaimed, hastily advancing toward Robert.

Resenting the tone of authority in which these words were spoken, Robert
answered, composedly:

"I walked on board."

"You'd better not be impudent, young one," said Ben, roughly.

"When you tell me what right you have to question me in that style,"
said Robert, coolly, "I will apologize."

"I am the mate of this vessel, as you will soon find out."

"So I supposed," said Robert.

"And you, I suppose, are the cabin-boy. Change your clothes at once, and
report for duty."

Robert felt sincerely thankful at that moment that he was not the
cabin-boy, for he foresaw that in that case he would be subjected to
brutal treatment from the mate--treatment which his subordinate position
would make him powerless to resent. Now, as a passenger, he felt
independent, and though it was disagreeable to have the mate for an
enemy, he did not feel afraid.

"You've made a mistake, Mr. Haley," said our hero. "I am not the
cabin-boy."

"What are you, then?"

"I am a passenger."

"You are telling a lie. We don't take passengers," said Ben Haley,
determined not to believe that the boy was out of his power.

"If you will consult the captain, you may learn your mistake," said
Robert.

Ben Haley couldn't help crediting this statement, since it would have
done Robert no good to misrepresent the facts of the case. He resolved,
however, to ask the captain about it, and inquire how it happened that
he had been received as a passenger, contrary to the usual custom.

"You will hear from me again," he said, in a tone of menace.

Robert turned away indifferently, so far as appearance went, but he
couldn't help feeling a degree of apprehension as he thought of the long
voyage he was to take in company with his enemy, who doubtless would
have it in his power to annoy him, even if he abstained from positive
injury.

"He is a bad man, and will injure me if he can," he reflected; "but I
think I can take care of myself. If I can't I will appeal to the
captain."

Meanwhile the mate went up to the captain.

"Captain Evans," said he, "is that boy a passenger?"

"Yes, Mr. Haley."

"It is something unusual to take passengers, is it not?"

"Yes; but this lad is a friend of the owner; and Mr. Morgan has given me
directions to treat him with particular consideration."

Ben Haley was puzzled. How did it happen that Mr. Morgan, one of the
merchant princes of New York, had become interested in an obscure
country boy?

"I don't understand it," he said, perplexed.

"I suppose the boy is a relation of Mr. Morgan."

"Nothing of the kind. He is of poor family, from a small country town."

"Then you know him?"

"I know something of him and his family. He is one of the most impudent
young rascals I ever met."

"Indeed!" returned the captain, surprised. "From what I have seen of
him, I have come to quite a different conclusion. He has been very
gentlemanly and polite to me."

"He can appear so, but you will find out, sooner or later. He has not
the slightest regard for truth, and will tell the most unblushing
falsehoods with the coolest and most matter-of-fact air."

"I shouldn't have supposed it," said Captain Evans, looking over at our
hero, at the other extremity of the deck. "Appearances are deceitful,
certainly."

"They are in this case."

This terminated the colloquy for the time. The mate had done what he
could to prejudice the captain against the boy he hated. Not, however,
with entire success.

Captain Evans had a mind of his own, and did not choose to adopt any
man's judgment or prejudices blindly. He resolved to watch Robert a
little more closely than he had done, in order to see whether his own
observation confirmed the opinion expressed by the mate. Of the latter
he did not know much, since this was the first voyage on which they had
sailed together; but Captain Evans was obliged to confess that he did
not wholly like his first officer. He appeared to be a capable seaman,
and, doubtless, understood his duties, but there was a bold and reckless
expression which impressed him unfavorably.

Ben Haley, on his part, had learned something, but not much. He had
ascertained that Robert was a _protege_ of the owner, and was
recommended to the special care of the captain; but what could be his
object in undertaking the present voyage, he did not understand. He was
a little afraid that Robert would divulge the not very creditable part
he had played at Millville; and that he might not be believed in that
case, he had represented him to the captain as an habitual liar. After
some consideration, he decided to change his tactics, and induce our
hero to believe he was his friend, or, at least, not hostile to him. To
this he was impelled by two motives. First, to secure his silence
respecting the robbery; and, next, to so far get into his confidence as
to draw out of him the object of his present expedition. Thus, he would
lull his suspicions to sleep, and might thereafter gratify his malice
the more securely.

He accordingly approached our hero, and tapped him on the shoulder.

Robert drew away slightly. Haley saw the movement, and hated the boy the
more for it.

"Well, my lad," he said, "I find your story is correct."

"Those who know me don't generally doubt my word," said Robert, coldly.

"Well, I don't know you, or, at least, not intimately," said Haley, "and
you must confess that I haven't the best reasons to like you."

"Did you suffer much inconvenience from your wound?" asked Robert.

"Not much. It proved to be slight. You were a bold boy to wing me. I
could have crushed you easily."

"I suppose you could, but you know how I was situated. I couldn't run
away, and desert your uncle."

"I don't know about that. You don't understand that little affair. I
suppose you think I had no right to the gold I took."

"I certainly do think so."

"Then you are mistaken. My uncle got his money from my grandfather. A
part should have gone to my mother, and, consequently, to me, but he
didn't choose to act honestly. My object in calling upon him was to
induce him to do me justice at last. But you know the old man has
become a miser, and makes money his idol. The long and short of it was,
that, as he wouldn't listen to reason, I determined to take the law into
my own hands, and carry off what I thought ought to come to me."

Robert listened to this explanation without putting much faith in it. It
was not at all according to the story given by Mr. Nichols, and he knew,
moreover, that the man before him had passed a wild and dissolute youth.

"I suppose what I did was not strictly legal," continued Ben Haley,
lightly; "but we sailors are not much versed in the quips of the law. To
my thinking, law defeats justice about as often as it aids it."

"I don't know very much about law," said Robert, perceiving that some
reply was expected.

"That's just my case," said Ben, "and the less I have to do with it the
better it will suit me. I suppose my uncle made a great fuss about the
money I carried off."

"Yes," said Robert. "It was quite a blow to him, and he has been nervous
ever since for fear you would come back again."

Ben Haley shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

"He needn't be afraid. I don't want to trouble him, but I was bound he
shouldn't keep from me what was rightly my due. I haven't got all I
ought to have, but I am not a lover of money, and I shall let it go."

"I hope you won't go near him again, for he got a severe shock the last
time."

"When you get back, if you get a chance to see him privately, you may
tell him there is no danger of that."

"I shall be glad to do so," said Robert.

"I thought I would explain the matter to you," continued the mate, in an
off-hand manner, "for I didn't want you to remain under a false
impression. So you are going to see a little of the world?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose that is your only object?"

"No. I have another object in view."

The mate waited to learn what this object was, but Robert stopped, and
did not seem inclined to go on.

"Well," said Haley, after a slight pause, "as we are to be together on a
long voyage, we may as well be friends. Here's my hand."

To his surprise, Robert made no motion to take it.

"Mr. Haley," said he, "I don't like to refuse your hand, but when I tell
you that I am the son of Captain Rushton, of the ship, _Norman_, you
will understand why I cannot accept your hand."

Ben Haley started back in dismay. How could Robert have learned
anything of his treachery to his father? Had the dead come back from the
bottom of the sea to expose him? Was Captain Rushton still alive? He did
not venture to ask, but he felt his hatred for Robert growing more
intense.

"Boy," he said, in a tone of concentrated passion, "you have done a bold
thing in rejecting my hand. I might have been your friend. Think of me
henceforth as your relentless enemy."

He walked away, his face dark with the evil passions which Robert's
slight had aroused in his breast.

CHAPTER XXVI.

OUT ON THE OCEAN.

We must now go back nearly two years. Five men were floating about in a
boat in the Southern ocean. They looked gaunt and famished. For a week
they had lived on short allowance, and now for two days they had been
entirely without food. There was in their faces that look, well-nigh
hopeless, which their wretched situation naturally produced. For one
day, also, they had been without water, and the torments of thirst were
worse than the cravings of hunger. These men were Captain Rushton and
four sailors of the ship _Norman_, whose burning has already been
described.

One of the sailors, Bunsby, was better educated and more intelligent
than the rest, and the captain spoke to him as a friend and an equal,
for all the distinctions of rank were broken down by the immediate
prospect of a terrible death.

"How is all this going to end, Bunsby?" said the captain, in a low
voice, turning from a vain search for some sail; in sight, and
addressing his subordinate.

"I am afraid there is only one way," answered Bunsby. "There is not much
prospect of our meeting a ship."

"And, if we do, it is doubtful if we can attract their attention."

"I should like the chance to try."

"I never knew before how much worse thirst is than hunger."

"Do you know, captain, if this lasts much longer, I shall be tempted to
swallow some of this sea water."

"It will only make matters worse."

"I know it, but, at least, it will moisten my throat."

The other sailors sat stupid and silent, apparently incapable of motion,

"I wish I had a plug of tobacco," said one, at last.

"If there were any use in wishing, I'd wish myself on shore," said the
second.

"We'll never see land again," said the third, gloomily. "We're bound for
Davy Jones' locker."

"I'd like to see my old mother before I go down," said the first.

"I've got a mother, too," said the third. "If I could only have a drop
of the warm tea such as she used to make! She's sitting down to dinner
now, most likely, little thinking that her Jack is dying of hunger out
here."

There was a pause, and the captain spoke again.

"I wish I knew whether that bottle will ever reach shore. When was it we
launched it?"

"Four days since."

"I've got something here I wish I could get to my wife." He drew from
his pocketbook a small, folded paper.

"What is that, captain?" asked Bunsby.

"It is my wife's fortune."

"How is that, captain?"

"That paper is good for five thousand dollars."

"Five thousand dollars wouldn't do us much good here. It wouldn't buy a
pound of bread, or a pint of water."

"No; but it would--I hope it will--save my wife and son from suffering.
Just before I sailed on this voyage I took five thousand dollars--nearly
all my savings--to a man in our village to keep till I returned, or, if
I did not return, to keep in trust for my wife and child. This is the
paper he gave me in acknowledgment."

"Is he a man you can trust, captain?"

"I think so. It is the superintendent of the factory in our village--a
man rich, or, at any rate, well-to-do. He has a good reputation for
integrity."

"Your wife knew you had left the money in his hands?"

"No; I meant it as a surprise to her."

"It is a pity you did not leave that paper in her hands."

"What do you mean, Bunsby?" asked the captain, nervously. "You don't
think this man will betray his trust?"

"I can't say, captain, for I don't know the man; but I don't like to
trust any man too far."

Captain Rushton was silent for a moment. There was a look of trouble on
his face.

"You make me feel anxious, Bunsby. It is hard enough to feel that I
shall probably never again see my wife and child--on earth, I mean--but
to think that they may possibly suffer want makes it more bitter."

"The man may be honest, captain: Don't trouble yourself too much."

"I see that I made a mistake. I should have left this paper with my
wife. Davis can keep this money, and no one will be the wiser. It is a
terrible temptation."

"Particularly if the man is pressed for money."

"I don't think that. He is considered a rich man. He ought to be one,
and my money would be only a trifle to him."

"Let us hope it is so, captain," said Bunsby, who felt that further
discussion would do no good, and only embitter the last moments of his
commander. But anxiety did not so readily leave the captain. Added to
the pangs of hunger and the cravings of thirst was the haunting fear
that by his imprudence his wife and child would suffer.

"Do you think it would do any good, Bunsby," he said, after a pause, "to
put this receipt in a bottle, as I did the letter?"

"No, captain, it is too great a risk. There is not more than one chance
in a hundred of its reaching its destination. Besides, suppose you
should be picked up, and go home without the receipt; he might refuse to
pay you."

"He would do so at the peril of his life, then," said the captain,
fiercely. "Do you think, if I were alive, I would let any man rob me of
the savings of my life?"

"Other men have done so."

"It would not be safe to try it on me, Bunsby."

"Well, captain?"

"It is possible that I may perish, but you may be saved."

"Not much chance of it."

"Yet it is possible. Now, if that happens, I have a favor to ask of
you."

"Name it, captain."

"I want you, if I die first, to take this paper, and guard it carefully;
and, if you live to get back, to take it to Millville, and see that
justice is done to my wife and child."

"I promise that, captain; but I think we shall die together."

Twenty-four hours passed. The little boat still rocked hither and
thither on the ocean billows. The five faces looked more haggard, and
there was a wild, eager look upon them, as they scanned the horizon,
hoping to see a ship. Their lips and throats were dry and parched.

"I can't stand it no longer," said one--it was the sailor I have called
Jack--"I shall drink some of the sea water."

"Don't do it, Jack," said Bunsby. "You'll suffer more than ever."

"I can't," said Jack, desperately; and, scooping up some water in the
hollow of his hand, he drank it eagerly. Again and again he drank with
feverish eagerness.

"How is it?" said the second sailor,

"I feel better," said Jack; "my throat so dry."

"Then I'll take some, too."

The other two sailors, unheeding the remonstrances of Bunsby and the
captain, followed the example of Jack. They felt relief for the moment,
but soon their torments became unendurable. With parched throats,
gasping for breath, they lay back in agony. Suffering themselves,
Captain Rushton and Bunsby regarded with pity the greater sufferings of
their wretched companions.

"This is horrible," said the captain.

"Yes," said Bunsby, sadly. "It can't last much longer now."

His words were truer than he thought. Unable to endure his suffering,
the sailor named Jack suddenly staggered to his feet.

"I can't stand it any longer," he said, wildly; "good-by, boys," and
before his companions well knew what he intended to do, he had leaped
over the side of the boat, and sunk in the ocean waves.

There was a thrilling silence, as the waters closed over his body.

Then the second sailor also rose to his feet.

"I'm going after Jack," he said, and he, too, plunged into the waves.

The captain rose as if to hinder him, but Bunsby placed his hand upon
his arm.

"It's just as well, captain. We must all come to that, and the sooner,
the more suffering is saved."

"That's so," said the other sailor, tormented like the other two by
thirst, aggravated by his draughts of seawater. "Good-by, Bunsby!
Good-by, captain! I'm going!"

He, too, plunged into the sea, and Bunsby and the captain were left
alone.

"You won't desert me, Bunsby?" said the captain.

"No, captain. I haven't swallowed seawater like those poor fellows. I
can stand it better."

"There is no hope of life," said the captain, quietly; "but I don't like
to go unbidden into my Maker's presence."

"Nor I. I'll stand by you, captain"

"This is a fearful thing, Bunsby. If it would only rain."

"That would be some relief."

As if in answer to his wish, the drops began to fall--slowly at first,
then more copiously, till at last their clothing was saturated, and the
boat partly filled with water. Eagerly they squeezed out the welcome
dregs from their clothing, and felt a blessed relief. They filled two
bottles they had remaining with the precious fluid.

"If those poor fellows had only waited," said the captain.

"They are out of suffering now," said Bunsby.

The relief was only temporary, and they felt it to be so. They were
without food, and the two bottles of water would not last them long.
Still, there was a slight return of hope, which survives under the most
discouraging circumstances.

CHAPTER XXVII.

FRANK PRICE.

The ship _Argonaut_, bound for Calcutta, was speeding along with a fair
wind, when the man at the lookout called:

"Boat in sight!"

"Where away?"

The sailor pointed, out a small boat a mile distant, nearly in the
ship's track, rising and falling with the billows.

"Is there any one in it?"

"I see two men lying in the bottom. They are motionless. They may be
dead."

The boat was soon overtaken. It was the boat from the ill-fated
_Norman_, Captain Rushton and Bunsby were lying stretched out in the
bottom, both motionless and apparently without life. Bunsby was really
dead. But there was still some life left in the captain, which, under
the care of the surgeon of the ship, was carefully husbanded until he
was out of immediate danger. But his system, from the long privation of
food, had received such a shock, that his mind, sympathizing with it, he
fell into a kind of stupor, mental and physical, and though strength and
vigor came slowly back, Captain Rushton was in mind a child. Oblivion of
the past seemed to have come over him. He did not remember who he was,
or that he had a wife and child.

"Poor man!" said the surgeon; "I greatly fear his mind has completely
given way."

"It is a pity some of his friends were not here," said the captain of
the ship that had rescued him. "The sight of a familiar face might
restore him."

"It is possible, but I am not sure of even that."

"Is there any clew to his identity?"

"I have found none."

It will at once occur to the reader that the receipt would have supplied
the necessary information, since it was dated Millville, and contained
the captain's name. But this was concealed in an inner pocket in Captain
Rushton's vest, and escaped the attention of the surgeon. So, nameless
and unknown, he was carried to Calcutta, which he reached without any
perceptible improvement in his mental condition.

Arrived at Calcutta, the question arose: "What shall we do with him?" It
was a perplexing question, since if carried back to New York, it might
be difficult to identify him there, or send him back to his friends.
Besides, the care of a man in his condition would be a greater
responsibility than most shipmasters would care to undertake. It was at
this crisis that a large-hearted and princely American merchant,
resident in Calcutta, who had learned the particulars of the captain's
condition, came forward, saying: "Leave him here. I will find him a home
in some suitable boarding-house, and defray such expenses as may be
required. God has blessed me with abundant means. It is only right that
I should employ a portion in His service. I hope, under good treatment,
he may recover wholly, and be able to tell me who he is, and where is
his home. When that is ascertained, if his health is sufficiently good,
I will send him home at my own expense."

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