William L. Stidger - "Giant Hours With Poet Preachers"

G. A. Henty - "Under Wellington's Command"

Aristophanes - "The Frogs"

Henry James - "The Tragic Muse"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese




Brandon then clambered out on deck. The ship lay far over. The waves
came leaping upon her in successive surges. All around the sea was
glistening with phosphorescent lustre, and when at times the lightning
flashed forth it lighted up the scene, and showed the ocean stirred up
to fiercest commotion. It seemed as though cataracts of water were
rushing over the doomed ship, which now lay helpless, and at the mercy
of the billows. The force of the wind was tremendous, exceeding any
thing that Brandon had ever witnessed before.

What most surprised him now was the inaction of the ship's company. Why
was not something being done? Where was the Captain?

He called out his name; there was no response. He called after the mate;
there was no answer. Instantly he conjectured that in the first fierce
onset of the storm both Captain and mate had been swept away. How many
more of that gallant company of brave fellows had perished he knew not.
The hour was a perilous and a critical one. He himself determined to
take the lead.

Through the midst of the storm, with its tumult and its fury, there came
a voice as full and clear as a trumpet-peal, which roused all the
sailors, and inspired them once more with hope. "Cut away the masts!"
The men obeyed, without caring who gave the order. It was the command
which each man had been expecting, and which he knew was the thing that
should be done. At once they sprang to their work. The main-mast had
already been cut loose. Some went to the fore-mast, others to the
mizzen. The vast waves rolled on; the sailors guarded as best they could
against the rush of each wave, and then sprang in the intervals to their
work. It was perilous in the highest degree, but each man felt that his
own life and the lives of all the others depended upon the
accomplishment of this work, and this nerved the arm of each to the
task.

At last it was done. The last strand of rigging had been cut away. The
ship, disencumbered, slowly righted, and at last rode upright.

But her situation was still dangerous. She lay in the trough of the sea,
and the gigantic waves, as they rolled up, still beat upon her with all
their concentrated energies. Helpless, and now altogether at the mercy
of the waves, the only hope left those on board lay in the strength of
the ship herself.

None of the officers were left. As the ship righted Brandon thought that
some of them might make their appearance, but none came. The Captain,
the mate, and the second mate, all had gone. Perhaps all of them, as
they stood on the quarter-deck, had been swept away simultaneously.
Nothing could now be done but to wait. Morning at last came to the
anxious watchers. It brought no hope. Far and wide the sea raged with
all its waves. The wind blew with undiminished and irresistible
violence. The ship, still in the trough of the sea, heaved and plunged
in the overwhelming waves, which howled madly around and leaped over her
like wolves eager for their prey. The wind was too fierce to permit even
an attempt to rig a jury-mast.

The ship was also deeply laden, and this contributed to her peril. Had
her cargo been smaller she would have been more buoyant; but her full
cargo, added to her dangerous position as she lay at the mercy of the
waves, made all hope of escape dark indeed.

Another night succeeded. It was a night of equal horror. The men stood
watching anxiously for some sign of abatement in the storm, but none
came. Sea and sky frowned over them darkly, and all the powers which
they controlled were let loose unrestrained.

Another day and night came and went. Had not the _Falcon_ been a
ship of unusual strength she would have yielded before this to the
storm. As it was, she began to show signs of giving way to the
tremendous hammering to which she had been exposed, and her heavy
Australian cargo bore her down. On the morning of the third day Brandon
saw that she was deeper in the water, and suspected a leak. He ordered
the pumps to be sounded. It was as he feared. There were four feet of
water in the hold.

The men went to work at the pumps and worked by relays. Amidst the rush
of the waves over the ship it was difficult to work advantageously, but
they toiled on. Still, in spite of their efforts, the leak seemed to
have increased, for the water did not lessen. With their utmost exertion
they could do little more than hold their own.

It was plain that this sort of thing could not last. Already three
nights and three days of incessant toil and anxiety, in which no one had
slept, had produced their natural effects. The men had become faint and
weary. But the brave fellows never murmured; they did every thing which
Brandon ordered, and worked uncomplainingly.

Thus, through the third day, they labored on, and into the fourth night.
That night the storm seemed to have reached its climax, if, indeed, any
climax could be found to a storm which at the very outset had burst upon
them with such appalling suddenness and fury, and had sustained itself
all along with such unremitting energy. But on that night it was worse
for those on board, since the ship which had resisted so long began to
exhibit signs of yielding, her planks and timbers so severely assailed
began to give way, and through the gaping seams the ocean waters
permeated, till the ocean, like some beleaguering army, failing in
direct assault, began to succeed by opening secret mines to the very
heart of the besieged ship.

On the morning of the fourth day all hands were exhausted from night-
long work, and there were ten feet of water in the hold.

It now became evident that the ship was doomed. Brandon at once began to
take measures for the safety of the men.

On that memorable day of the calm previous to the outbreak of the storm,
the Captain had told Brandon that they were about five hundred miles to
the westward of the coast of Senegambia. He could not form any idea of
the distance which the ship had drifted during the progress of the
storm, but justly considered that whatever progress she had made had
been toward the land. Their prospects in that direction, if they could
only reach it, were not hopeless. Sierra Leone and Liberia were there;
and if they struck the coast any where about they might make their way
to either of those places.

But the question was how to get there. There was only one way, and that
was by taking to the boats. This was a desperate undertaking, but it was
the only way of escape now left.

There were three boats on board--viz., the long-boat, the cutter, and
the gig. These were the only hope now left them. By venturing in these
there would be a chance of escape.

On the morning of the fourth day, when it was found that the water was
increasing, Brandon called the men together and stated this to them. He
then told them that it would be necessary to divide themselves so that a
sufficient number should go in each boat. He offered to give up to them
the two larger boats, and take the gig for himself, his servant, and the
young lady.

To this the men assented with great readiness. Some of them urged him to
go in the larger boat, and even offered to exchange with him; but
Brandon declined.

They then prepared for their desperate venture. All the provisions and
water that could be needed were put on board of each boat. Firearms were
not forgotten. Arrangements were made for a long and arduous voyage. The
men still worked at the pumps; and though the water gained on them, yet
time was gained for completing these important preparations.

About mid-day all was ready. Fifteen feet of water were in the hold. The
ship could not last much longer. There was no time to lose.

But how could the boats be put out? How could they live in such a sea?
This was the question to be decided.

The ship lay as before in the trough of the sea. On the windward side
the waves came rushing up, beating upon and sweeping over her. On the
leeward the water was calmer, but the waves tossed and raged angrily
even there.

Only twenty were left out of the ship's company. The rest were all
missing. Of these, fourteen were to go in the long-boat, and six in the
cutter. Brandon, Beatrice, and Cato were to take the gig.

The sailors put the gig out first. The light boat floated buoyantly on
the waters. Cato leaped into her, and she was fastened by a long line to
the ship. The nimble Hindu, trained for a lifetime to encounter the
giant surges of the Malabar coast, managed the little boat with
marvelous dexterity--avoiding the sweep of the waves which dashed
around, and keeping sufficiently under the lee to escape the rougher
waves, yet not so much so as to be hurled against the vessel.

Then the sailors put out the long-boat. This was a difficult
undertaking, but it was successfully accomplished, and the men were all
on board at last. Instantly they prepared to row away.

At that moment a wilder wave came pouring over the ship. It was as
though the ocean, enraged at the escape of these men, had made a final
effort to grasp its prey. Before the boat with its living freight had
got rid of the vessel, the sweep of this gigantic wave, which had passed
completely over the ship, struck it where it lay. Brandon turned away
his eyes involuntarily.

There was a wild shriek--the next moment the black outline of the long-
boat, bottom upward, was seen amidst the foaming billows.

The men who waited to launch the cutter were at first paralyzed by this
tragedy, but there was no time to lose. Death threatened them behind as
well as before; behind, death was certain; before, there was still a
chance. They launched the cutter in desperation. The six men succeeded
in getting into her, and in rowing out at some distance. As wave after
wave rose and fell she disappeared from view, and then reappeared, till
at last Brandon thought that she at least was safe.

Then he raised his hand and made a peculiar signal to Cato.

The Hindu understood it. Brandon had given him his directions before;
now was the time. The roll of the waves [illegible] up was for the
present less dangerous.

Beatrice, who during the whole storm had been calm, and had quietly done
whatever Brandon told her, was now waiting at the cabin-door in
obedience to his directions.

As soon as Brandon had made the signal he hurried to the cabin-door and
assisted Beatrice to the quarter-deck. Cato rowed his boat close up to
the ship, and was waiting for a chance to come within reach. The waves
were still more moderate. It was the opportunity for which Cato had been
watching so long. He held his oars poised, and, as a sudden swell of a
wave rose near the ship, he forced his boat so that it came close beside
it, rising high on the crest of the swell.

As the wave rose, Brandon also had watched his opportunity as well as
the action of Cato. It was the moment too for which he had been
watching. In an instant, and without a word, he caught Beatrice in his
arms, raised her high in the air, poised himself for a moment on the
edge of the quarter-deck, and sprang forward into the boat. His foot
rested firmly on the seat where it struck. He set Beatrice down, and
with a knife severed the line which connected the boat with the ship.

Then seizing an oar he began to row with all his strength. Cato had the
bow oar. The next wave came, and its sweep, communicating itself to the
water, rolled on, dashing against the ship and moving under it, rising
up high, lifting the boat with it, and bearing it along. But the boat
was now under command, and the two rowers held it so that while it was
able to avoid the dash of the water, it could yet gain from it all the
momentum that could be given.

Brandon handled the oar with a dexterity equal to that of the Hindu, and
under such management, which was at once strong and skillful, the boat
skimmed lightly over the crests of the rolling waves, and passed out
into the sea beyond. There the great surges came sweeping on, rising
high behind the boat, each wave seeming about to crush the little bark
in its resistless grasp, but notwithstanding the threat the boat seemed
always able by some good luck to avoid the impending danger, for as each
wave came forward the boat would rise up till it was on a level with
the crest, and the flood of waters would sweep on underneath, bearing it
onward.

After nearly half an hour's anxious and careful rowing Brandon looked
all about to find the cutter. It was nowhere to be seen. Again and again
he looked for it, seeking in all directions. But he discovered no sign
of it on the raging waters, and at last he could no longer doubt that
the cutter also, like long-boat, had perished in the sea.

All day long they rowed before the wind and wave--not strongly, but
lightly, so as to husband their strength. Night came, when Brandon and
Cato took turns at the oars--not over-exerting themselves, but seeking
chiefly to keep the boat's head in proper direction, and to evade the
rush of the waves. This last was their constant danger, and it required
the utmost skill and the most incessant watchfulness to do so.

[Illustration: "WITHOUT A WORD HE CAUGHT BEATRICE IN HIS ARMS." ETC.]

All this time Beatrice sat in the stern, with a heavy oil-cloth coat
around her, which Brandon directed her to put on, saying nothing, but
seeing every thing with her watchful, vigilant eyes.

"Are you afraid?" said Brandon once, just after they had evaded an
enormous wave.

"No!" was the reply, in a calm, sweet voice; "I trust in you."

"I hope your trust may not be vain," replied Brandon.

"You have saved my life so often," said Beatrice, "that my trust in you
has now become a habit."

She smiled faintly as she spoke. There was something in her tone which
sank deep into his soul.

The night passed and morning came.

For the last half of the night the wind had been much less boisterous,
and toward morning the gale had very greatly subsided. Brandon's
foresight had secured a mast and sail on board the gig, and now, as soon
as it could be erected with safety, he put it up, and the little boat
dashed bravely over the waters. The waves had lessened greatly as the
day wore on; they no longer rose in such giant masses, but showed merely
the more common proportions. Brandon and Cato now had an opportunity to
get some rest from their exhaustive labors. Beatrice at last yielded to
Brandon's earnest request, and, finding that the immediate peril had
passed, and that his toil for the present was over, she obtained some
sleep and rest for herself.

For all that day, and all that night, and all the next day, the little
boat sped over the waters, heading due east, so as to reach land
wherever they might find it, in the hope that the land might not be very
far away from the civilized settlements of the coast. The provisions and
water which had been put in the boat formed an ample supply, which would
last for a long time. Brandon shared with Cato in the management of the
boat, not allowing the big man to have more of the labor than himself.

During these days Brandon and Beatrice were of course thrown into a
closer intimacy. At such a time the nature of man or woman becomes most
apparent, and here Beatrice showed a noble calm and a simple trust which
to Brandon was most touching. He knew that she must feel most keenly the
fatigue and the privations of such a life; but her unvarying
cheerfulness was the same as it had been on shipboard. He, too,
exhibited that same constancy and resolution which he had always
evinced, and by his consideration for Cato showed his natural kindness
of heart.

"How sorry I am that I can do nothing!" Beatrice would say. "You are
killing yourself, and I have to sit idle and gain my safety at your
expense."

"The fact that you are yet safe," Brandon would reply, "is enough for
me. As long as I see you sitting there I can work."

"But can I do nothing? It is hard for me to sit idle while you wear out
your life."

"You can sing," said Brandon.

"What?"

"Langhetti's song," he said, and turned his face away.

She sang at once. Her tones rose in marvelous modulations; the words
were not much, but the music with which she clothed them seemed again to
utter forth that longing which Brandon had heard before.

Now, as they passed over the seas, Beatrice sang, and Brandon did not
wish that this life should end. Through the days, as they sailed on, her
voice arose expressive of every changeful feeling, now speaking of
grief, now swelling in sweet strains of hope.

Day thus succeeded to day until the fourth night came, when the wind
died out and a calm spread over the waters.

Brandon, who waked at about two in the morning so as to let Cato sleep,
saw that the wind had ceased, and that another one of those treacherous
calms had come. He at once put out the oars, and, directing Cato to
sleep till he waked him, began to pull.

Beatrice remonstrated. "Do not," said she, in an imploring tone. "You
have already done too much. Why should you kill yourself?"

"The wind has stopped," answered Brandon. "The calm is treacherous, and
no time ought to be lost."

"But wait till you have rested."

"I have been resting for days."

"Why do you not rest during the night and work in the daytime?"

"Because the daytime is so frightfully hot that work will be difficult.
Night is the time to work now."

Brandon kept at his oars, and Beatrice saw that remonstrances were
useless. He rowed steadily until the break of day: then, as day was
dawning, he rested for a while, and looked earnestly toward the east.

A low, dark cloud lay along the eastern horizon, well-defined against
the sky, which now was growing brighter and brighter every hour. Was it
cloud, or was it something else? This was the question that rose in
Brandon's mind.

The sky grew brighter, the scene far and wide opened up before the
gathering light until at last the sun began to appear. Then there was no
longer any doubt. It was LAND.

This he told to Beatrice; and the Hindu, waking at the same time, looked
earnestly toward that shore which they had been striving so long and so
earnestly to reach. It was land, but what land? No doubt it was some
part of the coast of Senegambia, but what one? Along that extensive
coast there were many places where landing might be certain death, or
something worse than death. Savage tribes might dwell there--either
those which were demoralized by dealings with slave-traders, or those
which were flourishing in native barbarism. Yet only one course was now
advisable; namely, to go on till they reached the shore.

It appeared to be about fifty miles away. So Brandon judged, and so it
proved. The land which they had seen was the summit of lofty hills which
were visible from a great distance. They rowed on all that day. The
water was calm and glassy. The sun poured down its most fervid beams,
the air was sultry and oppressive. Beatrice entreated Brandon now to
desist from rowing and wait till the cool of the night, but he was
afraid that a storm might come up suddenly.

"No," he said, "our only hope now is to get near the land, so that if a
storm does come up we may have some place of shelter within reach."

After a day of exhaustive labor the land was at last reached.

High hills, covered with palm-trees, rose before them. There was no
harbor within sight, no river outlet, but a long, uninterrupted extent
of high, wooded shores. Here in the evening they rested on their oars,
and looked earnestly at the shore.

Brandon conjectured that they were somewhat to the north of Sierra
Leone, and did not think that they could be to the south. At any rate, a
southeasterly course was the surest one for them, for they would reach
either Sierra Leone or Liberia. The distance which they might have to go
was, however, totally uncertain to him.

So they turned the boat's head southeast, and moved in a line parallel
with the general line of the shore. That shore varied in its features as
they passed along: sometimes depressed into low, wide savannas: at
others, rising into a rolling country, with hills of moderate height,
behind which appeared the summits of lofty mountains, empurpled by
distance.

It was evening when they first saw the land, and then they went on
without pausing. It was arranged that they should row alternately, as
moderately as possible, so as to husband their strength. Cato rowed for
the first part of that night, then Brandon rowed till morning. On the
following day Cato took the oars again.

It was now just a week since the wreck, and for the last two days there
had not been a breath of wind in the air, nor the faintest ripple on
that burning water. To use even the slightest exertion in such torrid
heat was almost impossible. Even to sit still under that blighting sun,
with the reflected glare from the dead, dark sea around, was painful.

Beatrice redoubled her entreaties to Brandon that he should rest. She
wished to have her mantle spread over their heads as a kind of canopy,
or fix the sail in some way and float idly through the hottest part of
the day. But Brandon insisted that he felt no evil effects as yet; and
promised when he did feel such to do as she said.

At last they discovered that their water was almost out, and it was
necessary to get a fresh supply. It was the afternoon of the seventh
day. Brandon had been rowing ever since midday. Beatrice had wound her
mantle about his head in the style of an Eastern turban so as to protect
him from the sun's rays. Looking out for some place along the shore
where they might obtain water, they saw an opening in the line of coast
where two hills arose to a height of several hundred feet. Toward this
Brandon rowed.

Stimulated by the prospect of setting foot on shore Brandon rowed
somewhat more vigorously than usual; and in about an hour the boat
entered a beautiful little cove shut in between two hills, which formed
the outlet of a river. Far up its winding course could be traced by the
trees along its borders. The hills rose on each side with a steep slope,
and were covered with palms. The front of the harbor was shut in from
the sea by a beautiful little wooded island. Here Brandon rowed the boat
into this cove; and its prow grated against the pebbles of the beach.

Beatrice had uttered many exclamations of delight at the beauty of this
scene. At length, surprised at Brandon's silence, she cried,

"Why do you not say something? Surely this is a Paradise after the sea!"

She looked up with an enthusiastic smile.

He had risen to his feet. A strange, vacant expression was in his eyes.
He made a step forward as if to land. His unsteady foot trembled. He
reeled, and stretched out his arms like some one groping in the dark.

Beatrice shrieked and sprang forward. Too late: for the next moment he
fell headlong into the water.




CHAPTER XIII.


THE BADINAGE OF OLD FRIENDS.

The town of Holby is on the coast of Pembroke. It has a small harbour,
with a light-house, and the town itself contains a few thousand people,
most of them belonging to the poorer class. The chief house in the town
stands on a rising ground a little outside, looking toward the water.
Its size and situation render it the most conspicuous object in the
neighborhood.

This house, from its appearance, must have been built more than a
century before. It belonged to an old family which had become extinct,
and now was occupied by a new owner, who had given it another name. This
new owner was William Thornton, Esq., solicitor, who had an office in
Holby, and who, though very wealthy, still attended to his business with
undiminished application. The house had been originally purchased by the
father of the present occupant, Henry Thornton, a well-known lawyer in
these parts, who had settled here originally a poor young man, but had
finally grown gray and rich in his adopted home. He had bought the place
when it was exposed for sale, with the intention of founding a new seat
for his own family, and had given it the name of Thornton Grange.

Generations of care and tasteful culture had made Thornton Grange one of
the most beautiful places in the county. All around were wide parks
dotted with ponds and clumps of trees. An avenue of elms led up to the
door. A well-kept lawn was in front, and behind was an extensive grove.
Every thing spoke of wealth and elegance.

On an afternoon in February a gentleman in clerical dress walked up the
avenue, rang at the door, and entering he gave his name to the servant
as the Rev. Courtenay Despard. He was the new Rector of Holby, and had
only been there one week.

He entered the drawing-room, sat down upon one of the many lounging
chairs with which it was filled, and waited. He did not have to wait
long. A rapid step was soon heard descending the stairs, and in a few
minutes a lady entered. She came in with a bright smile of welcome on
her face, and greeted him with much warmth.

Mrs. Thornton was very striking in her appearance. A clear olive
complexion and large, dark hazel eyes marked Southern blood. Her hair
was black, wavy, and exceedingly luxuriant. Her mouth was small, her
hands and feet delicately shaped, and her figure slender and elegant.
Her whole air had that indefinable grace which is the sign of high-
breeding; to this there was added exceeding loveliness, with great
animation of face and elegance of manner. She was a perfect lady, yet
not of the English stamp; for her looks and manner had not that cold and
phlegmatic air which England fosters. She looked rather like some
Italian beauty--like those which enchant us as they smile from the walls
of the picture-galleries of Italy.

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