1 Cast Off

My uncle’s voice had sounded always cold and harsh in my ears, but I had never supposed the man was wholly destitute of affection or sympathy. Now, however, when the time had come to show feeling, if he felt at all, his tones had a harder ring than ever. His face, too, was fixed and repellent, as if he had quite made up his mind, when he said, addressing himself more particularly to me:

“I do not see that I am under any obligations to help either of you through life. Your father’s views of his duty towards you were not my views. If he taught you to have ideas above your prospects in life I am not to blame for the result. What little estate he had did not more than suffice to pay his debts. There is nothing left for you to live on in idleness. You have eaten your cake. You have had your spring-time. You must now pay the cost of it.”

There was an angry ring in my uncle’s voice for which I did not see any justification. Evidently he was lashing himself into a fury. So I said nothing, but plucked idly at some of the young buds which hung on a low bough, almost in my face.

“I have never approved of these easy ways with boys,” my uncle went on. “I am tired of all this fiddlestick and nonsense about education. A boy should be put to work, sir, as soon as he is big enough to hold a plough-handle, and somebody should see that he is kept at it. You are eighteen years old, almost a grown man, and you should be hard at work at this very moment”

“But what would you have me do, sir?” I asked, seeking to soften his wrath as much as possible. But my unfortunate question had the opposite result. His cheeks swelled out, and he gripped his cane nervously.

“What should you do? What should you do?” he asked, raspingly. “That is the question that idle and shiftless fellows like you always ask. You should find work for yourself, sir, instead of coming to me with your puling requests for help, just as if you were a child.”

And my uncle in his wrath mercilessly chopped down several weeds with his cane. I still deemed it the wiser policy to say nothing. In fact, there was nothing to be said, for I saw he was in no mood to listen to argument, no matter how sane and strong that argument might be.

“Listen to me,” said my uncle, thrusting his angry and now livid face close to mine. “I will give you just this much help: I need hands on my farm. If you two choose to come each of you can have half a man’s wages. You are not worth more. I doubt whether you are worth that. But still I will give you the chance. Now, remember, no consideration will be extended to you because you are my nephews. You will have to make your own way in life just as I have made mine.”

My uncle snapped these words out as if they were so many balls fired from a musket. Then he drew himself up and stalked off, holding his figure so stiff and straight that I could not help laughing a little bit, though, I assure you, I felt far from cheerful.

When he was quite out of sight I turned and looked at Henry. Henry was two years younger than I was, but I always felt as if at least six or seven years separated us. Perhaps that was because he was slender and studious and went about with a pale face, which I always told him was caused by too much reading, though I never could see that my words kept him away from his books one minute.

At this gloomy moment, which I saw very well was a crisis in both our lives. I felt more pity for Henry than I did for myself. I don’t deserve any credit on that account, I know, because I was big and strong and could stand any hardship. Besides, our father almost with his last words said that as I was the elder and the hardier, I must always protect Henry. And out of a full heart I told him that I would. Now when the time had come I wondered how I was to keep that promise. I knew that Henry was totally unfit for the work my uncle offered to us, and I was old enough to know, also, that the man who said you could not make a square peg fit in a round hole told the truth.

Henry was leaning against the tree under which my uncle had stood, and I do not think I ever saw anybody look more woe-begone.

“I should soon die if I had to live a life like that,” he said, simply.

And, looking at him then, I believed that he spoke the truth. I think that the farmer’s life out in the open air, with the winds of heaven blowing around him and God’s sun shining down, is the noblest of all callings, but that part of it which our uncle designed for us was the merest drudgery and slavery. We would be like the serfs of Russia, and he would be our master, reaping where we had sowed. I knew it and Henry knew it. And my mind rose up in rebellion.

“What shall we do?” asked Henry. “I don’t know,” I said, desperately. “Our uncle thinks we are not fit for anything, and I suppose he is right.”

Then we stood there a while, each waiting for the other to propose something. It was Henry who spoke first.

“I think I’ll talk it over with Starboard Sam,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us what to do.”

“I don’t see why you bring that old sailor into it,” I said, a little pettishly. “Mighty little good advice he could give us. My uncle thinks we are children, at least in intellect, and if we seek advice from Starboard Sam it will merely be three children instead of two talking.”

The truth was I was somewhat offended at Henry for bringing up the old sailor’s name. I had thought sometimes that the friendship of Starboard Sam was not the best thing in the world for him. Starboard Sam in his youth had been a sailor on the famous old frigate, Constitution, and had been in more sea-fights than I can tell of now. After that he had served on a whaling ship out of Nantucket, his birthplace, and had been all over the world, seeing all sorts of queer places and queer people. How he ever drifted down into Maryland and anchored in our little town I never knew. But there he was, and on sunny days he would spin tales by the hour of battles between great ships, and, again, of hunting whales in distant oceans, and of sailing among icebergs, and over lonely seas, sometimes for months, without ever meeting another ship. And Henry would lie on the grass and listen to it all, and his pale face would flush and his eyes shine just like a man’s who had been drinking more strong liquor than was good for him. Then I would think that Henry’s head was about to be turned by the old sailor’s tales, for his mind always flared up when people talked to him of distant countries and the queer things that are to seen in them.

I was thinking of the effect of these yarns on Henry’s mind when I repeated, rather sharply:

“I don’t see what good can come of talking to Starboard Sam. In such matters as these we are more able to advise him than he is to advise us.”

Henry reddened a little, but he did not give up the point.

“Sam is an old man, and has seen a great deal of the world. I think it’s very likely that he can help us,” he said.

“More likely to get us into some trouble,” I replied. “It’s all he can do to look out for himself.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Henry, “as soon as we begin to talk of him he comes in sight. That’s a good sign, I think, and I’m going to speak to him.”

And, sure enough, a figure appeared just then on the crest of the hill. It remained there a moment outlined against the sun, which had now begun to slide down the horizon, and in the shining light I could see every feature of the old sailor’s tanned and seamed face. Then he began to approach us with that queer rolling walk, which I am told everybody who lives on board ships acquires. As he came down the hill he began to chant in a hoarse, but not unmusical voice:

I knew the remainder of the song as well as he did, for I heard him sing many a time how the Constitution had met this same Guerriere and had made her lower her colors and her pride. Besides, I was in no mood for song, so I said, still in an ill-humor:

“The singing will keep for another day. Henry wants to speak to you, Sam.”

“Hard a starboard, there! Hard a starboard! Gently, my master, gently!” said old Sam. I suppose he got the nickname Starboard because he was always using the word.

Then he rolled up to us, and looked keenly at us both.

“Somethin’ wrong,” he broke out. “The wind’s in the wrong quarter. Somethin’ fallen foul o’ the ship. What’s the trouble, my lads?”

“You tell him, Henry,” said I, for I was still feeling a little pettish and annoyed with myself for feeling so.

Henry told the whole story of the interview with our uncle, and our trouble about our future. The old sailor listened with the greatest attention. Then he burst out in a sputter of indignation.

“He’s a nice sort of shipmate to have,” he said, “and you bein’ of his own blood, too. Why, if we’d had as mean a man as him aboard the old Constitution we’d a-tarred and a-feathered him, and then made a present of him to the enemy.”

“But what are we to do?” said I, despondently. “That is the question. We’ve had no experience with the world, and we’ve got no friends.”

“You’ve got me,” said Starboard Sam, puffing himself out until I laughed.

“We know you are our good friend, Sam,” said Henry, gently.

“Aye, that I am,” said old Sam, slapping his knee.

“But you can’t help us,” said I.

“Don’t you be too fast there and sail right over yourself,” said Starboard Sam. “I sailed with an old whalin’ captain from Nantucket once, lads, and when I complained about my job he said as soon as my contract was out I could get. An’ when it was out I got. I’ve allers remembered that. Ef you don’t like the place you’re in you can get!”

“But what has all this got to do with us?” I asked, impatiently,

“I’m comin’ into port in a second. Jest you listen,” said Starboard Sam. “From what your uncle has told you, you know you ain’t welcome here. Waal, you’ve got to git!”

“Where are we to go?” I asked, much put out by the man’s air of mystery and importance.

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you; It was a fair wind that brought me to you at this time. Now, you just listen to me lads.”

The old man drew close to us, and his voice sank into a deep husky whisper.

“Lads,” he asked, “did you ever hear of Californy?”

I had heard of the country lately in connection with the Mexican war, and knew that it had been annexed to our own, but that was the the extent of my knowledge on the subject. It was with some shame that I made this confession to Starboard Sam.

“Waal, lads,” said Starboard Sam, and his whisper grew deeper and huskier than ever, “there’s great news from Californy. It’s been comin’ in streaks, an’ I’ve been watchin’ it for weeks an’ thinkin’ an’ thinkin’ over it, an’ at last I’ve trimmed my ship and come over to you to propose the thing that I’ve got on my mind”

“What is the news you have from California, Sam?” asked Henry, and I saw a faint flush come into his eager face.

It had been raining that afternoon, and a magnificent rainbow arched over the horizon. Sam turned to its brilliant spangle of colors.

“Do you see that, lads?” he asked. “Years and years ago in Nantucket my old grandam used to tell me that there was a big pot of gold over at the foot of the rainbow where it touched the ground, and all you had to do was just to find the end of the rainbow, if you could go far enough, and thar was your gold fur you. Now, lads, that rainbow teches the ground away over thar in Californy, whar the land meets the sea, and the country’s full of gold. Oh, I tell you it’s chock full. It’s a-stickin’ out of the sides of the mountains, and it’s in the bed of the streams and it’s everywhar, jest awaitin’ fur you and me, lads, an’ other bold fellow like us to come and pick it up.”

“Where did you hear all this?” I asked.

“Down at the town,” replied Sam. “An’ thar ain’t any doubt about it, I tell you. I’ve heard it from many a man, an’ it’s in the newspapers, too, an’ everybody’s talkin’ about it.”

“Then what do you propose that we should do?” asked Henry, whose eyes were shining like stars.

“Why, it’s jest this,” said the old sailor. “Knowin’ how badly you stood with your uncle, I was a-goin’ to propose that we go right across the plains and pick up some of that gold for ourselves. Now that the old man has throwed you off it’s just the thing. I’m past the prime of life, boys, but my eyes is as sharp, and my muscles as strong, and my brain as good as ever. You ain’t got any home left, boys, an’ no friend but old Starboard Sam, the sailor. Will you go with me an’ share and share alike?”

The old sailor stood erect and pointed off to the west, where the rainbow hung an arch of color across the sky. Henry threw up his cap with an eager shout and exclaimed.

“Will we go? Of course we will! won’t we, Joe? Hurrah for the rainbow of gold!”

I felt some of the boy’s enthusiasm, but I was two years older than he, and I knew it behooved me to be cautious; So I said to old Sam:

“But how are we ever to get there? It’s thousands of miles across the plains. There are Indians and wild animals and all sorts of dangers.”

“Now, you needn’t tell me, Master Joe, you’re afraid o’ them things,” said Starboard Sam, leaning over and looking me squarely in the eyes, “for I know you, and I know you’re not. You an’ your brother thar are two likely lads, an’ I’m a tough old salt, an’ none of us is afraid o’ a little wind an’ weather. All we’ve got to do is to get us a gun an’ a blanket apiece an’ some grub an’ join the first emigrant train that starts. They’ll be glad to have us for company. Nuthin’ easier. Now, will you mess with me, lads, an’ make the v’y’ge across the continent?”

“Yes, yes,” said Henry’s eager voice. “We’ll hunt the rainbow of gold with you. Say we will, Joe!”

I thought of our uncle’s harshness and our forlorn position, and again the temptation to go was very strong in me. But still I hesitated, and Starboard Sam saw the doubtful look on my face.

“All right,” he said, “you needn’t do it unless you want to; but if you don’t you ain’t the sort of stuff I took you to be. Stay here an’ slave your life out for a man that hates you.”

I think his reference to our uncle decided me, for there was adventurous blood in our family, and moreover I liked the open air and the wilds.

“I do not see anything to stay here for,” I said, “and we’ll go, Sam. That is, if our uncle consents. We are not of age, and he is our legal guardian. I think we ought to speak to him about it and get his permission.”

“Thar’ll be no trouble about that!” exclaimed Starboard Sam. “He’ll be glad enough to get rid of you, for he’s afraid he’ll have to spend some money on you. No, lads, you’ll make the v’y’ge with me. So, hooray for the rainbow of gold!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” we shouted together, infected by his enthusiasm, “Ho for California and the rainbow of gold!”

We were very young then, and that may account for our sudden transition from despair and gloom to a hope that tinged everything the color of rose. I felt the blood rushing like the wine of life through my veins, and Henry’s face was flushed with the pleasure of anticipation.

“I’ll be over to see you to-morrow,” said Starboard Sam, as we shook hands, “and then we’ll fill our kits for the v’y’ge. I feel as good, lads, as if I was startin’ out on the old Constitution again.”

And then he swung off over the hill and out of sight.

“You’ll see our uncle to-night about it, won’t you?” asked Henry.

I promised that I would, for my mind was quite made up on that point. We walked slowly on towards the house, and when we had eaten our supper I went in to my uncle and asked for a few words with him.

“Well,” he said, coldly, “do you accept my offer?”

I had hardened myself for this interview, and I said without a change of tone:

“I’ve come to thank you in behalf of Henry and myself for your offer of assistance, but we’ve decided to decline it.”

“Indeed, and what do you propose to do?” said my uncle with a sneer.

“We are going to emigrate, sir; that is, with your permission, as the law says you are our guardian.”

“And where do you propose to go?” asked my uncle, elevating his eyebrows still further.

“To California.”

“To California? Well, I must say, you will have a journey ahead of you. And what do you expect to do when you get to California?”

“Gold has been found there. We will hunt for our share of it.”

“Gold, eh? Much of it you’ll ever find. And who is going to take you young fools across the plains?”

“Starboard Sam is going with us,” I answered as calmly as I could, for I was smarting under his insulting manner, “and we will join an emigrant train, provided of course, that you give your consent, uncle.”

“Give my consent,” he snarled. “Certainly I will. You may go to California or anywhere else you choose for all I care.”

And he turned, and without another word, began to study a book of accounts. I went out shocked and saddened at his coldness and want of affection for us. He was so different from our dear father that I wondered how they could ever have been brothers. But I was glad that I had seen him. I felt that I had done my duty and now nothing stood in the way of our journey.

From our window Henry and I looked away towards the west that night. The sun had gone down long ago behind the hills and the rainbow had faded away in the darkness. But a rainbow of hope took its place, and by and by, when I fell asleep, a figure rose out of the golden west and beckoned us on.

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