The Story of the Alcazar
It was told by Captain John to a boy from the mainland who was spending thesummer on the Island, as they sat together one August evening at sunset, ona broken bowsprit which had once been a part of the Alcazar.It was dead low water in Southwest Harbor, a land-locked inlet that nearlycut the Island in two, and was the gateway through which the fishing-craftfrom the village at the harbor head found their way out into the greatPenobscot Bay. There were many days during the stern winter and bleakspring months when the gate was blocked with ice or veiled in fog, butnature relented a little toward the Island folk in the fall and sent themsunny days for their late, scant harvesting, and steady winds for themackerel-fishing, to give them a little hope before the winter set in sharpwith the equinoctial. Now, at low tide, the bright gateway shone wide open,as if to let out the waters that rise and fall ten feet in the inlet.You could look far out, beyond the lighthouse on Creenlaw's Neck and theislands that throng the mouth of the harbor, to the red spot of flame thesunset had kindled below the rack of smoke-gray clouds. The color burned ina dull gleam upon the water, broken by the dark shapes of shadowy islands;the sail-boats at anchor in the muddy, glistening flats leaned overdisconsolately on their sides, in despair of ever again feeling the thrillof the returning waters beneath their keels; and the gray, weather-beatenhouses crowded together on the brink of the cliff above the beach, lookinglike a group of hooded old women watching for a belated sail, seemed tohave caught the expression of their inmates' lives. At high tide the hulkof the Alcazar had been full of water, which was now pouring out through ahole in the planking of her side in a continuous, murmurous stream, likethe voice of a persistent talker in a silent company. The old ship lookedmuch too big for her narrow grave at the foot of the green cliff, in whichher anchor was deeply sunk and half overgrown with thistles. Her blunt bowand the ragged stump of the figure-head rose, dark and high, above the wetbeach where Captain John sat with his absorbed listener. There were riftsabout her rail where the red sunset looked through. Her naked sides, thatfor years had been moistened only by the perennial rains and snows, showedrough and scaly like the armor of some fabled sea-monster. She was tetheredto the cliff by her rusty anchor-chain that swung across the space between,serving as a clothes-line for the draggled driftweed left by the recedingtide to dry."She was a big ship for these parts," Captain John was saying. "There wan'tone like her ever come into these waters before. Lord! folks come downfrom the Neck, and from Green's Landin', and Nor'east Harbor, and I don'tknow but they come from the main, to see her when she was fust towed in.And such work as they made of her name! Some called it one way and someanother. It's a kind of a Cubian name, they say. I expect there ain'tanybody round here that can call it right. However 'twas, old Cap'n Greentook and pried it off her starboard quarter, and somebody got hold of itand nailed it up over the blacksmith's shop; and there you can see it now.The old cap'n named her the Stranger when he had her refitted. May be youcould make out the tail of an S on her stern if you could git around there.That name's been gone these forty year; seem's if she never owned to it,and it didn't stick to her. She was never called anythin' but the Alcazar,long as ever I knew her, and I expect I know full's much about her asanybody round here. 'Twas a-settin' here on this very beach at low water,just's we be now, that the old man told me fust how he picked her up. Ittook a wonderful holt on him, there's no doubt about that. He told it tome more 'n once before the time come when he was to put the finish on toit; but in a gen'ral way the cap'n wan't much of a talker, and he wasshy of this partic'lar business, for reasons that I expect nobody knowsmuch about. But a man most always likes to talk to somebody, no matterhow close-mouthed he may be. 'Twas just about this time o' year, fallof '27, the year Parson Flavor was ordained, Cap'n Green had gonea-mack'rel-fishin' with his two boys off Isle au Haut, and they did thinko' cruisin' out into Frenchman's Bay if the weather hel' steady. They washavin' fair luck, hangin' round the island off and on for a matter of aweek, when it thickened up a little and set in foggy, and for two daysthey didn't see the shore. The second evenin' the wind freshened from thesouth'ard and east'ard and drove the fog in shore a bit, and the sun, justbefore he set, looked like a big yellow ball through the fog and made asickly kind of a glimmer over the water. They was a-lyin' at anchor, andall of a sudden, right to the wind'ard of 'em, this old ship loomed up,driftin' in with the wind and flood-tide. They couldn't make her out,and I guess for a minute the old cap'n didn't know but it was the Flyin'Dutchman; but she hadn't a rag o' sail on her, and as she got nearer theycould see there wan't a man on board. The cap'n didn't like the looks ofher, but he knew she wan't no phantom, and he and one of his boys down withthe punt and went alongside. 'Twan't more 'n a quarter of a mile to her.They hailed and couldn't git no answer. They knew she was a furriner by herbuild, and she must 'a' been a long time at sea by her havin' barnacleson her nigh as big's a mack'rel kit. Finally, they pulled up to herfore--chains and clum aboard of her. I never see a ship abandoned at sea,myself, but I ain't no doubt but what it made 'em feel kind o' shivery whenthey looked aft along her decks, and not a soul in sight, and every-thin'bleached, and gray, and iron-rusted, and the riggin' all slack and white'sthough it had been chawed, and nothin' left of her sails but some oldrags flappin' like a last year's scarecrow. They went and looked in thefo'k'sel: there wan't nothin' there but some chists, men's chists, with alittle old beddin' left in the bunks. They went down the companion-way:cabin-door unlocked, everything in there as nat'ral's though it had justbeen left, only 'twas kind o' mouldy-smellin'. I expect the cap'n give akind of a start as he looked around. 'Twan't no old greasy whaler's cabin,nor no packet-ship neither. There wan't many craft like her on the seas inthem days. She was fixed up inside more like a gentleman's yacht is now.Merchantmen in them days didn't have their Turkey carpets and their coloredwine-glasses jinglin' in the racks. While they was explorin' round inthere, movin' round kind o' cautious, the door of the cap'n's stateroomswung open with a creak, just's though somebody was a-shovin' it slow like,and the ship give a kind of a stir and a rustlin', moanin' sound, as ifshe was a-comin' to life. The old man never made no secret but what he wasscairt when he went through her that night. 'Twan't so much what he said asthe way he looked when he told it. I expect he thought he'd seen enough,about the time that door blew open. He said he knowed 'twas nothin' but apuff o' wind struck her, and that he'd better be a-gittin' on to his owncraft before he lost her in the fog. So he went back and got under weigh,and sent a line aboard of the stranger and took her in tow, and all thatnight with a good southeast wind they kept a-movin' toward home. The oldman was kind o' res'less and wakeful, walkin' the decks and lookin' overthe stern at the big ship follerin' him like a ghost. The moonlight was alittle dull with fog, but he could see her, plain, a-comin' on before thewind with her white riggin' and bare poles, and hear the water sousin'under her bows. He said 'twas in his mind more 'n a dozen times to cut heradrift. You see he had his misgivin's about her from the fust, though henever let on what they was; but he hung on to her as a man will, sometimes,agin feelin's that have more sense in 'em than reason, like as not. He kneweverybody at the Harbor would laugh at him for lettin' go such a prize asthat just for a notion, and it wan't his way, you may be sure; he didn'tneed no one to tell him what she was wuth. Anyhow he hung to her, and nextday they beached her at high water, right over there by the old ship-yard.He took Deacon S'lvine and his brother-in-law, Cap'n Purse--Pierce theycall it nowadays, but in the cap'n's time 'twas Purse. That sounds kind o'broad and comfortable, like the cap'n's wescoat; but the family's thinnin'down a good deal lately and gettin' kind o' sharp and lean, and may bePierce is more suitable. But 's I was sayin', Cap'n Green took themtwo--cheerful, loud-talkin' men they was both of 'em--aboard of her to gothrough her, for he hadn't no notion o' goin' into that cap'n's stateroomalone, even in broad daylight; but 'twan't there the secret of her lay;there wan't nothin' in there to scare anybody. She was trimmed up, Itell you, just elegant. Real mahogany, none of your veneerin', but thereal stuff; lace curt'ins to the berth, lace on the pillows, and a satincoverlid, rumpled up as though the cap'n had just turned out; and there washis slippers handy--the greatest-lookin' slippers for a man you ever saw.They wouldn't 'a' been too big for the neatest-footed woman in the Harbor.But Land! they was just thick with mould, and so was everythin' in theplace, even to an old gittar with the strings most rotted off of it,and the picters of fur-rin-lookin' women on the walls,--trinin'-lookin'creeturs most of 'em. They hunted all through his desk, but couldn't findno log. 'Twas plain enough that whoever'd left that ship had took painsthat she shouldn't tell no tales, and 'twan't long before they found outthe reason."When they come to go below,--there was considerable of a crowd on deck bythat time, standin' round while they knocked out the keys and took off thefore-hatch,--Cap'n Green called on Cap'n Purse and the deacon to go downwith him; but they didn't 'pear to be very anxious, and the old man wan'tgoin' to hang back for company with everybody lookin' at him, so he lit acandle and went down, and the folks crowded round and waited for him. I wasthere myself, 's close to him as I be to that fish barrel, when he come up,his face white 's a sheet and the candle shakin' in his hand, and sot downon the hatch-combin'."'Give me room!' says he, kind o' leanin' back on the crowd. 'Give me air,can't you? She's full o' dead niggers. She's a slaver.'"Now, 'twas the talk pretty gen'rally that the cap'n had had a hand in thatbusiness himself in his early days, and that it set uncomfortable on himafterwards. It never was known how he'd got his money. He didn't have anyto begin with. He was always a kind of a lone bird and dug his way along upsomehow. Nobody knows what was workin' on him while he sot there; he lookedawful sick. It was kind of quiet for a minute, but them that couldn't seehim kep' pushin' for'ards and callin' out: 'What d'you see? What's downthere?' And them close by wanted to know, all talkin' to once, why hethought she was a slaver, and how long the niggers had been dead. Lord!what a fuss there was. Everybody askin' the foolishest questions, andcrowdin' and squeezin', and them in front pushin' back away from thehatchway, as if they expected the dead would rise and walk out o' thatblack hole where they'd laid so long. They couldn't get much out o' the oldman, except that there was skel'tons scattered all over the after hold,and that he knew she was a slaver by the way she was fixed up. 'How'd heknow?' folks asked amongst themselves; but nobody liked to ask the cap'n.As for how long them Africans had been dead, they had to find that out forthemselves,--all they ever did find out,--for the cap'n wouldn't talk aboutit, and he wouldn't go down in her again. It 'peared's if he was satisfied."Wal, it made a terrible stir in the place. As I tell you, they come fromfifty mile around to see her. They had it all in the papers. Some hadone idee and some another about the way she come to be abandoned, all ingood shape and them human bein's in her hold. Some said ship-fever, somesaid mutiny; but when they come to look her over and found there wan't awater-cask aboard of her that hadn't s'runk up and gone to pieces, theysettled down on the notion that she was a Spanish or a Cubian slaver, ormay be a Portagee, got short o' water in the horse-latitudes; cap'n andcrew left her in the boats, and the niggers--Lord! it makes a body sick tothink o' them. That was always my the'ry 'bout her--short o' water; butsome folks wan't satisfied 'thout somethin' more ex-citin'. 'Twan't enoughfor 'em to have all them creeturs dyin' down there by inches. They stuck toit about some blood-stains on the linin' in her hold, but I tell you thedifference between old blood-stains and rust that's may be ten or fifteenyears old's might' hard to tell."Nobody knows what the old cap'n was thinkin' about in them days. 'Twasfull three month or more 'fore he went aboard of her ag'in. He let it beknown about that he wanted to sell her, but he couldn't git an offer even;nobody seemed to want to take hold of her. Winter set in early and the iceblocked her in, and there she lay, the lonesomest thing in sight. You neversee no child'n climbin' 'round on her, and there was a story that queernoises like moanin' and clankin' of chains come out of her on windy nights;but it might 'a' been the ice, crowdin' as she careened over and back withthe risin' and fallin' tide. But when spring opened, folks used to see theold cap'n hangin' round the ship-yard and lookin' her over at low tide,where the ice had cut the barnacles off of her."One night in the store he figgered up how much lumber she'd carry fromBangor, and 'twan't long 'fore he had a gang o' men at work on her. Itseemed's though he was kind of infatuated with her. He was 'fraid of her,but he couldn't let her alone. And she was a mighty well-built craft.Floridy pine and live-oak and mahogany from the Mosquito coast; built inCadiz, most likely. Look at her now--she don't look to home here, doesshe? She never did. She's as much like our harbor craft as one o' thembig, yallow-eyed, bare-necked buzzards is to one o' these here littlesand-peeps. But she was a handsome vessel. Them live-oak ribs'll outlastyour time, if you was to live to be old."The two faces looked up at the hulk of the Alcazar,--the blanched,wave-worn messenger sent by the tropic seas into the far North with a talethat the living had never dared to tell, and that had perished on the lipsof the dead. Its shadow, spreading broad upon the beach, made the gatheringtwilight deeper. Out on the harbor the pale saffron light lingered, longafter the red had faded. How many tides had ebbed and flowed since the oldship, chained at the foot of the cliff, had warmed in the waters of theGulf her bare, corrugated sides, warped by the frosts, stabbed by the iceof pitiless Northern winters! Where were the sallow, dark-bearded facesthat had watched from her high poop the brief twilights die on that"unshadowed main," which a century ago was the scene of some of the wildestromances and blackest crimes in maritime history--the bright, restlessbosom that warmed into life a thousand serpents whose trail could betraced through the hot, flower-scented Southern plazas and courts into thepeaceful white villages of the North!"Sho! I'd no idee 'twas a-gittin' on so late," said Captain John. "Thereain't anybody watchin' out for me. I kin put my family under my hat, but Idon' know what your folks'll think's come o' you."Wal, the rest on 'twon't take long to tell. The old man had her fitted upin good shape by the time the ice was out of the river, and run her up toBangor in ballast, and loaded her there for New York. He had an ugly tripdown the coast: lost his deck load and three men overboard in a southeasteroff Nantucket Shoals. It made the whole ship's company feel pretty solemn,but the old man took it the hardest of any of 'em, and from that time seemsas if he lost his grip; the old scare settled back on him blacker 'n ever.There wan't a man aboard of her that liked her. They all knew her story,that she was the Alcazar from nobody knows where, instead of the Strangerfrom Newburyport. The cap'n had Newburyport put on to her because he was aNewburyport man and all his vessels was built there. But she hadn't more 'ntouched the dock in New York before every one on 'em left her, even to thecook. 'I'm leery o' this 'ere ship,' says one big Cornishman. 'No betterthan a floatin' coffin, anyway,' was what they all said of her; and I guessthe cap'n would 'a' left her right there himself if it hadn't been for themoney he'd put into her. I expect he was a little too fond of money, maybe; but I've knowed others just as sharp's the old cap'n that didn't seemto have his luck. The mate saw him two or three times while he was a-lyin'in New York, and noticed he was drinkin' more 'n usual. He come homelight and anchored off the bar, just as a southeaster was a-comin' on. Itwouldn't 'a' been no trouble for him to have laid there, if he'd had goodground-gear; but there 'twas ag'in, he'd been a leetle too savin'. He'dused the old cables he found in her. The new mate didn't know nothin' abouther, and he put out one anchor. The cap'n had taken a kag o' New Englandrum aboard and been drawin' on it pretty reg'lar all the way up, and asthe gale come on he got kind o' wild and went at it harder 'n ever. Aboutmidnight the cable parted. They let go the other anchor, but it didn't snubher for a minute, and she swung, broadside to, on to the bar. The men cluminto the riggin' before she struck, but the old cap'n was staggerin' 'rounddecks, kind o' dazed and dumb-like, not tryin' to do anythin' to savehimself. The mate tried to git him into the riggin', seein' he wan't in nocondition to look out for himself; but the old man struck loose from hisholt and cried out to him through the noise:--"'Let me alone! I've got to go with her. I tell ye I've got to go withher!'"The mate just had time to swing himself back into the mizzen-shroudsbefore the sea broke over her and left the decks bare. The old ship poundedover the bar in an hour or so, and drifted up here on to the beach whereshe is now. Every man on board was saved except the cap'n. He 'went withher,' sure enough."There was talk enough about that thing before they got done with it to 'a'made the old man roll in his grave. They raked up all the stories about hiscruisin' on the Spanish main when he was a young man. They wan't storieshe'd ever told; he wan't much of a hand to talk about what he'd seen anddone on his v'yages. They never let him rest till 'twas pretty much thegen'ral belief, and is to this day, that he knew more about that slaverfrom the first than he ever owned to."I never had much to say about it, but 'twas plain enough to me. I had mysuspicions the mornin' he towed her in. He looked terrible shattered. It'peared to me he wan't ever the same man afterwards."'I've got to go with her!' Them was his last words. He knew that shipand him belonged together, same as a man and his sins. He knew she'd beena-huntin' him up and down the western ocean for twenty year, with them deado' his'n in her hold,--and she'd hunted him down at last."Captain John paused with this peroration: he dug a hole in the wet sandwith the toe of his boot, and watched it slowly fill."'Twas a bait most any one would 'a' smelt of, a six-hundred-ton ship andevery timber in her sound; but you'd 'a' thought he'd been more cautious,knowin' what he did of her. She was bound to have him, though.""Captain John," said the boy, a little hoarse from his long silence, "whatdo you suppose it was he did? Anything except just leave them--thenegroes, I mean?""Lord! Wan't that enough? To steal 'em, and then leave 'emthere--battened down like rats in the hold! However, I expect there ain'tanybody that can tell you the whole of that story. It's one of themmysteries that rests with the dead."The new mate--the young fellow he brought on from New York--he married thecap'n's daughter. None o' the Harbor boys ever seemed to jibe in with her.I always had a notion that she was a touch above most of 'em, but she andher mother was as good as a providence to them shipwrecked men when theywas throwed ashore, strangers in the place and no money; and it ended inRachel's takin' up with the mate and the whole family's leavin' the place.It was long after all the talk died away that the widow come back and livedhere in the same quiet way she always had, till she was laid alongside theold cap'n. There wan't a better woman ever walked this earth than MaryGreen, that was Mary Spofford."Captain John rose from the bowsprit and rubbed his cramped knees beforeclimbing the hill. He parted with his young listener at the top and tooka lonely path across the shore-pasture to a little cabin, where no lightshone, built like the nest of a sea-bird on the edge of high-water mark.On the gray beach below, a small, dingy yawl, with one sail loosely bundledover the thwarts, leaned toward the door-latch as if listening for itsclick. It had an almost human expression of patient though wistful waiting.It was the poorest boat in the Harbor; it had no name painted on its stern,but Captain John, in the solitude of his watery wanderings among theislands and channels of the bay, always called her the Mary Spofford. Theboy from the main went home slowly along the village street toward themany-windowed house in which his mother and sisters were boarding. Therewere voices, calling and singing abroad on the night air, reflectedfrom the motionless, glimmering sheet of dark water below as from asounding-board. Cow-bells tinkled away among the winding paths along thelow, dim shores. The night-call of the heron from the muddy flats strucksharply across the stillness, and from the outer bay came the murmur of theold ground-swell, which never rests, even in the calmest weather.
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