stephen opened his eyes once, as he was borne up toward the house and saw, in one sudden flash, the whole bright garden lying still and quiet in the hot sun. he saw his mother, white-cheeked and agonised, coming up the path behind him and still unconsciously clutching the great pistols in her apron. he wondered a little who was carrying him and, contriving to look upward, saw that it was sergeant branderby and that his red face, under its coat of sunburn, had turned to mottled grey. then a sudden stab of pain went through him and all was black again.
that cloud of darkness seemed to hang over him for weeks—or was it years? sometimes it would lift and he would realise that he was in his own bed with his mother’s anxious face bending over him, would see the open lattice window with the red tendrils of woodbine clinging to its edge, or with the moon peeping in perhaps, for in his moments of awaking it would be sometimes day and sometimes night. once he saw the sergeant’s unhappy face at the door and was about to call to him to come in when the blackness fell again before he could find his voice. it was a queer darkness, full of pain and flashes of light and fantastic dreams that he could never remember.
in the village of hopewell there was never one person who could pass another without stopping to ask:
“have you heard aught that is new of little stephen sheffield?”
the old doctor, when he left the big house and came out through the white gate could scarcely make his way along, so many there were who came running to him to gasp out:
“is he better? oh, say that he is going to live.”
to all their questions his only answer would be to purse his lips and shake his head doubtfully.
“we can know nothing yet,” was all that he would ever say.
king george of england would have scarcely liked to hear that in one small puritan town his loyal subjects remembered the date of his coming to the throne only because it happened at the same season as “that dreadful mishap to mistress sheffield’s little son, stephen.” in the history of hopewell other boys had tumbled from trees, it was quite true, but never had one fallen who was so generally beloved or who lay so long in danger of his life.
at last a day came when the doctor, stumping up the street, told fifty persons at least between the gate and the town square, that:
“god has been good to us, the lad is going to live.” whereupon the fifty ran with all speed to tell the good news to a hundred more. rough old sergeant branderby came out of the gate, wiping the tears of joy from his eyes with the sleeve of his red coat and saying to every one,
“have you heard? have you heard? i did not slay him after all!”
“there was no one ever thought that the fall was through fault of yours,” old dame allen told him, “and though we loved you little when you came and liked your errand less, we have learned to put up with you for the love you have shown our stephen. ay, he will live, it is not so easy to down the radpath blood!”
stephen himself, propped up in the four-post bed among the big pillows and covered over with the precious blue and white quilt that had been part of mistress radpath’s dowry, felt himself to be a very great person indeed. he was a very pale and thin stephen, whose knees doubled up when he tried to stand, but whose voice and merry laugh sounded quite the same.
“i know how ill i must have been, since you give me the orange-tree quilt,” he said to alisoun, “but i do not care ever to earn such an honour again. when can i get up and play in the garden, mother?”
“very soon now, i hope,” she answered, “but we must go carefully and do all that the good doctor says.”
it was sergeant branderby, pale, aghast and trembling, who had carried stephen up to his room upon that terrible day; it was the same stout soldier, beaming and jubilant, who bore him downstairs the first morning that he was able to leave his bed. established in a great armchair on the columned verandah, stephen held court among his youthful friends, who came running down the lane from the farthest ends of the town at the news, “stephen sheffield is out again.”
after they had all gone home the boy leaned back in his chair and looked up at his good friend the sergeant, who had never left his side through all the coming and going.
“i had forgotten,” stephen sighed, as he looked out over the garden, “that leaves could be so green or sun could shine so bright. and i feel so well that surely by to-morrow i can run down the path and see what time it is by the sundial.”
“not just to-morrow, i fear,” objected branderby. then, seeing the boy’s face clouded with disappointment, he added, “suppose i come in a day or two and carry you down yonder to the harbour’s edge, where you can sit all day on the warm sand and watch the full blue tide come in.”
“ah, that will be famous,” exclaimed stephen, “and then perhaps the day after that i can run in the garden again. it tries my patience sorely to be still so long!”
the morning after this brought stephen another visitor, a long looked-for and most welcome one. during the night a big ship slipped into the harbour and early next day a brown-faced, smiling man came striding up the path and knocked at the door. mistress sheffield, who opened it, flung two joyful arms about his neck crying:
“amos bardwell, but it is good to see you, lad!”
this, then, was stephen’s cousin amos, the same who, when he was a little boy, had figured so bravely in the witch affair. although he was a sea captain now and dwelt in england when he was ashore, he visited hopewell as often as it was possible, and was stephen’s most well-beloved playmate in spite of the difference in their years.
“now,” he said, when he was seated at the boy’s bedside, “what is this i hear of your climbing king james’ tree in defiance of the british army and then falling out of it through turning to gape after a retreating enemy? we must have no more of such doings.”
“no, indeed,” replied stephen gaily, “and when i climb king james’ tree again i will surely be more careful.”
mistress sheffield, as she heard his cheery words, turned quickly and went out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“lest you have such another mischance,” said amos, “i think i must give you my lucky penny that is supposed to keep off just such evil fortune.” as he spoke he felt in the deep pockets of his sailor’s coat and drew forth a battered old silver coin. “it may have power and it may have none, but certain it is that i have carried it since i was a smaller boy than you and have not yet come to any very grievous harm in spite of many adventurings. it once belonged to—whom do you suppose? none other than master simon’s sworn enemy, the shoemaker, samuel skerry.”
“samuel skerry?” repeated stephen, wondering. “i thought that he disappeared the day after margeret bardwell’s marriage and was never seen again. my mother has told me many tales of the shoemaker and his wicked ways, but she has never spoken of his homecoming.”
“i think she never knew of it,” replied amos, “nor am i myself certain, though i have pondered the matter a hundred times, whether he ever really came back or not. but my old nurse swore always that he did. when our house was crowded she used to dwell sometimes in the shoemaker’s cottage, and it was there she thought she saw him.”
“you say he came back?” questioned stephen. “i do not see how he dared.”
“i am not sure if he really did, but such was old betsey’s tale. she said that as she went toward her little dwelling very late one winter night she was amazed to see footsteps in the snow along the path and to catch the glint of firelight through the window. she peeped in through a crack of the door and saw the shoemaker himself, a little shrunken, bent, old man, leaning over the hearth and holding out his hands to the blaze. then, while she watched, he climbed upon the seat of the big armchair and thrust his hand into an opening behind the cupboard. she was holding her breath and peering in with such curiosity as to what he would do next that she leaned over hard against the rickety old door and it burst open, casting her headlong into the room.”
“o-oh,” gasped stephen, wriggling in delighted excitement, although the sudden movement cost him a sharp reminder of his recent fall; “oh, what happened then?”
“she screamed aloud with terror, thinking she was in the presence of a ghost, and he too gave a startled cry as he stepped down from the chair and dropped something that rolled ringing and jingling across the floor. but in a moment he turned upon her with eager questionings, about master simon and roger bardwell and my grandmother, margeret radpath. and over and over he asked, ‘but master simon’s garden, does it bloom as fair as once it did?’ something he said also of a message, having to do with master simon, that he had come all the long way across the sea to leave with the minister of hopewell, yet what such an errand might be he would not say. in the end he gave her the silver coin that had fallen jingling upon the floor, saying, ‘i found this in my old hiding-hole behind the cupboard where it chanced to be left behind after my hasty flight. they say that money long lost and found again brings good luck, so keep it to buy your silence concerning my visit here.’ she took the coin and bent to examine it in the firelight, for it was one of the clumsy old shillings of the colony’s first coinage. when she looked up again—he was gone. she came running back to the kitchen door of our big house and burst in among the other servants crying that there were ghosts and witches in the shoemaker’s hut and that she would never enter its door again. nor did she! but the coin she held in high reverence as a lucky charm and insisted upon giving it to me when i was eight years old.”
“do you believe she really saw the shoemaker?” asked stephen. “did you never hear more of his visit than that?”
“my grandfather, roger bardwell, listened to her tale and forbade her telling it to any one further. he questioned the minister next day however, who admitted that he had had such a visitor but was sworn to secrecy concerning his errand. and in the graveyard on the hill there were fresh footprints in the snow leading up to the spot where master simon sleeps. so it must have been samuel skerry that came, but whether his purpose was good or evil no one can tell. he may have been plotting some new villainy, yet i think—yes, i have thought it often—that in his years of loneliness in a foreign land the little shoemaker came at last to repent of his jealousy and ill-will and returned finally to make tardy amends. but what his errand was, or what message he left with the hopewell minister is a secret still unrevealed.”
stephen took the thin, old silver coin that amos had laid upon his pillow and turned it over and over.
“you should not give it to me, cousin amos,” he said. “you should keep it still to bring you fair winds and prosperous voyages.”
“it has not always brought me those,” laughed amos. “and of what use are fair winds, when fewer and fewer of our ships are permitted to put to sea? no, it is a better luck penny for a lad than for a man, for, as old betsey said, it requires much good fortune to keep boys from destroying themselves before they grow to man’s estate. so do you keep it and if it saves you from tumbling out of any more treetops i shall be satisfied.”
captain amos’ visit was all too short. in spite of many protests from alisoun and loud lamentations from all the children, he set out two mornings later for salem, whither important business called him. stephen grieved so much over his playmate’s going that he quite forgot that this was the great day for his first expedition abroad. his faithful servant, sergeant branderby, had not forgotten, however, and came that afternoon, true to his promise, to carry the boy down to the shore.
“i think it must be samuel skerry’s lucky penny,” said stephen as they set forth, “that has given us so fine a day.”
it was indeed weather that could scarcely have been bettered, for the cloudless sky was glowing blue and the sea was bluer still. the little waves splashed merrily as they came tumbling in, the smooth hard sand sparkled in the sun and even the tiny grey sandpipers running back and forth across the beach seemed to be bidding them all welcome. the boy’s two sisters and fat little peter came also to play at the water’s edge, while stephen sat sheltered from the wind and propped against a huge, grey rock that lay like some sleeping monster in the midst of the drifting sand.
the children were sailing toy boats, bits of board with paper sails, launching them with some difficulty through the breaking waves, but watching with cries of joy when one after another of the little craft caught the wind and sped away. only peter’s clumsily whittled vessel came to grief so often and was upset and washed back upon the beach so many times that finally, half crying, the little boy brought it to stephen.
“do make it sail,” he said. “i know that you can do somewhat to make it pass all the others.”
“give me your knife then,” said stephen. peter’s coming had interrupted his absorbing talk with sergeant branderby, but stephen could not, even on that account, seem unwilling to help his small friend. he had an odd skill with toy boats and could always make his sail when the others foundered.
“there,” he said at last, “launch her with the sails set so and i think she will ride the waves and outdo all the rest.”
peter, delighted, ran off to try again and stephen turned once more to the soldier.
“and did you really see king george?” he asked, for it was of that worthy monarch that the story had to do.
“bless you, that i did,” was the answer, “and it was not so wonderful a sight, merely a fat grey-haired man, blinking from his recent nap, and with a halting tongue that could speak no word of english. kings and queens are more common than they used to be, since the people of england discovered that they could dispose of them at will, and fell into the way of changing their monarchs often. eight have i seen in my own time, eight men and women that wore the crown of england.”
“what?” exclaimed stephen. “eight! how could that ever be?”
“’tis as true as that i sit here,” returned branderby seriously. “there were charles the second and his portuguese wife, katherine; there was his brother james who reigned after him and there was that italian princess who became james’ queen. not long did he reign, poor james stuart, for his daughter mary and her dutch husband, william of orange, came across the channel and drove the last stuart king from the throne. those two wicked ones i have seen too, and mary’s sister anne, the queen for whose death the bells were ringing upon that very day that we first met. and that german george who sits now in her place, him i saw in the low countries, where we fought so long a war that, when it was finally ended, scarcely any one remembered for what reason it had been begun. so there are eight english kings and queens that my own eyes have seen, to say nothing of a host of french dukes and marquises of the royal blood, and more german princelings than my dull wits could ever learn to count.”
“you must have had many wondrous adventures,” sighed stephen. “i can scarcely wait until i become a man and can have them too.”
“look, look,” peter interrupted them again with a joyous shout. after two vain launchings, his little boat, trimmed by stephen’s skilful hand had at last put to sea successfully and was rocking upon the waves as merrily as a duckling.
“good,” called sergeant branderby, “our stephen knows how to fashion a boat, does he not, master peter?”
in great excitement peter ran off down the beach, following his boat as it drifted with the wind.
“i should think,” continued stephen, going back to their former talk, “that it would be hard to learn loyalty to so many kings and queens, following so quickly one upon another.”
“love of the king has gone somewhat out of fashion in england,” returned the soldier. “once in the golden times of great queen bess, folk were all of one heart and one blood, nobles and gentry, kings and commoners, englishmen all. but now that we have taken to trying this foreigner and that upon our throne, monarchs seem to have less value in our eyes.”
he paused and through the quiet could be heard peter’s shouts to the two girls to stop and admire the prowess of his vessel.
“when i see how little you people of new england regard who is, or who is not, upon the throne,” branderby went on, “when i see those splendid ships of yours lying at anchor or rotting at their docks, when i hear the growing murmurs of discontent and questioning where once men accepted the king’s will and thought he could do no wrong, i wonder, lad, i wonder what will come of it. the signs of great changes are in the air, but i cannot read their meaning.”
he was silent again, musing upon the question that so perplexed his mind. he and stephen both heard, presently, footsteps upon the sand, coming toward them from beyond the great stone. they had seen, in the distance, a shabby woman of hopewell digging for clams, aided by her ragged boy. the footsteps were evidently of these two, coming home again since now the sun was dropping low. unseen and not observing the soldier and the boy, they passed by on the further side of the high grey rock.
“mother,” the boy’s voice was saying, “i have heard that stephen sheffield is getting well at last. will he be able to play at indian scouts with me soon again, think you?”
the woman’s voice answered slowly:
“it is not likely that the sheffield lad will ever run and play again with the other boys,” she said. “the doctor, so people tell me, says that he will live, and will not be crippled, but that he never will be well and strong again like other children.”
the two passed on and never knew of the secret that they had betrayed. stephen heard them with his face gone white and his eyes wide with terror.
“tell me,” he cried to branderby, “she does not know? that is not true?”
the old soldier growled and muttered something below his breath, something far from flattering in regard to idle women who gossip on the beach.
“i will know,” gasped stephen, shaking him by the arm with all his feeble strength. “you shall tell me. did the doctor say such a thing?”
“in my opinion,” grumbled the sergeant, “these men of medicine know little and their word is scarce worth believing.”
“but did he say it?” persisted stephen. “i will have the truth.”
“i would sooner face a siege cannon belching smoke and fire,” muttered branderby. then he turned to stephen and looked him fairly in the eyes. “we are both men,” he said steadily, “and a real man can bear a blow though it be a hard and bitter one. yes, lad, he did say it.”
stephen made no answer, for he had flung himself face downward upon the sand. one long terrible sob shook his thin body and then he lay still. the sergeant’s hard, rough hand was laid over his clenched one.
“there are some that help the world forward by their strength of arm,” he said gently, “and some by their power of mind and will. we cannot all be of one kind or the other, for we know the world has need of both.”
the boy sat up. there was a flush on his thin cheek and his jaw was set firmly.
“we will not tell my mother that i know,” he began, “and perhaps some day—but oh,” he broke off, “my thought was always to be a sailor like my father and my grandfather and my cousin amos, to sail mighty ships like the margeret to the farthest foreign ports. but now—i shall be fit only to launch such vessels as peter sails.”
his brave voice did not tremble but the hand in branderby’s shook.
“i have often seen children sailing such ships,” said the soldier, “and never see them without thinking, as many others do, how like they are to human lives. some upset, some sink, some drift back and forth hugging the shore, while others spread their sails and put bravely forth to sea.”
he pointed to where the little fleet of wind-tossed ships had scattered wide. many of them had suffered mishap, even as the sergeant had said, some had disappeared and some still clung to the shore. but peter’s boat, the vessel of stephen’s fashioning, had caught the wind and was skimming away toward the harbour’s mouth. the red of the dropping sun coloured its tiny white sails, its long shadow stretched across the green waters making it seem greater than it was, as with steady prow it bore away, bound, it seemed, for spain or france or some magic country that no man knew.
the rough old soldier’s hand closed tight on stephen’s.
“whatever comes to you, boy,” he said; “whatever life brings to you of pain or disappointment or sorrow, of one thing i am certain. what your future will be, i may not know, for presently i will go back to england and we may never meet again. but whether your days are to be dark or bright ones, whether time is to bring you good or ill, of this i am sure, that the world will have need of you some day, and the ship that you launch will carry far.”
