Of that meeting with Jimmy Appleby the less said the better. I believe that, in my wearied and weakened state, I broke down and cried, but I have no clear recollection. The first thing that I remember clearly is being well down the lagoon, a passenger in my own boat. Our new shipmates were doing the pulling, although those of the regular crew who were able sat on the thwarts beside the fresh men, and bent their backs with them. Two of our men, severely wounded, lay on the bottom of the boat, half under the thwarts, and there, too, was the body of the Prince, covered with the sail. Captain Nelson stood at the steering oar, his face grave and set, looking out ahead. I crawled up to my place on the midship thwart beside a stranger, and got my hands on my oar; and the stranger turned his head and gave me a smile.

We got safely out of the lagoon to sea, and on board the ship. The canoes were far down to leeward. They had given the ship a wide berth, but might come back again, after we had gone, to pick up their dead. I did not know what customs they practised in that respect. I know I was surprised to find that it was not yet noon. It seemed to me that almost a lifetime had passed since we had left the ship that morning. The wounded were cared for at once. Then the body of the Prince was passed up, and laid on the hatch cover. I drew near to it, and found Peter beside me. I had forgotten Jimmy Appleby.

Peter said nothing, but he laid his arm across my shoulders, and we saw the sailmaker come with a piece of old canvas, and his palm, and stitch the Prince up carefully, a few links of old chain cable at his feet. I saw the crew gathering with bared heads, and Captain Nelson standing with a little book, but I did not hear what he read. The man in that long white bundle—it shone dazzlingly in the hot sunshine—would not have been there except for me. I hid my face in my arm against the rigging, hot tears burned my eyes, and my shoulders shook; there was a gentle noise of canvas slipping on wood, a splash, and I raised my head to see Captain Nelson clapping his book shut, and the men as they turned away.

Peter patted my shoulder. “Don’t ye grieve, lad,” he said. “He’d have liked this way of it better. He was a good shipmate, if his skin was black. Come now, you’re wanted. A bite of dinner ’ll do you a world of good.”

At that I am afraid I laughed. It was hysterical, but I was quieted somewhat, and I went below.

I had not yet had a chance to hear Jimmy’s story. It had to wait still longer, for the boats were sent ashore again in the afternoon, with all the new men, and some of ours. They buried the men of the Battles as well as they could. It was almost impossible to dig in that beach, for it was all coral below the very surface. Then they carried their boats across from the ocean side to the lagoon, not more than three or four hundred feet, but the low summit thickly grown up with coconut-palms and low bushes and vines. It must have reminded Captain Coffin of the “haulover” at Nantucket, except for the growth. The “haulover” is nothing but bare sand, and I believe the sea had not broken through at that time. These boats which I speak of were those in which our new friends had come. I should not speak of them as our new friends, for many of them were old friends.

Captain Coffin, with a boat’s crew, stayed on the Battles that night, looking her over. Jimmy did not, and I got his story. He was bursting with it. His ship was the John and Alice. After I left New Bedford his desire for the same sort of life, always strong, had become intense. He gave his parents no peace for nearly two years, finally threatening to run away if they would not let him go. They gave in at that, and in the summer of 1874 he shipped before the mast on the John and Alice. They had been out just about a year, had cruised off the River Plate, doubled the Horn, and covered the On Shore and Off Shore grounds. They were making their leisurely way toward Japan when the John and Alice was sunk by a whale in 145° W., 7° S., carrying their five hundred barrels of oil down with her. The crew took to the boats. There had been time to stow plenty of provisions and water in the boats, and they were making for Tahiti, which they would have reached safely, without doubt. But they sighted some of these low-lying islands, and went in among them. They had been sailing through the passages of the archipelago for two days. At daylight on that morning they saw the topmasts of the Clearchus showing dimly in the distance, and the topmasts of the Battles and the coco-palms soon rose. They were making for the ship, passing just outside the line of surf which fringed the island, when they heard our tumult, and landed the best way they could. They managed it, but lost one of their boats in the surf, capsized and pretty badly stove. The surf had not been heavy, or they would have lost more, and possibly some men. Captain Nelson had the stove boat brought aboard for Peter’s surgery.

Of course Jimmy’s narrative was not so briefly told as I have given it. He was discursive and conversational, and given to embellishment. I kept him up until late that night, telling me all he knew of my mother, my father, my brothers, Tom and Josh; and I asked him about all my friends, ending up with Ann McKim. About Ann he was enthusiastic, speaking of her in the slang of the day. I forget what expression he used, but it corresponded to “perfect peach.” I could well believe it.

Captain Coffin had found the Annie Battles pretty firmly aground, and the coral had punched a hole in her. It was not a hopeless hole, although enough to justify any master in abandoning his vessel. Captain Coffin was not that kind. All the stuff was taken out of her, and spread on the beach. Then she was hastily patched on the inside, and pumped out. That was very nearly enough to float her, but not quite, for the rise of the tide at this point is small. Still there was that little peak of hard, sharp coral, which they were afraid would tear out more of her planking when eight boats were fast, with forty oars pulling at her. Our Kanakas had to go down and cut away the coral. Then she was beached, and hove down by our cutting-tackles from her mastheads to coconut-trunks. Her cutting-tackles had disappeared—probably thrown overboard.

We all helped in this work, and I found that I had more bruises and unimportant wounds than I had believed possible; but the condition was common to all who had been in the fight, and I was interested in the work, which was familiar. We simply had to dispose of the corpses within a couple of days of beginning the work. That was an unpleasant job. We took them far down to leeward, and buried them hastily in a cavern we found in the coral, but that did not entirely get rid of the stench at the beach. It was probably from the bodies of the white men buried there—in very shallow graves.

It took two weeks to get the Battles beached and repaired. Then we got her afloat again, the topmasts and yards sent up, sails bent and every­thing shipshape. With all her cargo—mostly trading stuff—piled on deck, we towed her out through the pass in the reef, and she was at sea again, where she belonged. She tied up alongside the Clearchus, and there began a wholesale transfer of cargo.

The Battles first stowed eight hundred barrels of our oil, greatly relieving us. Most of her cargo of trading stuff had been taken on the Clearchus, indicating that we were likely to stop at the Marquesas, and possibly at some other islands. I was gratified at that, for I wanted to see the Marquesas. The division of water and provisions was unequal, the Battles being given enough to carry her home, while the Clearchus would be obliged to fill her water-casks, at least. At last she was ready to go. She cast off, for the sea, which had been unusually quiet all through the transfer, began to roughen. She did not go far, however, but lay hove to, not far from us. Captain Coffin was in the cabin with Captain Nelson, and I was sent for.

I had watched the transfer of cargo and the selection of a crew for the Battles, with a mind at ease. I had taken it for granted that she would take the new men, and most of their boats. Jimmy was going, I knew, and I accepted the fact with small regret, for I found that a separation of three years had severed many of the ties which had bound us together. I went into the cabin with no small wonder what they could want of me; probably nothing more than the same old bluish-white pitcher, with something hot in it.

That was not what they wanted. I was hardly in the cabin when Captain Coffin asked me whether I wanted to go with him. He added that he was going aboard the Battles within a few minutes, and if I wished, he would take me along. I was too dumbfounded to answer immediately, and Captain Nelson, taking my answer for granted, sent me out again at once, saying that I had only time to get my things together, and to hurry, at that. So I found myself outside the cabin door, stumbling up the stairs, without having uttered a word. I hurried and got my belongings into my chest, carried the chest out, and went to bid a hasty good-bye to Peter, without having come to a decision. There was a certain reluctance in my actions. I wanted more time; yes, more time, at least. But still I went. I said half a dozen words to Peter, and half a dozen words to Mr. Brown, whom I met on my way aft.

If I had known the truth—and been willing to tell it, which is quite a different matter—and if it had been a question merely of choosing between Mr. Brown and Jimmy, I should have chosen Mr. Brown. Of course I was glad to see Jimmy, but he was only a boy, with a boy’s interest in things, and that did not satisfy me, possibly because I had been so long without companions of my own age. Mr. Brown seemed much more of a real companion, with interests which had come to be my own. I never saw him again.

It is a curious thing how people go out of your life. Here was Mr. Brown, who, alone of the officers, had admitted me to intimacy. I had become very fond of him; and he dropped out as suddenly and as completely as if he had fallen overboard. I do not like it. It is not right, I cannot reconcile myself to it, and I have never been able to understand it. For years I kept expecting to see him, but it is not likely now, for he would be nearly eighty, and probably he is dead long ago. He left the ship at once upon her arrival in New Bedford, and vanished. Why? I wish I knew. I found, upon inquiry, that his share of the voyage—his lay—was sent to an address in New York. I wrote, but nothing was known of him, and that ended the chapter.

Peter I did see again. He became a frequent and welcome visitor at my father’s house, and later at my own. Ann McKim liked him, and she, my father, my mother, and Peter spent many an evening in going over the events of the voyage, a chart spread out, and all four heads bent over it. I sat back in the shadows and watched them. But I am getting ahead of my story. There is not much more to tell, so have a little patience, and it will be over.

I was still in a sort of daze when I got aboard of the Battles, and she began to drop the Clearchus. I watched the old ship, with all sail set, sink below the horizon. When I could no longer make out even her topgallant yards, I turned, and went slowly below. I was to bunk in the cabin, I found, as Assistant Navigator, a totally unnecessary berth. Captain Coffin had two of the mates of the John and Alice, both good navigators, and he was a good navigator, of course; but there was room in the cabin for four, and he, in the kindness of his heart, gave the fourth berth to me. Before we got home I was made third mate, which was simply ridiculous. Probably Captain Coffin wished to make it easy for me to get a third mate’s berth on another voyage, which was kind and thoughtful. The Annie Battles was much overmanned, with a total of twenty-eight men, leaving forty-two on the Clearchus. With so many men there was not much for any one to do, although we managed to keep the men busy enough.

The run home was without incident worthy of remark. We reached Cape Horn in January, the middle of the southern summer, and had no great difficulty and no more bad weather than is always met there. In the cabin, as I was, although not yet a mate, I could not chum with Jimmy, who was before the mast, and I found it rather a lonesome berth. There was nothing for me to do but attend to my duties, which were light, and watch the schooner sail. She was a very fast and easy vessel, and very wet in a sea; but she was not in the same class as the Virginia, Marshall, master. If I had not had that experience I should have enjoyed the Battles more. But I missed the discipline, the trimness, the everlasting rightness of the Virginia. Having seen that, nothing less would ever satisfy me completely.

It was when we crossed the line that I was made third mate. Not long after, in the latitude of about 15° N., we ran into a gale, which started the seams of the patch on the bottom. No doubt Cape Horn weather had something to do with it, but we had had no proper planking to mend it with, and it was rather weak. That started a leak which increased from day to day. With our extra men, Captain Coffin hoped that we could pump her home; but by the time we were off Hatteras it had increased so much that the men were kept steadily at the pumps, and we put into Norfolk.

I left the Battles at Norfolk. I was anxious to get home, and could not even wait for the boat, which would have been cheaper. I went by train, and got in at the old wooden station on Pearl Street—“deepo’ ” we called it, early Egyptian architecture—with less than a dollar in my pocket. It was only a few blocks from my home, however, and what use had I for money? I ran all the way.

As I turned the last corner, I stopped with a gasp. I had barely escaped running into a girl—and such a girl! I knew her at once, although she had blossomed since I went away, and she was wearing no ostrich plume in her hat. Jimmy had not exaggerated.

She had stopped, too. She had to, for I brought to directly in front of her.

“Oh,” she said, with a little smile, “I beg your pardon.”

“Ann!” I said breathlessly. “Ann McKim, don’t you know me?”

I put out my hand, and her hand came slowly forward to meet it, while she looked up at me doubtfully. I watched the changing expression of her eyes. Recognition came into them suddenly, and she clasped my hand warmly.

“Goody gracious!” she cried. “It’s Tim, I do believe! It’s not strange that I did n’t know you! How you’ve grown and broadened! I might have taken you for your father. You’re as big as he is.”

“Am I?” I grinned, holding to her hand as if it were my mooring. “Am I, Ann?”

“And you’re the color of new copper,” she added. “Have you been home yet?”

I shook my head. “I was just going there when I nearly ran you down.”

“Well, go along, Timmie, for mercy’s sake, and let your mother get a sight of you.” She freed her hand gently, and gave me a little push. “Do they expect you?”

“No, I came by train. It ’ll be a surprise.”

“Why did n’t you let them know?”

“Did n’t think of it. We—but I ’ll tell you all about it—”

“To-night. I ’ll come in pretty late—nearly nine o’clock. Good-bye.”

She was gone around the corner before I could say a word. I gaped at the corner, then ran on again. Our house was only a little way up the street. Nobody locked their doors in those days, and dashing up the steps without stopping, I threw open the front door. I stood for a moment, with my hand on the doorknob, listening for a sound to let me know where anybody was. How often I had done just that! My mother might be in the kitchen, or upstairs in her room, sewing. I heard nothing but a faint humming.

“Mother!” I called.

The humming continued. “Who’s that?” my mother answered, as if she was busy. “Tom or Josh? I never can tell you apart by your voices. What are you home for now? Is anything the matter?”

I snickered nervously. “It’s me, mother. It’s Tim.”

The humming stopped suddenly. “What! It’s who?”

I snickered again. I knew so well just how she looked, stopping her sewing, her foot on the treadle, and her head up, listening.

“It’s Tim. I’m coming up.”

There was a shriek, and the sound of a chair falling. I bounded up the stairs, and met her. At sight of me she stopped for an instant.

“Mercy!” she cried. “Is that my little Tim?”

Then her arms were around me, and she was laughing and crying on my shoulder.