Shawn of Skarrow

"Yassir, easy, Marse Jim. Gimme a chanst. En Mr. Brandon Fontaine kinder thode hi han' behine him, en' Kernel Poindexter crac' erway at him en bust a bottle uv whiskey inside his pocket en dis hyar Mistah Fontaine, he showed de yaller jes' lak Mr. Freeman did yestiddy, en he rin so fas' dat yo' could play checkers on his coat-tail!"

"Stand aside," roared Budlong.

The case went to the jury. That august body retired to deliberate. The stragglers near the window heard hot words and wrangling in the jury-room. In the course of an hour, the door opened and the jury filed in.

"Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?"

"We have," said the foreman.

"What is it?"

"We don't find no evidence to convict nobody."

"So help me, Caesar!" said Budlong.

CHAPTER XVI

John Burney was clearing away the wreck of a coal-barge that had drifted under the lower edge of the wharfboat. The water had fallen, leaving part of the barge on shore. Burney had used every known method in trying to remove the wreckage. Old Pence Oiler came by and walked up to the heavy mass of timbers and called to Burney, "John, she's too wet to burn, and there ain't but one way to git her off, an' that's to lay a stick of dynamite under the front end, give her a slow fuse and blow her out."

Burney called to Shawn, who was on the bank, and asked him to go down to Bennett's mill and get a stick of dynamite, and Shawn, desirous of seeing the blast, hastened on the errand.

"Be careful how you handle that goods," said Bennett, "I knowed a feller once who left some of it layin' around, and a hog et it, and the man kicked the hog and lost a leg!"

Shawn helped Burney to place the stick, unmindful of one of Coaly's never-failing traits. Shawn had taught him, as a young dog, to carry things from the boat in his mouth, and faithful Coaly could be sent back for his glove or any small article left behind. The little dog stood watching Shawn and Burney as they placed the stick and touched the fire to the fuse.

"Run, Shawn!" yelled Burney.

Old man Oiler backed his boat out into the stream, and Shawn and Burney ran up the shore.

Horror of horrors! When Burney turned to look back toward the wreckage, he saw Coaly coming after them with the dynamite stick in his mouth, the fire slowly creeping up the fuse.

"Go back, Coaly! Go back!" yelled Burney. He threw a boulder at the little dog, but he came on. Burney ran for the willows under the bank as Coaly quickened his pace. Shawn had taken refuge in an old saw-mill and peered out, wringing his hands in an agony of suspense. Burney was breaking down the dry willows and yelling, "Go back, Coaly!"

Suddenly, there was a loud report that shook the earth. The ground was torn up and bark and driftwood were scattered everywhere. Shawn and Burney ran up, but there were no signs of Coaly, not even a trace of bone, hide nor hair. Coaly had returned to the original atoms of atmosphere and nothingness.

Shawn sat upon a log and wept. Pence Oiler came up, cut a piece of tobacco from his plug and said, "There's nothin' to bury – not even a tooth."

CHAPTER XVII

THE STATES AND THE AMERICA

The winter days had come again, and the year was fast drawing to its close. Doctor Hissong had been elected to the Legislature, and was making arrangements to leave for Frankfort the first of January. Shawn was in school, growing into a handsome and athletic young man of eighteen years, with the light of health glowing in his eyes, and with an honest purpose in his heart.

One morning Mrs. Alden sent word to him to call at her home after the school hour. Shawn went up there in the afternoon. The good woman greeted him with a smile and bade him be seated by the library fire.

"Shawn, I have sent for you, purposely, to ask a great favor."

The black eyes beamed the sincere impulse of his heart, as he turned to her and said, "Mrs. Alden, it would make me happy to do something for you."

"I am going to Cincinnati on the boat to-night, Shawn. I am going there to see a great specialist, and I would like very much for you to go with me."

"It will give me pleasure to go," said Shawn.

Shawn met Mrs. Alden's carriage at the wharfboat, and exerted himself to make her as comfortable as possible until the arrival of the up-stream boat. At 8.30 o'clock the wharfmaster came into the little waiting-room and said, "The America will soon be here."

In a short time the great steamer drew up to the wharf, and Shawn, supporting Mrs. Alden's frail form with his strong arms, went up the steps and into the cabin. The chambermaid placed Mrs. Alden's chair in the ladies' cabin, and Shawn went off to select a convenient and comfortable stateroom.

The cabin presented a scene of merriment. Under the gleaming lights were a hundred happy couples, dancing away the gladsome hours. The strains of music swelled and floated far out into the night, and the joyous voices mingled with the changing melodies.

Shawn sat near Mrs. Alden, and together they gazed upon the gay throng and enjoyed the inspiriting music. Far below, in the engine-room, the lights glimmered over the polished machinery. The engineer glanced occasionally at his steam-gauge and water-cocks. The negro firemen were singing a plantation melody as they heaved shovels of coal into the glaring furnace under the boilers. Roustabouts and deck-hands were catching short rounds of sleep in their bunks back of the engine-room. Sitting on either side of the boiler, were "deck passengers," those too poor to engage passage in the cabin, and here and there, tired children lay asleep across their mothers' knees.

In the pilot-house, Napolean Jenkins, the head pilot, stood with his hand on the spokes of the wheel, gazing with the eyes of a night-bird on the outlines of shore and hill. Mann Turpin, his steersman, stood at the right of the wheel. Jenkins knocked the ashes from his cigar, and the glow from the deep red circle of tobacco fire momentarily radiated the gloom of the pilot-house. The night was serene and clear, the full moon shining and shedding her dreamy light over the sleeping, snow-clad valley, and the silvery rays filtered through the clustering branches of the towering trees. As the great boat swung along past a farm-house, Jenkins heard the shrill, alarming cry of a peacock. Strains of music came floating upward from the cabin. The grim, black smoke-stacks were breathing heavily, and the timbers of the Texas trembled as the boat came up under the high pressure of steam.

The lights of Wansaw were just around the bend. Jenkins blew a long blast for the little town. The sound echoed and re-echoed among the wooded hills. The farmer in his bed on the silent shore turned on his pillow as the deep, sonorous sound fell upon his ear – the sweet, weird music of the stream.

Jenkins made the landing, and heading his boat for the middle of the river, made a long crossing for the Indiana shore.

"It's a fine night," said Turpin.

"Beautiful," said Jenkins.

He turned and gazed toward the stern of his boat as she swung into the clear and squared herself for the point of the bend. The moonbeams glittered and danced on the waves in the wake of the steamer, and the rays touched the snow on the hills with diamond sparks. The tall sycamores on either side stood clearly outlined against the wintry sky, and the white corn-shocks on the distant ridge were silhouetted like Indian wigwams. Here and there a light glimmered from some cabin window, and a dog barked defiance at the boat as it sped up stream.

"The States ought to be about due," said Turpin.

"I think I hear her now," said Jenkins.

When they got up to the point of the bend where they could see up the river, they saw the States coming down. From her forward smoke-stacks were the signal lights of emerald green and ruby red, trembling in delicate brilliancy against the background of silvery sky. The splash of her ponderous wheels as they churned the water, seemed to vibrate into a song of gathering power. When the two boats were about eight hundred yards apart, Jenkins turned to Turpin and said, "Blow two blasts; I'll take the left side." Turpin sounded the blasts, and Jenkins headed for the Indiana shore. Jacob Remlin, the pilot on the States, blew one blast of his whistle just as Turpin sounded the first signal on the America. Jenkins on the America, did not hear Remlin's one signal, because it sounded at the same time of the first signal from the America. Remlin on the States, heard the last one of the signals from the America, taking it for an answer to his own signal, and he also headed his boat for the Indiana shore. Both men violated the rules of signals. Remlin should not have blown any signal until he heard from the up-stream boat, and Jenkins, not hearing any signal from the States, should have stopped his boat. Jenkins was standing on the starboard side, that placing him behind the chimney, and he did not see the States until she came out across his bow.

"My God!" shouted Turpin, as he saw the States bearing down upon them like some ferocious monster, "We're lost!"

The boats came together with a fearful crash. The smoke-stacks groaned and hissed, and great clouds of smoke rolled over the scene. The first shock of the collision brought a sudden check to the dancing on the America, throwing many to the floor and mixing up the whole assembly into a confused mass. Heads were peering through the transoms of the staterooms and voices excitedly calling, "What's the matter?" John Briscoe, the watchman, came hurriedly through the cabin and said, "The States and the America have run into each other!"

The strains of music had ceased giving way to anxious inquiries on every side. The officers of the boat were running to and fro, giving orders, the negro cabin-boys adding to the chaos of the scene by loud and far-reaching cries.

On the roof, the Captain was giving orders to Jenkins: "Come ahead, outside!" Jenkins pulled the bell-rope and the brave engineer responded to the order. The boats had swung a short distance apart, the States rapidly sinking. Jenkins put the America up between the States and the shore. The States was carrying, as freight, a lot of barrels of coal-oil and gasoline, and in the collision these were smashed and the gasoline caught fire and in a few moments the sinking boat was all ablaze forward.

Jenkins groaned as he saw the fire, for the flames had already swept over upon the America, and he saw that his boat was also doomed. The bow of the America was almost touching the gravel, and believing that he had his boat safely on shore, Jenkins hurriedly left the pilot-house. Charles Ditman, the other head pilot of the America, off watch, ran up into the pilot-house and catching the wheel, rang for reversed engines, and backed the boat out into the river, away from the States, but his action was miscalculated, for fire had broken out on the America, and great sheets of flame were leaping from her forward decks and guards. Had the boat held the position in which Jenkins had placed her, all the passengers might have escaped. Officers and crew were cutting away timbers with axes and dashing water upon the fire, but the great crackling tongue of flame licked up everything in its pathway. The heavens shone like a great, golden mirror under the spreading blaze. The burning oil flowed out over the water and flamed up across every avenue of escape. From out the black clouds of smoke, great sheets of flame burst through, rolled heavenward, and leaped down again like some devouring demon.

In such a transformation from pleasure to horror, who can discern the turning impulses within the human breast – of fear, of hope or of heroic self-control? To some, such a moment brings hopeless despair, or frantic terror, which will crush women and children and crowd them from places of safety, and oftimes in such an hour there comes to those of otherwise timid dispositions, a grandeur of heroism never evidencing itself before; some latent, slumbering power of soul that can only be awakened by some fearful test of human tragedy.

From the burning boats came wild cries, shrieks and screams. Some were kneeling in prayer, others cursing and bemoaning their plight. Dr. Fannastock, a millionaire manufacturer from Philadelphia, clasped his beautiful daughter in his arms and cried, "I will give one hundred thousand dollars to the one who saves my child!" Both were lost. Ole Bull, the famous violinist, who had taken passage at Louisville, stood quietly holding his violin case, calmly endeavoring to reassure the frightened women and children. The fire was fast approaching the rear cabin.

Shawn stood by Mrs. Alden's side, buckling a life-preserver around her body. "I'm trusting in God, Shawn," said the good woman, as a ghastly pallor overspread her face.

"Put a little of that trust in me," said Shawn as he bore her in his arms to the aft guards. Hurriedly passing down the back stairs, he went through the engine-room to the rear end of the boat. They were lowering the trailing-yawl, which swung on a level with the floor of the lower cabin. As the yawl touched the water, a score of roustabouts started to leap into it.

"Stand back there!" shouted Shawn. "These women and children must go first."