Dutch the Diver: or, A Man's Mistake

But their fate was not that of Lauré, whose boat was never seen again. ’Ere another day had passed, a fast steamer sighted them where they lay, and bore down upon them as ’Pollo, the only one with strength enough left, hoisted a handkerchief upon one of the oars and held it aloft.

It was but just in time, and long and energetic was the attention required before the little party was out of danger, and by that time the port of Southampton was reached, and the next day – home.

Story 1-Chapter XLI.

Conclusion

Quite a year elapsed before the subject was broached again from a business point of view. Mr Parkley had been a good deal disheartened by his losses, and shook his head when Dutch suggested a second trip.

“No, no,” he said; “no more chance.”

“Suppose there is no chance in the matter,” said Dutch, quietly; and he then proceeded to tell of that which he had kept a secret in his own breast ever since – to wit, of the rich treasure of gold he had found, after the silver had been removed.

“Is this a fact, or some dream left by our troubles when coming home?” said Mr Parkley, who looked at him in doubt.

“A fact,” said Dutch; and he described exactly where the treasure lay.

“That’s enough,” exclaimed Mr Parkley. “I had made a vow that I would never be tempted again; but I will this once, Dutch – this once, my lad.”

He kept his word, and though Hester shivered at the idea, she saw her husband’s great desire for the trip, gave way, and prevailed upon him to consent to take her.

For a time he held out, so painful were the recollections of the last voyage; but on Captain Studwick taking the command of the vessel they were to sail in once more, and the doctor and his newly-made wife begging to accompany them, he agreed.

Rasp insisted upon going again, because Oakum was likely to interfere, and Oakum insisted on being one of the party because old Rasp would be there to meddle: where Sam Oakum went, ’Pollo was sure to be his companion.

The result was that the vessel, well found and manned by a good crew, sailed one day, made a rough but prosperous voyage to the Gulf of Mexico, and there, in the placid weather they enjoyed, made first for one of the sunken galleons, where, after the removal of the sand, and the destruction of sundry sharks, so great a treasure in golden ingots was brought to the surface and carefully stowed away as made Mr Parkley propose that they should tempt fortune no further, but up anchor and go back home.

Dutch, however, was of too manly a grit to go away without exploring the other galleon, and, on this being reached, a second golden store was rescued from the wave where it had been three hundred years – a treasure large enough not only to recompense all past losses, but to make its winners wealthy for life.

So far from any imaginary curse attending this voyage, it was accomplished without difficulty, and home reached once more, with the mysteriously won treasure, of which there was much talk, but little information gained; for, saving what oozed out from the well-paid sailors, nothing was known, Mr Parkley saying that perhaps one of the Spanish States might put in a claim.

And so ended the eventful search for the gold and silver of the Spanish galleons – wealth won by conquest by the filibustering followers of Philip of Spain, but never enjoyed by them when dragged by torture from the simple-hearted Peruvians, who had hidden it in the tropic sands. What might have been its purpose had the treasure reached the Spanish Court, who can tell? Suffice it that, as far as money could do so, it made happy several English homes, not the least happy that of the man who, with true penitence, sought in the rest of his career to recompense the woman who had been the object of his doubts.

“Yes,” said he, “I was mad, and bent on seeking treasure when I had a greater one at home. Ah, Hester, love, I have gone down many times, and have found strange things, but I shall never reach to the bottom of your heart, or gather all its most secret depths of love, so long as I am what I am, Dutch the Diver.”

Story 2-Chapter I.

Story Two – Violets in the Snow

On one side there was a square, with trees that tried to look green in summer, but in winter time stuck in scraggy form out of the soot-peppered snow, with a beadle who wore a gold band round his hat and lived in a lodge, out of which he issued every morning with a thin rattan cane to keep away the boys; on the other side there was a row of goodly mansions, with a mews for the horses and carriages of the grandees who inhabited those mansions; and down between square and mansions, hidden behind the mews, as if it was a brick-and-mortar snake, there was Gutter-alley.

People said, how could such a dirty, squalid, unhealthy, beggar-inhabited place get there between the mansions of the rich. People said so to the parish officers, and the parish officers shook their heads; not so much as to say that they did not know, but to imply thereby, a great deal, as if the wickedness of the inhabitants had something to do with it. Then people said so to the dwellers in Gutter-alley in an ill-used fashion, to which Gutter-alley very reasonably replied that it must get somewhere, which was perfectly true; that it squeezed itself up as much out of the way as it could, which was also quite true; that it – to wit, Gutter-alley – did not get between the square and the row of mansions, but that the square came and sat upon it on one side, and the row of mansions came and sat upon it on the other, which was true again; and lastly, Gutter-alley said, where was it to go, for it must have living room? Then people who knew its squalor said that it was all very shocking, and that a meeting ought to be held. And it was very shocking, but a meeting was not held; and Gutter-alley stood where it had stood before, in the year of our Lord 1862, when there was a very great exhibition building very close at hand; and Gutter-alley remained an exhibition itself, staying as it did where, without much effort, it could have thrown a stone into the grounds of a palace.

Story 2-Chapter II

Now, whether in summer or winter, poor people can patronise as well as rich; and so it fell out that the custom in poverty-stricken, hunger-pinched Gutter-alley was for the poor folk there to speak condescendingly to old Dick Bradds, when he stood at the door of Number 5, with his poor old head on one side as he looked up the court; head on the other side as he looked down. “Dickey” he was generally called, and more than one stout costermonger – they did a deal in costering in Gutter-alley, and if you penetrated into the rooms of the human rabbit-warren, fish could be found mingled with furniture, turnips amongst the wash-tubs, and a good full bucket of mussels often formed the seat of the father of a family while he helped his wife to make up ropes of onions for the morrow’s sale – well, many a stout costermonger told his wife in confidence that old Dickey Bradds always put him in mind of a moulting thrush. No inapt simile, and doubtless taken from the life, for there were always plenty of feathered captives to be seen in Gutter-alley.

It was quite true Dick – old Dickey Bradds – did look very much like some aged and shabby bird, lame of one leg; and when he stood on a cold winter’s morning peering up and down through the fog that loved to hang about the court, no one would have felt at all surprised to have seen the old man begin to peck, or to whet his long sharp old nose against the door-post.

Not that Dick did do anything of this kind – he only gave two or three keen one-sided bird-like looks about before slowly hopping up-stairs to his room on the second floor – the front room – to wait for Jenny.

A keen old blade though was Dick – a piece of that right good true steel so often to be found in the humblest implements, while your finely-polished, gaily-handled, ornamental upper-ten-thousand cutlery is so often inferior, dull of edge, and given to shut up just when they are wanted the most. Dick was not human hurried up, but a piece of fine old charcoal-made steel. Toil and hard usage had ground and ground Dick till there was little left of him but the haft, and seventy years of existence rubbing away through the world – that hard grindstone to some of us – had made that haft very rickety of rivet and springs. Certainly there was blade enough left to cut in one direction, but you could not trust Dick for fear of his giving way, or perhaps closing upon the hand that employed him.

It was so with poor old Dick when he left the great auction-rooms, where he had been kept as long as was possible; and, being proud, Dick would not believe in Nature when she told him that he had grown to be an old man, and that the time had gone by when he was lusty and strong, and able to lift great weights; and when Dick’s fellow-porters told him that a piece of furniture was too heavy for him to lift, he only felt annoyed, and grew angry and stubborn.

The fact was that Dick knew from old experience how hard a matter it was for even an industrious man to get a living in the great city; and for him, whose livelihood depended entirely upon his muscles, to turn weak and helpless meant misery, privation, and perhaps the workhouse for his old age.

That was what Dick thought, and therefore he fought hard against even the very semblance of weakness, making a point always at the auction-rooms of doing far more than he need, rushing at heavy pieces of furniture, tiring himself with extra work, and making himself an object of sport to the thoughtless, of pity to his older fellow-servants of the firm.

The consequence was that poor old Dickey Bradds had to go one day to the hospital, to lie there for many weary weeks, and come out at last lame and uncured, for at threescore and ten there is not much chance of a man building up new tissue, piling on fresh muscle and strength, and renewing the waste of so many years.

Poor old Dick left the hospital a confirmed cripple, but hopeful ever of regaining his strength and activity – at least he said so, whether merely to cheer up his grandchild or to mask his sufferings, that was known only to his own heart.

Story 2-Chapter III

Now this was how old Dick became a cripple.

It was early in winter, and there was a heavy sale on at the rooms, for the furniture of a noble mansion had been sent up from the country, and bargain-hunters and Jew brokers were there that day in force, chaffering, running down the value of the goods they coveted, and turning the crowded room into a Babel of confusion.

The sale was progressing, and under the superintendence of one Joseph Brown, the head porter, the lots had been submitted to competition with ease and facility. Old Dick had as usual been working very hard, but, not content to show the others his power, he sought to do more.

“You can’t take that there chist o’ drawers down,” said the head porter, a man most careful in the way in which he looked after the corners and polish of pieces of furniture, saving them from scratch and chip. So careful, in fact, was Brown that he had never had time to look after the polish and corners of her Majesty’s English, which he chipped and scratched most terribly. So “you can’t take that there chist o’ drawers down,” said Brown, “it’s too much for you;” and he meant it kindly, though his words were rough.

“You wouldn’t ha’ talked to me like that ten year ago, Joe Brown!” quavered Dick, turning angrily upon the porter, for he was hurt and annoyed at being spoken to before the other men.

“I didn’t mean to hurt the poor old chap,” said Brown at home to his wife that night, “for I like old Dick, who’s as honest and true-hearted an old chap as ever stepped. All the years we’ve been together I never knew Dick do a man an ill turn; while the way he turns out o’ Sundays to take that there granchile of his to a place o’ wasshup ought to be a patten for some on us.

“In course I wouldn’t ha’ spoke to him in that way ten years ago: for why? ’cos he could ha’ carried the chist o’ drawers easily; but ’stead o’ actin’ sensible, he was that proud, bless you, that he wriggled hisself under ’em like a young cuckoo with a hegg, hystes hisself up slowly by taking hold of the bannisters, and then begins to stagger downstairs.

“‘Now then: lot ’underd and two, waitin’ for lot ’underd and two,’ they calls out below. ‘Comin’ – comin’ – comin’,’ pants out Dick; and I see as it was too much for the poor old chap, who felt touched at being thought past his work, though the governors only expected him to take down the light things. So seeing how matters stood, I steps forrard to help him, when if he didn’t seem to shut up all at once like; and that there chist o’ handsome French-polished mahogany drawers, ’underd and two in the catalogue, went downstairs a deal too fast for its constitution.

“Poor old Dick! he never groaned nor made no fuss when we got him down to the cab to take him to the ’orsepittle, although his poor old leg was broke, through his coming down a whole flight arter that there chist o’ handsome French-polished mahogany drawers; but his lips was shaking, and his face drored as he gets hold of my button and pulls me to him, and says, says he, ‘This’ll be a sad upset for my Jenny, but don’t let ’em frighten her, Joe Brown, don’t please. You’re a married man and got feeling, though I spoke nasty to you just now. Please go and tell her gently, yourself. O, Joe, I shan’t be able to help in many more sales.’

“Poor old chap, how the tears did run down his cheeks as he whispered me again —

“‘Don’t say it’s much, Joe; tell her it’s a bit of a scratch, and she isn’t to fidget about me. Tell her gently, Joe; good bye, Joe; I shall be over again to-morrow or next day, Joe; and, Joe,’ he calls out in his weak piping way, as the keb begins to move, ‘Joe,’ he says, ‘just take my apern and give the lookin’-glass in the big wardrobe a bit of a rub before it comes down; and don’t forget about Jenny.’

“Poor old Dickey: got his ’art in his work, he had; and somehow as he went off, and I knew as we shouldn’t never see him again at work, if we ever see him at all, my nose wanted blowing to that degree that nothing couldn’t be like it; and it’s my belief, Sarah, if I hadn’t been roused up by a call for the next lot, that I should have turned soft; for you see, says I to myself, I says, suppose as that had been me.

“But he told me to tell Jenny gently, and I did.”

Story 2-Chapter IV

Old Dick went no more to porter at the rooms when he came out of the hospital; his smoothly-shaven face did not peer out of windows where he was hanging out hearthrugs with, pinned upon them, the bills announcing the capital modern household furniture for sale; but when he returned to Gutter-alley, Dick would always be clean-shaven of a morning, spending an hour over the process, pulling out wrinkles to get at the silver stubble lurking in the bottoms of the furrows, and stopping at times, when his hands grew tremulous, to rest. Many was the time that his grandchild, Jenny, would have to run down in haste to fetch a bit of cobweb from the cellar to stay the bleeding when that tremulous old hand did make a slip, for the nap upon Dick’s Sunday hat was too scarce to be used up in so wanton a way.

But at last Dick would strop and put away his razor and shaving-brush, hang up the little glass, and then tie on a clean white apron, take his round carpet-cap down from a nail and carefully put it on so as not to disarrange his grey locks, and then sit patiently nursing his porter’s knot and waiting, as he used to tell Jenny, for a job.

“Strong, my little lass? Strong as ever,” he’d say. “If I could only get this leg right;” and then Jenny would drop her work, take his old face between her plump little hands, kiss him tenderly, and tell him to wait a little.