Moran of the Lady Letty

“Out there aboard the schooner. I brought her up on deck—I left her on the schooner—on the deck—she was stabbed in the throat—and then came after you to tell you. Then the schooner broke away while I was coming; she’s drifting out to sea now!”

“Where is she? Where is she?”

“Who—the girl—the schooner—which one? The girl is on the schooner—and the schooner—that’s her, right there—she’s drifting out to sea!”

Wilbur put both hands to his temples, closing his eyes.

“I’ll go back!” exclaimed Hodgson. “We’ll have the surf-boat out and get after her; we’ll bring the body back!”

“No, no!” cried Wilbur, “it’s better—this way. Leave her, let her go—she’s going out to sea again!”

“But the schooner won’t live two hours outside in this weather; she’ll go down!”

“It’s better—that way—let her go. I want it so!”

“I can’t stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should sig-storm coming up, and I’ve got to be at my station.”

Wilbur did not answer; he was watching the schooner.

“I can’t stay!” cried the other again. “If the patrol should signal—I can’t stop here, I must be on duty. Come back, you can’t do anything!”

“No!”

“I have got to go!” Hodgson ran back, swung himself on the horse, and rode away at a furious gallop, inclining his head against the gusts.

And the schooner in a world of flying spray, white scud, and driving spoondrift, her cordage humming, her forefoot churning, the flag at her peak straining stiff in the gale, came up into the narrow passage of the Golden Gate, riding high upon the outgoing tide. On she came, swinging from crest to crest of the waves that kept her company and that ran to meet the ocean, shouting and calling out beyond there under the low, scudding clouds.

Wilbur had climbed to the top of the old fort. Erect upon its granite ledge he stood, and watched and waited.

Not once did the “Bertha Millner” falter in her race. Like an unbitted horse, all restraint shaken off, she ran free toward the ocean as to her pasture-land. She came nearer, nearer, rising and rolling with the seas, her bowsprit held due west, pointing like a finger out to sea, to the west—out to the world of romance. And then at last, as the little vessel drew opposite the old fort and passed not one hundred yards away, Wilbur, watching from the rampart, saw Moran lying upon the deck with outstretched arms and calm, upturned face; lying upon the deck of that lonely fleeing schooner as upon a bed of honor, still and calm, her great braids smooth upon her breast, her arms wide; alone with the sea; alone in death as she had been in life. She passed out of his life as she had come into it—alone, upon a derelict ship, abandoned to the sea. She went out with the tide, out with the storms; out, out, out to the great gray Pacific that knew her and loved her, and that shouted and called for her, and thundered in the joy of her as she came to meet him like a bride to meet a bridegroom.

“Good-by, Moran!” shouted Wilbur as she passed. “Good-by, good-by, Moran! You were not for me—not for me! The ocean is calling for you, dear; don’t you hear him? Don’t you hear him? Good-by, good-by, good-by!”

The schooner swept by, shot like an arrow through the swirling currents of the Golden Gate, and dipped and bowed and courtesied to the Pacific that reached toward her his myriad curling fingers. They infolded her, held her close, and drew her swiftly, swiftly out to the great heaving bosom, tumultuous and beating in its mighty joy, its savage exultation of possession.

Wilbur stood watching. The little schooner lessened in the distance—became a shadow in mist and flying spray—a shadow moving upon the face of the great waste of water. Fainter and fainter she grew, vanished, reappeared, was heaved up again—a mere speck upon the western sky—a speck that dwindled and dwindled, then slowly melted away into the gray of the horizon.