Chapter 1: Cast Off

My uncle’s voice had sounded always cold and harsh in my ears, but I had never supposed the man was wholly destitute of affection or sympathy. Now, however, when the time had come to show feeling, if he felt at all, his tones had a harder ring than ever. His face, too, was fixed and repellent, as if he had quite made up his mind, when he said, addressing himself more particularly to me:

“I do not see that I am under any obligations to help either of you through life. Your father’s views of his duty towards you were not my views. If he taught you to have ideas above your prospects in life I am not to blame for the result. What little estate he had did not more than suffice to pay his debts. There is nothing left for you to live on in idleness. You have eaten your cake. You have had your spring- time. You must now pay the cost of it.”

There was an angry ring in my uncle’s voice for which I did not see any justification. Evidently he was lashing himself into a fury. So I said nothing, but plucked idly at some of the young buds which hung on a low bough, almost in my face.

“I have never approved of these easy ways with boys,” my uncle went on. “I am tired of all this fiddlestick and nonsense about education. A boy should be put to work, sir, as soon as he is big enough to hold a plough-handle, and somebody should see that he is kept at it. You are eighteen years old, almost a grown man, and you should be hard at work at this very moment”

“But what would you have me do, sir?” I asked, seeking to soften his wrath as much as possible. But my unfortunate question had the opposite result. His cheeks swelled out, and he gripped his cane nervously.

“What should you do? What should you do?” he asked, raspingly. “That is the question that idle and shiftless fellows like you always ask. You should find work for yourself, sir, instead of coming to me with your puling requests for help, just as if you were a child.”

And my uncle in his wrath mercilessly chopped down several weeds with his cane. I still deemed it the wiser policy to say nothing. In fact, there was nothing to be said, for I saw he was in no mood to listen to argument, no matter how sane and strong that argument might be.

“Listen to me,” said my uncle, thrusting his angry and now livid face close to mine. “I will give you just this much help: I need hands on my farm. If you two choose to come each of you can have half a man’s wages. You are not worth more. I doubt whether you are worth that. But still I will give you the chance. Now, remember, no consideration will be extended to you because you are my nephews. You will have to make your own way in life just as I have made mine.”

My uncle snapped these words out as if they were so many balls fired from a musket. Then he drew himself up and stalked off, holding his figure so stiff and straight that I could not help laughing a little bit, though, I assure you, I felt far from cheerful.

When he was quite out of sight I turned and looked at Henry. Henry was two years younger than I was, but I always felt as if at least six or seven years separated us. Perhaps that was because he was slender and studious and went about with a pale face, which I always told him was caused by too much reading, though I never could see that my words kept him away from his books one minute.

At this gloomy moment, which I saw very well was a crisis in both our lives. I felt more pity for Henry than I did for myself. I don’t deserve any credit on that account, I know, because I was big and strong and could stand any hardship. Besides, our father almost with his last words said that as I was the elder and the hardier, I must always protect Henry. And out of a full heart I told him that I would. Now when the time had come I wondered how I was to keep that promise. I knew that Henry was totally unfit for the work my uncle offered to us, and I was old enough to know, also, that the man who said you could not make a square peg fit in a round hole told the truth.

Henry was leaning against the tree under which my uncle had stood, and I do not think I ever saw anybody look more woe-begone.

“I should soon die if I had to live a life like that,” he said, simply.

And, looking at him then, I believed that he spoke the truth. I think that the farmer’s life out in the open air, with the winds of heaven blowing around him and God’s sun shining down, is the noblest of all callings, but that part of it which our uncle designed for us was the merest drudgery and slavery. We would be like the serfs of Russia, and he would be our master, reaping where we had sowed. I knew it and Henry knew it. And my mind rose up in rebellion.

“What shall we do?” asked Henry. “I don’t know,” I said, desperately. “Our uncle thinks we are not fit for anything, and I suppose he is right.”

Then we stood there a while, each waiting for the other to propose something. It was Henry who spoke first.

“I think I’ll talk it over with Starboard Sam,” he said. “Maybe he can tell us what to do.”

“I don’t see why you bring that old sailor into it,” I said, a little pettishly. “Mighty little good advice he could give us. My uncle thinks we are children, at least in intellect, and if we seek advice from Starboard Sam it will merely be three children instead of two talking.”

The truth was I was somewhat offended at Henry for bringing up the old sailor’s name. I had thought sometimes that the friendship of Starboard Sam was not the best thing in the world for him. Starboard Sam in his youth had been a sailor on the famous old frigate, Constitution, and had been in more sea-fights than I can tell of now. After that he had served on a whaling ship out of Nantucket, his birthplace, and had been all over the world, seeing all sorts of queer places and queer people. How he ever drifted down into Maryland and anchored in our little town I never knew. But there he was, and on sunny days he would spin tales by the hour of battles between great ships, and, again, of hunting whales in distant oceans, and of sailing among icebergs, and over lonely seas, sometimes for months, without ever meeting another ship. And Henry would lie on the grass and listen to it all, and his pale face would flush and his eyes shine just like a man’s who had been drinking more strong liquor than was good for him. Then I would think that Henry’s head was about to be turned by the old sailor’s tales, for his mind always flared up when people talked to him of distant countries and the queer things that are to seen in them.

I was thinking of the effect of these yarns on Henry’s mind when I repeated, rather sharply:

“I don’t see what good can come of talking to Starboard Sam. In such matters as these we are more able to advise him than he is to advise us.”

Henry reddened a little, but he did not give up the point.

“Sam is an old man, and has seen a great deal of the world. I think it’s very likely that he can help us,” he said.

“More likely to get us into some trouble,” I replied. “It’s all he can do to look out for himself.”

“Well, at any rate,” said Henry, “as soon as we begin to talk of him he comes in sight. That’s a good sign, I think, and I’m going to speak to him.”

And, sure enough, a figure appeared just then on the crest of the hill. It remained there a moment outlined against the sun, which had now begun to slide down the horizon, and in the shining light I could see every feature of the old sailor’s tanned and seamed face. Then he began to approach us with that queer rolling walk, which I am told everybody who lives on board ships acquires. As he came down the hill he began to chant in a hoarse, but not unmusical voice:

It ofttimes has been told that British seamen bold Could flog the tars of France so neat and handy, oh! But they never met their match, till the Yankees did them catch— Oh, the Yankee boy for fighting is the dandy, oh! The Gurriere, a frigate bold, on the foaming ocean rolled, Commanded by proud Dacres, all the grandee, oh! With as choice a British crew as the rammer ever drew— They could flog the French two to one so handy, oh!

I knew the remainder of the song as well as he did, for I heard him sing many a time how the Constitution had met this same Guerriere and had made her lower her colors and her pride. Besides, I was in no mood for song, so I said, still in an ill-humor:

“The singing will keep for another day. Henry wants to speak to you, Sam.”

“Hard a starboard, there! Hard a starboard! Gently, my master, gently!” said old Sam. I suppose he got the nickname Starboard because he was always using the word.

Then he rolled up to us, and looked keenly at us both.

“Somethin’ wrong,” he broke out. “The wind’s in the wrong quarter. Somethin’ fallen foul o’ the ship. What’s the trouble, my lads?”

“You tell him, Henry,” said I, for I was still feeling a little pettish and annoyed with myself for feeling so.

Henry told the whole story of the interview with our uncle, and our trouble about our future. The old sailor listened with the greatest attention. Then he burst out in a sputter of indignation.