The body of Mrs. Robinson was found "in Herring Cove, a little within Race Point," by Indians, about six weeks after the event. It was identified by papers found in the stays, and by a gold necklace, that had been concealed from the natives by the swelling of the neck. A finger had been cut off, doubtless for the gold ring the unfortunate lady had worn.

The winter of 1874-'75 will be memorable in New England beyond the present generation, the extreme cold having fast locked up a greater number of her harbors than was ever before known. Provincetown, that is so providentially situated to receive the storm-tossed mariner, was hermetically sealed by a vast ice-field, which extended from Wood End to Manomet, a distance of twenty-two miles, grasping in its icy embrace all intermediate sh.o.r.es and havens. In the neighborhood of Provincetown a fleet of fishing vessels that was unable to reach the harbor became immovably imbedded in the floe, thus realizing at our very doors all the perils of Arctic navigation. A few were released by the aid of a steam-cutter, but by far the greater number remained helplessly imprisoned without other change than that caused by the occasional drift of the ice-floe in strong gales.

The sight was indeed a novel one. Where before was the expanse of blue-water, nothing could now be seen except the white slab, pure as marble, which entombed the harbors. All within the grasp of the eye was a Dead Sea. Flags of distress were displayed in every direction from the masts of crippled vessels that no help could reach. Their hulls, rigging, and tapering spars were so ice-crusted as to resemble ships of gla.s.s. As many as twenty signals of distress were counted at one time from the life-saving station at Provincetown. Some of these luckless craft were crushed and sunk to the bottom; others were abandoned by their crews, who had eaten their last crust and burned the bulwarks of their vessels for fuel. The remainder were at length released by the breaking-up of the ice-floe, which only relaxed its grip after having held them fast for a month.

It would not be extravagant to say that the beach on the ocean side, between Highland Light and Wood End, was strewed with wrecks. Vessel after vessel was dashed into pieces by waves that bore great blocks of drift-ice to aid in the work of destruction. One starless morning the _James Rommell_ struck between Highland Light and Race Point. Instantly the ice-laden surges leaped upon her decks. Wood and iron were crushed like paper under the blows of sea and ice. The helpless vessel was forced side wise toward the beach, where the waves began heaping up the loose sand on the leeward side, until it reached as high as her decks.

When the vessel struck, the crew clambered up the rigging, and all were saved, in a perishing condition, with the help of rescuing hands from the life station. One poor fellow dropped dead on the sh.o.r.e he had periled life to gain, a frozen corpse. In twenty-four hours there was no more left of the _James Rommell_ than could be carried away in the wreckers' carts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LIFE BOAT STATION.--TRIAL OF THE BOMB AND LINE.]

But saddest of all was the loss of the Italian bark _Giovanni_. After eighty-one days of stormy voyage from Palermo, a terrible gale, which tore the frozen sails in shreds from her masts, drove her upon this dangerous coast. In the midst of a blinding snow-storm, the unmanageable vessel was borne steadily and mercilessly upon the sh.o.r.e. When she struck, the shock brought down portions of her rigging, leaving her a dismantled wreck. Her crew could see people moving about on the beach, but no human power could aid them. Soon the _Giovanni_ began to sink into the sandy grave the waves were fast digging to receive her hull, and the seas sweeping her decks raged around the rigging, in which the sailors had taken refuge. One by one they were picked off by the waves.

The wreckers' bombs failed to bring a line to them. A few of the ship's company made a desperate push for the beach, which only one reached alive. All night long the wreckers kept their watch by the sh.o.r.e, hoping the gale might abate; but sea and wind beat and howled as wildly as before. When it was light enough to descry the _Giovanni_, six objects could be seen clinging in the ringing. The ship, it was perceived, was fast breaking up. G.o.d help them, for no other could! The spectators saw these poor fellows perish before their eyes. They saw the overstrained masts bend and shiver and break, crashing in ruin down upon the shattered hull. The next day only a piece of the bow remained, sticking up like a grave-stone on the reef.

Of the _Giovanni's_ crew of fifteen only the one mentioned escaped. He could not speak a syllable of English, but was able, by signs, to identify the body of his captain, when it came ash.o.r.e. The other bodies that came in were laid out in Provincetown church, three miles from the scene of the wreck. Stray portions of the ship's cargo of wine and fruit were washed up, and while any of the former was to be had the beach was not safe to be traversed. In the midst of this carnival of death, men drunk with wine wandered up and down in the bitter cold, intent upon robbery and violence. One or more of these beach pirates were found dead, the victims of their own debauch.

The configuration of the sh.o.r.es of the Cape on the Atlantic side is very different from what was observed by early voyagers. The Isle Nauset of Smith has, for more than a century, been "wiped out" by the sea.[227]

Inlets to harbors have in some cases been closed and other pa.s.sages opened, as at Eastham and Orleans. In 1863 remains of the hull of an ancient ship were uncovered at Nauset Beach in Orleans, imbedded in the mud of a meadow a quarter of a mile from any water that would have floated her. Curiosity was aroused by the situation as well as the singular build of the vessel, and what was left of her was released from the bed in which, it is believed, it had been inclosed for more than two centuries. A careful writer considers it to have been the wreck of the _Sparrow-hawk_, mentioned by Bradford as having been stranded here in 1626.[228]

There are generally two ranges of sand-bars on the ocean side of the Cape; the outward being about three-fourths of a mile from sh.o.r.e, and the inner range five hundred yards. As in the case of the ill-fated _Giovanni_, a vessel usually brings up on the outer bar, and pounds over it at the next tide, merely to encounter the inward shoal. Between these two ranges a tremendous cross-sea is always running in severe gales, and, if the wind has continued long from the same quarter, causing also a current that will float the _debris_ of a wreck along the sh.o.r.e faster than a man can walk. With the wind at south-east the wreck stuff will not land, but is carried rapidly to the north-west. Shipwrecked mariners have to cross this h.e.l.l gate to reach the beach. The mortars used at the life-stations will not carry a life-line to a vessel at five hundred yards from the sh.o.r.e in the teeth of a gale, and are therefore useless at that distance; but if the wreck is fortunate enough to be lifted over the inner bar by the sea, it will strike the beach at a distance where it is practicable to save life under ordinary contingencies. So great are the obstacles to be overcome on this sh.o.r.e, that there is no part of the New England coast, Nantucket perhaps excepted, where a sailor would not rather suffer shipwreck.

Standing here, I felt as if I had not lived in vain. I was as near Europe as my legs would carry me, at the extreme of this withered arm with a town in the hollow of its hand. You seem to have invaded the domain of old Neptune, and plucked him by the very beard. For centuries the storms have beaten upon this narrow strip of sand, behind which the commerce of a State lies intrenched. The a.s.sault is unflagging, the defense obstinate. Fresh columns are always forming outside for the attack, and the roll of ocean is forever beating the charge. Yet the Cape stands fast, and will not budge. It is as if it should say, "After me the Deluge."

[Ill.u.s.tration: A "SUNFISH."]

FOOTNOTES:

[214] There is a well-defined line of demarkation between the almost uninterrupted rock wall of the north coast and the sand, which, beginning in the Old Colony, in Scituate, const.i.tutes Cape Cod; and, if we consider Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, and Long Island as having at some period formed the exterior sh.o.r.es, the almost unbroken belt of sand continues to Florida. This line is so little imaginary that it is plain to see where granite gives place to sand; and it is sufficiently curious to arrest the attention even of the unscientific explorer.

[215] "Lequel nous nommames C. Blanc pour ce que c'estoient sables et dunes qui paroissent ainsi."

[216] Named by Captain Gosnold, on account of the expressed fears of one of his company.

[217] Being the 21st of November, it would fall quite near to the day usually set apart for Thanksgiving in New England, which is merely an arbitrary observance, commemorative of no particular occurrence.

[218] One of De Monts's men ("_un charpentier Maloin_") was killed here in 1605 by the natives. In attempting to recover a kettle one of them had stolen, he was transfixed with arrows.

[219] Lescarbot adds that the natives, turning their backs to the vessel, threw the sand with both hands toward them from between their b.u.t.tocks, in derision, yelling like wolves.

[220] Hubbard relates a terrific storm here. See "New England," p. 644.

In 1813 there was a naval engagement at Provincetown.

[221] General Knox was interested in this project. Lemuel c.o.x, the celebrated bridge architect, was engaged in cutting it.

[222] Champlain confirms this.

[223] Prior was personally acceptable to Louis XIV., who gave him a diamond box with his portrait. He was also well known to Boileau.

[224] Captain David Smith and Captain Gamaliel Collins.

[225] In old times a decoction of checker-berry leaves was given to lambs poisoned by eating the young leaves of the laurel in spring.

[226] There is an authentic account of ice being found here on the 4th of July, 1741.

[227] When the English first settled upon the Cape there was an island off Chatham, three leagues distant, called Webb's Island. It contained twenty acres, covered with red-cedar or savin. The Nantucket people resorted to it for fire-wood. In 1792, as Dr. Morse relates, it had ceased to exist for nearly a century. "A large rock," he says, "that was upon the island, and which settled as the earth washed away, now marks the place."

[228] Amos Otis, in the "New England Historical and Genealogical Register," 1865.

[Ill.u.s.tration: NANTUCKET, FROM THE SEA.]

CHAPTER XX.

NANTUCKET.

"G.o.d bless the sea-beat island!

And grant for evermore That charity and freedom dwell, As now, upon her sh.o.r.e."--WHITTIER.

The sea-port of Nantucket, every body knows, rose, flourished, and fell with the whale-fishery. It lies snugly ensconced in the bottom of a bay on the north side of the island of the name, with a broad sound of water between it and the nearest main-land of Cape Cod. The first Englishman to leave a distinct record of it was Captain Dermer, who was here in 1620, though Weymouth probably became entangled among Nantucket Shoals in May, 1605. The relations of Archer and Brereton render it at least doubtful whether this island was not the first on which Gosnold landed, and to which he gave the name of Martha's Vineyard. The two accounts are too much at variance to enable the student to bring them into reciprocal agreement, yet that of Archer, being in the form of a diary, in which each day's transactions are noted, will be preferred to the narrative of Brereton, who wrote from recollection. To these the curious reader is referred.[229]

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAP OF CAPE COD, NANTUCKET, AND MARTHA'S VINEYARD.]

The name of "Nautican" is the first I have found applied to Nantucket Island.[230] Whether the derivation is from the Latin _nauticus_, or a corruption of the Indian, is disputed, though the word has an unmistakably Indian sound and construction.[231] In the patents and other doc.u.ments it is called Nantukes, Mantukes, or Nantucquet Isle, indifferently, showing, as may be suggested, as many efforts to construe good Indian into bad English. Previous to Gosnold's voyage the English had no knowledge of it, nor were the names he gave the isles discovered by him in general use until long afterward. One other derivation is too far-fetched for serious consideration, a mere _jeu de mot_, to which all readers of Gosnold's voyage are insensible. Historians and antiquaries having alike failed to solve these knotty questions, it is proposed to refer them to a council of Spiritualists, with power to send for persons and papers.

Those who wish to enjoy a foretaste of crossing the British Channel may have it by going to Nantucket. The pa.s.sage affords in a marked degree the peculiarities of a sea-voyage, and, in rough weather, is not exempt from its drawbacks. The land is nearly, if not quite, lost to view. You are on the real ocean, and the remainder of the voyage to Europe is merely a few more revolutions of the paddles. You have enjoyed the emotions incident to getting under way, of steering boldly out into the open sea, and of tossing for a few hours upon its billows: the rest is but a question of time and endurance.

Every one is prepossessed with Nantucket. Its isolation from the world surrounds it with a mysterious haze, that is the more fascinating because it exacts a certain faith in the invisible. Inviting the imagination to depict it for us, is far more interesting than if we could, by going down to the sh.o.r.e, see it any day. In order to get to it we must steer by the compa.s.s, and in thick weather look it up with the plummet. In brief, it answers many of the conditions of an undiscovered country. Although laid down on every good map of New England, and certified by the relations of many trustworthy writers, it is not enough; we do not know Nantucket.

[Ill.u.s.tration: APPROACH TO MARTHA'S VINEYARD.]

No brighter or sunnier day could be wished for than the one on which the _Island Home_ steamed out from Wood's Hole into the Vineyard Sound for the sea-girt isle. Besides the usual complement of health and pleasure seekers was a company of strolling players, from Boston, as they announced themselves--a very long way indeed, I venture to affirm. These "abstracts and brief chronicles of the time" were soon "well bestowed"

on the cabin sofas, the rising sea making it at least doubtful whether they would be able to perform before a Nantucket audience so soon as that night. From the old salt who rang the bell and urged immediate attendance at the captain's office, to the captain himself, with golden rings in his ears, and the Indian girl who officiated as stewardess, the belongings of the _Island Home_ afloat were spiced with a novel yet agreeable foretaste of the island home fast anch.o.r.ed in the Atlantic.

The sail across the Vineyard Sound is more than beautiful; it is a poem.

Trending away to the west, the Elizabeth Islands, like a gate ajar, half close the entrance into Buzzard's Bay. Among them nestles Cuttyhunk, where the very first English spade was driven into New England soil.[232] Straight over in front of the pathway the steamer is cleaving the Vineyard is looking its best and greenest, with oak-skirted highlands inclosing the sheltered harbor of Vineyard Haven,[233] famous on all this coast. Edgartown is seen at the bottom of a deep indentation, its roofs gleaming like scales on some huge reptile that has crawled out of the sea, and is basking on the warm yellow sands.

Chappaquidd.i.c.k Island, with its sandy tentacles, terminates in Cape Poge, on which is a light-house.

Between the sh.o.r.es, and as far as eye can discern, the fleet that pa.s.ses almost without intermission is hurrying up and down the Sound. One column stretches away under bellying sails, like a fleet advancing in line of battle, but the van-guard is sinking beneath the distant waves.

Still they come and go, speeding on to the appointed mart, threading their way securely among islands, capes, and shoals. Much they enliven the scene. A sea without a sail is a more impressive solitude than a deserted city.

We ran between the two sandy points, long and low, that inclose the harbor into smoother water. The captain went on the guard. "Heave your bow-line." "Ay, ay, sir." "Back her, sir" (to the pilot). "Hold on your spring." "Stop her." "Slack away the bow-line there." "Haul in." It is handsomely done, and this is Nantucket.

The wharf, I should infer, would be the best place in which to take the census of Nantucket. No small proportion of the inhabitants were a.s.sembled at the pier's head, waiting the arrival of the boat. You had first to make your way through a skirmishing line of hack-drivers and of boys eager to carry your luggage; then came the solid battalion of citizen idlers, and behind these was a reserve of carriages and carts.

On the pier you gain the idea that Nantucket is populous; that what you see is merely the overflow; whereas it is the wharf that is populous, while the town is for the moment well-nigh deserted. There could be no better expression of the feeling of isolation than the agitation produced by so simple an event as the arrival of the daily packet. Doors are slammed, shutters pulled to in a hurry, while a tide of curious humanity pours itself upon the landing-place. The coming steamer is heralded by the town-crier's fish-horn, as soon as descried from the church-tower that is his observatory. In winter, when communication with the main-land is sometimes interrupted for several days together, the sense of separation from the world must be intensified.[234]