XII
FORT SEWALL AND ST. MICHAEL’S
A few minutes in the car brought the girls to the end of the route, and a walk of a minute or two more took them to a region of small unsubstantial-looking buildings, with sign-boards indicating that within light refreshments were provided. One of them was built out on a rock.
“Let us go in here,” suggested Julia, “the outlook is pleasant; we might as well make sure of a good view while we are eating.”
“It’s no wonder I’m hungry,” exclaimed Brenda, looking at her watch. “Why it’s after two o’clock! I had n’t any idea that it was so late.”
So to make up for lost time the friends ordered chowder, aud ice cream, and pickles,—to be served with the chowder, and not with the ice cream; and Brenda, who still complained of being hungry, finished up with a glass of milk and some doughnuts. This horrified Julia, who thought of the pickles and clams that had preceded this addition to the dessert. But if there were not something ostrich-like in the digestion of average young girls, the amount of suffering in the world would be largely increased through vagaries of diet in which they are constantly indulging; and Brenda, because she had never suffered especially from combining conflicting substances at the same meal, thought that she was never likely to suffer.
“Now, to the Fort,” cried Nora, “if you ’ve eaten enough. I hope that there are some seats there. I’m beginning to feel just a little stiff from climbing up and down those steep streets.”
“Well, you ’ve got to climb one more small mountain to get to the Fort, and then you can rest as long as you wish.”
“We want time for St. Michael’s Church,” said Julia.
“Oh, yes, but everything else, even the Burying Hill, we can leave until some other day, if there isn’t time to-day for it.”
Now the girls had all seen Fort Sewall from the water side, as its old walls and green slopes make it one of the notable objects along the shore of Marblehead Harbor. It is built on a point that commands the entrance to the harbor, and as long ago as 1742 the General Court saw the advantage of fortifying this point, and voted a certain sum of money for the purpose. It was first built to protect the people of Marblehead against French cruisers. But in all our other wars, it has been garrisoned. To-day it is dismantled, its ramparts have become a park, and seats are placed here and there for those who wish to linger on its height to enjoy the view. Almost directly across is the Great Neck, with the lighthouse on the Point, the handsome cottages on the higher land, with the yacht clubs, and still other cottages nearer the water’s edge. Then more to the left, and farther out toward sea, Lowell and Baker’s Island, and the distant shores of Beverly, Manchester, and Gloucester. One need not he a great lover of Nature to appreciate all this; and even Brenda, who usually expressed a strong preference for city views over those of seashore or country, drew attention to the blueness of the water, and the changing lights on the island. For the sun, which had so kindly hidden itself . while the girls were walking about, had now come out, and shone with such energy that they were glad that they had found so pleasant a resting-place.
Brenda made up for lost time by photographing her three friends, and then, taking the same place in the group that Julia had had, she let her cousin photograph her.
“Come sit down, Brenda, you make me tired, you are so restless,” cried Nora, as Brenda moved about uneasily over the heights. “Amy is going to tell us some more interesting things, are n’t you?”
It was astonishing how readily Amy’s new friends had acquired the habit of addressing her by her first name, and how she almost as readily could call them by theirs.
“Why, if you really want me to,” she said in answer to Nora’s question, “I might think of something, although I do not know anything that you might not read in some book.”
“Oh, that’s no matter. It will be like meeting an old friend, if we come upon anything you have told us in print. Is n’t there any old witch-house in Marblehead? There ought to be, for it’s near enough to Salem.”
“I don’t know that you’d call it a witch-house, but there is ‘the old brig,’ as they’ve named it. It’s up opposite the old Burying Hill, one of the oldest houses in town.”
“There are so many of them,” murmured Nora.
“What makes it a witch’s house?”
“Well, I can’t say that it deserves the name. Only old Dimond is said to have been the father of Moll Pitcher, who was a famous fortune-teller of Lynn. That’s the nearest I can come to a witch. But this old Dimond himself was supposed to have some kind of strange power. People thought that he could warn them of the future, and they used to consult him about all kinds of things. On nights when it was dark and stormy, they say that he used to walk among the graves and beat the air with his arms, reciting strange words to keep disaster from his friends. It is also said that once, when a sum of money had been stolen from an old couple, he revealed the name of the thief, and told where the money could be found.”
“So he was n’t a bad witch,” said Nora.
“Wizard,” corrected Brenda.
“Oh, what’s in a name?” and Nora waved her hands impatiently.
Just at that moment, a strange unearthly sound—a cross between a whistle and a shout—came to their ears. Amy gave a start, and looked around anxiously.
“It is n’t old Dimond,” said Julia, smiling.
“Oh, no, it sounds like—” and just then the sound came again a little louder, and looking around, the girls saw Fritz at some distance leading a bicycle.
“I knew his call,” said Amy, “but I did not expect to see him over here.”
As Fritz drew near the four girls, he looked rather sheepish. He did not know Amy’s friends very well, and he soon came to a sudden halt.
“I’d better go and speak to him,” said Amy, “perhaps he has a message.”
After a few moments’ conversation, she returned to her place on the bench, with Fritz closely following.
“He has a new bicycle,” she said, her face beaming with pleasure. “His uncle surprised him with it to-day, and he rode over here to show it to me.”
Now Fritz, after acknowledging the greetings of the other girls, whom he had met once or twice, accepted their congratulations for the new bicycle, and displayed its beauties with great earnestness. As he described it, its weight, its finish, its gear, it seemed as if no other bicycle had ever been built that was quite its equal.
When he accepted the invitation given him by Julia to sit down, he flung himself on the grassy slope, in front of a bench against which he stood his wheel, and he kept one hand affectionately on a pedal.
“Come, do tell us some more about Marblehead, something romantic; if there were not more witches here, there were probably pirates?”—Nora looked eagerly at Amy.
“I don’t exactly know,” she began.
“Oh, Amy, you do know something about pirates,” and the voice of Fritz had a mischievous ring in it.
“Oh, tell us, that would be something like. Here by the sea is just the place for a tale about pirates.”
“There’s very little that I can tell,” said Amy. “I suppose that he is thinking about Oakum Bay. There is a story about—”
“There, Amy,” cried Fritz, “I can see that you are not going to tell them the real thing,” and he drew a paper from his pocket which he began slowly to unfold. An expression of annoyance crossed Amy’s face, as if she suspected him of some mischief. She leaned forward, as if she would like to take the paper away from him. On second thoughts, she refrained from the attempt.
Fritz held the paper in front of him with a very firm grasp. His left arm was half raised, as if to shield himself from Amy, should she try to take the paper away from him. Then, in a loud voice, he read the following verses.
’T was a Spanish galleon sailed the seas,—
Long centuries since have rolled,—
Laden with silver and gems to please
Gay dames and gallants bold.
But villainous pirates seized the ship,
As homeward she was bound.
Ah! she has made her last sea-trip.
For they ran her soon aground.
From Oakum Bay into Marblehead,
One lady they brought there.
But the Captain, alas! and the crew are dead,
And her they will not spare.
Loud, loud she shrieked, “Save me now from harm!”
“Oh, save my life, oh, save!”
Cruel echo mocked at her wild alarm.
Now she lies in a nameless grave.
Yet once a year when the night has come.
That marked her dreadful death.
You can hear her above the Ocean’s boom.
Out-pouring her dying breath.
“How do you like it?” he asked, when he had finished. “It’s called ‘The Shrieking Woman of Marblehead.’”
“Very well indeed,” said three of the girls. Amy alone was silent, and the expression of annoyance had not yet passed from her face.
“I like it very much,” added Nora, “although it is n’t exactly a cheerful story. Is it true?”
“Oh, Amy says so; that’s why she wrote the poem, because she had read the story somewhere, and she thought it so tragic. She likes tragic things.”
During this speech Amy had been growing redder and redder. For the three girls were looking at her, as if to say, “What a strange girl you are to write poetry!” or “To think that you can write it, how very queer!”
Julia was the first to break the silence. “Did you really write that? How delightful it must be to be able to! I really envy you.”
When Julia said anything, people were apt to believe her. Her voice had the ring of sincerity in it,—a quality which its possessor cannot overvalue.
“Why, thank you,” responded Amy. “I do not write very much—and I never show what I have written to people,” and she looked fiercely in the direction of Fritz. But the latter did not care. He was getting his revenge for a certain neglect on the part of Amy from which he had suffered since she had become intimate with Brenda and her friends.
He drew another paper from his pocket, and Amy wondered what he would read next. In a flash she had decided that it would not be worth while to try to stop him now. The less she interfered with him, the more quickly would he probably stop his teasing. He was not fond of reading aloud. At least she had seldom been able to persuade him to read to cousin Joan. But, there! he had begun again, and Amy was forced to listen.
Oh, tree! Once proud, though fallen now,
In sorrow here my head I bow
To see thee stricken down.
Well hast thou worn thy grand old age!
Long hast withstood the tempest’s rage,
The cruel winter’s frown.
No storm, no tempest, laid thee low.
But man, the ruler, was thy foe.
And with unsparing hand
He hurled thee prostrate to the earth.
Regarding not thy royal birth,
King of the forest land!
“Oh, Fritz, do stop!” cried Amy.
But Fritz was remorseless. “Well, I’ll skip a little, but I must give the closing sentiments.”
"Struck by the smiter death, some day
Shall all of us,—poor common clay!
Lie low, as thou dost lie.
And happy he, above whose head
One fond, regretful tear is shed.
For whom one soul doth sigh.
“There’s resignation for you!” he said, as he finished. But the others, even the voluble Brenda, did not know just what to say. Now, Fritz, after the manner of boys,—and girls, too, for that matter,—having gratified his little desire for getting even with Amy, began to feel ashamed of himself, and although he had several other poems in his pocket, taken, like those he had read, from between the leaves of the book on Amy’s desk, he decided to read no more.
When he rose to leave the group, Amy would not respond to his word of good-bye, though he stood before her for a moment, as he raised his hat before finally starting off.
The other girls, feeling that they knew Amy so much less thoroughly than Fritz did, were uncertain what to say.
Amy relieved them of part of their embarrassment by suggesting that they turn back towards the town.
“We may have to wait for the next car, and we want to have time to visit St. Michael’s Church.”
Julia led the way with Amy, and they walked some distance ahead of the other two. The poetry which Fritz had read had made a great impression on Brenda, not so much because it was poetry, as because Amy had written it.
“She does n’t seem like just the same girl to me, does she to you?” she said to Nora, as they made the descent from the Fort to the road below. “I’m not sure whether I like it or not; it seems strange that she should be able to write like that. Why, those poems sounded good enough to print, did n’t they?”
“Why, yes, I’m not sure but they did,” replied Nora: “but then, I don’t suppose that we are judges.”
“I don’t see why not. We ’ve always read a lot of poetry, and I’m sure, Nora, that you know ever so many pieces to recite. I ’ve often heard you.”
“I suppose that’s why Amy has such a stand-off way with her. A person who writes poetry must feel a little different from others.”
“Hurry up, girls, I see the car coming, and it may wait only a minute before turning round,” cried Amy from below, in a voice that was thoroughly practical and matter-of-fact,—even if its possessor was also a writer of poetry.
The car waited for them a second or two, and the four friends took their places on a front seat. “I think that I ’ve been in St. Michael’s Church,” said Brenda. “We came over to service once, a year or two ago, but I did n’t think particularly about the church. I remember that mamma said something about its being old, but I did not realize then the importance of knowing so much about everything historic,” and she made a low bow to Julia and Amy.
“Well, it really is picturesque,” returned Amy, “and altogether worth seeing.
“Here we are!” she exclaimed, in a few minutes. Jumping and following her the three other pilgrims were soon walking down a side street toward St. Michael’s.
At a house next door Amy obtained the key, and the friends in a moment had the building to themselves. They found the interior a little different from that of any other church they had ever seen; instead of being long and narrow, its cruciform shape was almost that of a square. It had a rather strange-looking ceiling, from which was suspended a fine chandelier, the gift, Amy told them, of a merchant of Bristol, England.
“When it was built, in 1714,” said Amy, again referring to her notebook, “the frame and all the materials were brought from England. Of course inside it has been altered and freshened in some ways, but still it gives a good idea of what an old eighteenth-century church was like.”
“It’s a wonder it never burnt down,” said Julia; “it’s so near the centre of the town, and I know that there have been many fires in Marblehead.”
“It was in great danger in the fire of 1877; but when the roof caught, a young man named Gorman found a foothold on the top of a house near by, and in this way was able to attack the flames, and the rector, Mr. Ward, kept hold of the rope which he had tied around the young man’s waist, while he battled with the blaze, and finally put it out before it had done much damage.”
“I don’t suppose that it was a very popular church during the Revolution,” said Nora; “for so many Episcopalians were apt to be Loyalists.”
“Well, Rev. Mr. Weeks, the Rector of St. Michael’s, did run away to Nova Scotia, and some of the leading members were unpopular Tories. The church itself was closed during the war and for some years after. When the Declaration of Independence was declared, the townspeople rushed in and pulled down the arms of King George from over the chancel, and rang the bell until it cracked.”
“How foolish! To treat a church in that way!” said Brenda.
“At any rate, they made themselves understood,” responded Julia. The girls now turned from St. Michael’s, and while Amy took back the key, they all walked on slowly until she overtook them.
“I wonder where Fritz is,” Brenda ventured to ask, as she drew near.
“Oh, he is probably half way home now. He can ride pretty well, and he ’ll try to see what he or his bicycle can do.”
“It’s a wonder that he has never had a bicycle before.”
“It’s a wonder to me that he has one now. His uncle is so afraid that something will happen to him while his father is away, that he never would consent to his having one.”
“Perhaps his father has written' about it; if Fritz is like any other boys I know, my brothers, for example,” said Nora, “he would n’t rest content with his uncle’s refusal. It may be that his father himself has sent this to him.”
“Talking of bicycles,” cried Brenda, who had been walking some steps ahead, “What’s the matter with a carriage? There’s Thomas, in front of the old Town House, gazing about, and holding in the horses, and wondering if we have been swallowed up in any of these old mansions.”
“Well, I’m willing to admit,” said Julia, “that I’m not sorry to see him. We ’ve had a perfectly lovely day. But sight-seeing is tiring, and I want to go home and digest all the things I ’ve seen. Then some other day I’d like to come back and visit the old Burying Hill, and all the old birth-places and landmarks that we have n’t seen. I suppose there are plenty of them left.”
“Oh, yes, plenty, and there are two or three fine pictures in Abbott Hall, that brick building on the hill above the Lee House. We must go there some time.”
“But we can’t say that we have n’t done pretty well to-day, thanks to you, our guide. I feel almost as if I’d been on a pilgrimage to a foreign place,” said Julia. “I’m going to work now to read everything that I can lay my hands on about Marblehead.”
“I ’ll tell you what would be pleasant,” said Nora, “we might have a kind of a reading party twice a week on the beach, and each one could tell what she had read about Marblehead.”
“We might try it,” said Brenda. Her voice did not sound very enthusiastic as she continued, “I’m not sure that I should care to do serious reading about anything like that in the summer. But we might try it next Friday. You could come, could n’t you, Amy?”
“Why, yes, I think so, if you don’t meet until eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, we won’t meet before that; I can assure you that we don’t try to get up ahead of the lark. It’s always an accident when I get down to the beach before that.”
“On Friday then,” the girls all cried to Amy, as she left the house, and she responded gayly,—
“On Friday.”