A Ship of '49 Page #4

"A Ship of '49" by Bret Harte is a vivid and engaging novella that captures the spirit of the Gold Rush era in California. Through the eyes of its characters, Harte explores themes of adventure, ambition, and the complexities of human relationships in a rapidly changing society. The story revolves around the experiences of a ship's crew during this tumultuous time, highlighting the struggles and hopes of those drawn to the promise of fortune and new beginnings. With Harte's trademark wit and rich descriptive style, the narrative offers a compelling glimpse into the lives of those who sought their fortunes on the windswept shores of the Pacific.

• Novel

								

lighted from the ports, and one or two by a door cut through the ship's
side communicating with an alley on either side. This was the case with
the loft occupied by Mr. Nott's strange lodger, which, besides a door
in the passage, had this independent communication with the alley. Nott
had never known him to make use of the latter door; on the contrary, it
was his regular habit to issue from his apartment at three o'clock
every afternoon, dressed as he has been described, stride deliberately
through the passage to the upper deck and thence into the street, where
his strange figure was a feature of the principal promenade for two or
three hours, returning as regularly at eight o'clock to the ship and
the seclusion of his loft. Mr. Nott paused before the door, under the
pretense of throwing the light before him into the shadows of the
forecastle: all was silent within. He was turning back when he was
impressed by the regular recurrence of a peculiar rustling sound which
he had at first referred to the rubbing of the wires of the swinging
lantern against his clothing. He set down the light and listened; the
sound was evidently on the other side of the partition; the sound of
some prolonged, rustling, scraping movement, with regular intervals.
Was it due to another of Mr. Nott's unprofitable tenants--the rats? No.
A bright idea flashed upon Mr. Nott's troubled mind. It was De
Ferrières snoring! He smiled grimly. "Wonder if Rosey'd call him a
gentleman if she heard that," he chuckled to himself as he slowly made
his way back to the cabin and the small state-room opposite to his
daughter's. During the rest of the night he dreamed of being compelled
to give Rosey in marriage to his lodger, who added insult to the
outrage by snoring audibly through the marriage service.

Meantime, in her cradle-like nest in her nautical bower, Miss Rosey
slumbered as lightly. Waking from a vivid dream of Venice--a child's
Venice--seen from the swelling deck of the proudly-riding Pontiac, she
was so impressed as to rise and cross on tiptoe to the little slanting
port-hole. Morning was already dawning over the flat, straggling city,
but from every counting-house and magazine the votive tapers of the
feverish worshipers of trade and mammon were still flaring fiercely.

II.

The day following "steamer night" was usually stale and flat at San
Francisco. The reaction from the feverish exaltation of the previous
twenty-four hours was seen in the listless faces and lounging feet of
promenaders, and was notable in the deserted offices and warehouses
still redolent of last night's gas, and strewn with the dead ashes of
last night's fires. There was a brief pause before the busy life which
ran its course from "steamer day" to steamer day was once more taken
up. In that interval a few anxious speculators and investors breathed
freely, some critical situation was relieved, or some impending
catastrophe momentarily averted. In particular, a singular stroke of
good fortune that morning befell Mr. Nott. He not only secured a new
tenant, but, as he sagaciously believed, introduced into the Pontiac a
counteracting influence to the subtle fascinations of De Ferrières.

The new tenant apparently possessed a combination of business
shrewdness and brusque frankness that strongly impressed his landlord.
"You see, Rosey," said Nott, complacently describing the interview to
his daughter, "when I sorter intimated in a keerless kind o' way that
sugar kettles and hair dye was about played out ez securities, he just
planked down the money for two months in advance. 'There,' sez he,
'that's your security--now where's mine?' 'I reckon I don't hitch
on, pardner,' sez I; 'security what for?' ''Spose you sell the ship?'
sez he, 'afore the two months is up. I've heard that old Sleight wants
to buy her.' 'Then you gets back your money,' sez I. 'And lose my
room,' sez he; 'not much, old man. You sign a paper that whoever buys
the ship inside o' two months hez to buy me ez a tenant with it;
that's on the square.' So I sign the paper. It was mighty cute in the
young feller, wasn't it?" he said, scanning his daughter's pretty
puzzled face a little anxiously; "and don't you see, ez I ain't goin'
to sell the Pontiac, it's just about ez cute in me, eh? He's a
contractor somewhere around yer, and wants to be near his work. So he
takes the room next to the Frenchman, that that ship-captain quit for
the mines, and succeeds naterally to his chest and things. He's mighty
peart-looking, that young feller, Rosey--long black mustaches, all his
own color, Rosey--and he's a regular high-stepper, you bet. I reckon
he's not only been a gentleman, but ez now. Some o' them contractors
are very high-toned!"

"I don't think we have any right to give him the captain's chest,
father," said Rosey; "there may be some private things in it. There
were some letters and photographs in the hair-dye man's trunk that you
gave the photographer."

"That's just it, Rosey," returned Abner Nott with sublime
unconsciousness, "photographs and love letters you can't sell for cash,
and I don't mind givin' 'em away, if they kin make a feller-creature
happy."

"But, father, have we the right to give 'em away?"

"They're collateral security, Rosey." said her father grimly.
"Co-la-te-ral," he continued, emphasizing each syllable by tapping the
fist of one hand in the open palm of the other. "Co-la-te-ral is the
word the big business sharps yer about call 'em. You can't get round
that." He paused a moment, and then, as a new idea seemed to be
painfully borne in his round eyes, continued cautiously: "Was that the
reason why you wouldn't touch any of them dresses from the trunks of
that opery gal ez skedaddled for Sacramento? And yet them trunks I
regularly bought at auction--Rosey--at auction, on spec--and they
didn't realize the cost of drayage."

A slight color mounted to Rosey's face. "No," she said, hastily, "not
that." Hesitating a moment, she then drew softly to his side, and,
placing her arms around his neck, turned his broad, foolish face
towards her own. "Father," she began, "when mother died, would you
have liked anybody to take her trunks and paw round her things and wear
them?"

"When your mother died, just this side o' Sweetwater, Rosey," said Mr.
Nott, with beaming unconsciousness, "she had n't any trunks. I reckon
she had n't even an extra gown hanging up in the wagin, 'cept the
petticoat ez she had wrapped around yer. It was about ez much ez we
could do to skirmish round with Injins, alkali, and cold, and we sorter
forgot to dress for dinner. She never thought, Rosey, that you and me
would live to be inhabitin' a paliss of a real ship. Ef she had she
would have died a proud woman."

He turned his small, loving, boar-like eyes upon her as a
preternaturally innocent and trusting companion of Ulysses might have

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