CAPTAIN MARY MILLER.

A Drama

BY

HARRIET H. ROBINSON.

“But, if you ask me what offices women may fill, I reply—any. I do not care what case you put; let them be sea-captains if you will.”—MARGARET FULLER (in 1844).

BOSTON:

CHARACTERS:

FOOTNOTES:

[1] This part may be changed to that of a girl, named Phusephony (Persephone) Herodias.

Copyright, 1887, by George M. Baker.

CAPTAIN MARY MILLER.

ACT I.

Nathan Gandy’s house, near the wharf in Annisport. Living-room. Fireplace, R. Doors, R. and L. and back. Table, R. C., on which is a braided-rag mat, partly done. Chairs, pictures of ships, a mourning piece (weeping willow hanging over a tomb) Mrs. Gandy with a broom. She sweeps carefully away from the middle of the room.

Mrs. G. There! there’s that plaguy money for me to sweep raound agin! I’m tired to death on it, I be; an’ that’s a fac’, I can’t half sweep my floor! But, I snum, I won’t pick it up! I told Nathan I wouldn’t, an’ I won’t!

(Enter Captain Gandy, L., singing.)

“On Springfield’s maountins there did dwell

A lovelye youth, an’ known full well,

Leftenant Carter’s onlie son,

A galliant youth, nigh twenty-one.”

(Sees his wife, who does not look up.)

Capt. G. Hullo, Lorany! didn’t know yer was thar. What makes yer so glum? (Aside) Oh, the caarf, I bet! Say, Lorany, I’m plaguy sorry I sold the caarf. I’d buy her back, but the fellers ’d laf at me. I told some on ’em haow bad yer felt, daown to the store. And old Pete Rosson, he was a-sittin’ on a kintle o’ salt fish; he said: “Wimmin’s rights! I s’pose Mis’ Gandy went ter the meetin’ and heerd the lectur’-woman. I guess Mis’ Rosson wouldn’t dare ter complain ef I sold one o’ her caarfs. I’d let her know they was mine, double quick.” Won’t yer take up yer money, Lorany?

Mrs. G. (dusting). No! Nathan, I won’t! So, there! It ’ill hev to stay there, wher’ it dropped, for all o’ me; for I’ll never pick it up as long as I live. I tho’t all we had was aourn together, and that everything belonged as much ter me as it does ter you. But I see naow that it’s as the lectur’-woman sed. I read it in the Transkip:—“Husband and wife is one, but that one is the husband.” I shouldn’t ’a’ tho’t o’ sellin’ yaour caarf or yaour best caow. You call ’em yaourn, an’ the caarf was allus called mine. An’, then, little Sally, that’s gone, tho’t so much on’t! (Wipes her eyes.)

Capt. G. Hang it! don’t take on so. (Aside) Darn them fellers, flingin’ their wimmin’s right at me! (To her) Who cares what the lectur’-woman says? Some darned old maid, or divorced widder, I s’pose. Didn’t I buy suthin’ for yer with the money! Didn’t I buy yer a gaown, a shawl, an’ a bunnit! An’, when yer didn’t like ’em, didn’t I give yer all the money back, and yer wouldn’t take it! An’ didn’t yer fling it daown on the floor, an’ vaow you wouldn’t pick it up!

Mrs. G. Yes, but yer never as’d me! an’ I didn’t want her sold, nuther! You know haow I took care o’ that caarf. Her mother died, an’ never saw her. I almost feel as if she was mine; for I brought her up like a baby, and she sucked milk from my finger before she could stan’. I’m sure I’m as much her mother as harf the hens are mothers of their chickens: for they never see some o’ the eggs till they are put under ’em to hatch, an’ they don’t know which is which.

Capt. G. Waal! yaou’ve got yer new things, hain’t ye? an’ I’m glad on’t. I’m abaout sick o’ them black clo’es o’ yourn. They look so maugre. For my part, I want ter see yer in suthin’ bright.

Mrs. G. I sh’d think yer did! Yer tho’t I was abaout sixteen, didn’t yer? (Opens the door at the back, and produces a very showy piece of dress goods, a shawl of a very loud pattern, and a bonnet trimmed with green and red and yellow) Look a’ that! What do you think o’ them things! Young enough for Mary, or Leafy Jane, either. I never wore such bright things when I was a gal; an’ I’m sure I ain’t a-gwine ter begin naow.

Capt. G. I don’t see why, Lorany! They ain’t no brighter than the marygoolds, pecuniaries (petunias), and dadyoluses, yer like so well, in the garden, or even the persalter roses.

Mrs. G. That’s a different thing. I ain’t a flower-garden; I do wish the men-folks ’d let their wives buy their own clo’es, or give ’em the money to buy ’em with. (Sits down and braids on her mat.)

Capt. G. Why, Lorany! the wimmen folks ain’t used to layin’ out money. We can make it spend a great deal better ’n they can.

Mrs. G. P’r’aps yer can; but we’d like what we bought ourselves a great deal better; I do wish they’d let us buy our own clo’es, I say, or give us the money to buy ’em with, so’s we could suit ourselves.

Capt. G. Wall, I snum, yer as bad as the lectur’-woman Pete Rosson told on. He said she said wimmen ortter have their own private pusses, same’s the men, and other things tew; and that the Legislater ort to see tew’t, but that they was tew busy,—trying to settle the size of a bar’l o’ cramberries, an’ talkin’ baout sellin’ eggs by weight, and sich things,—to care what becomes o’ wimmin’s rights. Sellin’ eggs by weight! what durned nonsense! Some on ’em would take twenty to make a paound, and some wouldn’t take mor’n eight, an’ where’d yer cookin’ go ter, I’d like ter know?

Mrs. G. Waal, Nathan, I don’t care nuthin’ abaout that! I shall put twelve eggs inter my old-fashioned paound cake, as the recipee sez, whether they’re big or little. But I do care about the caarf. I’d almost rather you’d ’a’ sold me!

Capt. G. Wall, I vum to vummy!

Mrs. G. You knew haow much I allus tho’t on her ’cause little Sally loved her so; an’ ’afore she died she’d be’n a-readin’ some o’ them old pictur’-books, an’ she said the caarf had eyes just like one on ’em in it, an’ so she named the caarf May Donna, or some sich name. (Wipes her eyes.)

Capt. G. Consarn it all! Lorany, don’t cry! There! There! I’ll pick up the money, Lorany, I’ll pick up the money. (Aside) I wonder if there is anything in them wimmin’s rights, after all! (Puts the money in his pocket. Sits in chair tipped back against the wall, and eats an apple, cutting it with his jack-knife.)

(Enter Leafy Jane and John Quincy Adams, the latter dragging a small log of wood.)

Mrs. G. (looking up). Where yer be’n all the arternoon?

J. Q. A. Ben to the wharf, chippin’.

L. J. (lisping). Yeth, we chipped and got our bathkeths full, and the thkipperth (skipper’s) boy, he thed, ‘There, take a log’—and we took one.

Capt. G. The skipper’s boy!—who’s he?

J. Q. A. He’s the skipper’s son.

Capt. G. What skipper’s son?

J. Q. A. Why! the captain of the Betsey Ludgitt. He’s down there to the wharf, unloadin’ his wood. And his boy, he’s real hunkey! He give me all these butnuts (shows them) and this gum,—see this gum,—real spruce gum!—none o’ your Burgundy pitch and candle-grease, such as you buy to the store.

Mrs. G. Gum! Then I s’pose you’ll go to chawin’ agin!

J. Q. A. I’ll bet I will. Its rippin’ good! (Chews.)

L. J. (lisps). Marm, he sthiks hith cud on the head-board, and it makth a white plathe. I theen it when I make the bed.

Mrs. G. Sticks his cud on the head-board! What on airth do you mean?

L. J. Yeth, hith cud o’ gum. He doth it motht every night, when he hath gum.

Mrs. G. What do you do that for?

J. Q. A. I stick it there when I go to sleep, so when I wake up in the middle of the night I can have a good chaw to pass away the time.

Capt. G. Haw! Haw! Haw!

Mrs. G. John Quincy Adams Gandy! What’ll yer do next!

J. Q. A. Go a-fishin’, I guess, marmy. (Kisses her.)

Capt. G. What’s the skipper’s name?

J. Q. A. Miller—Solomon Miller; and his son’s name’s William.

L. J. And the cook’th name ith Henry Mudgett.

Mrs. G. The cook! What der yer know abaout the cook?

L. J. He’th real nithe. I thaw him lath fall. Hith mother an’ grandfather live down to Nantucket. Hith grandfather thalth (salts) down fith, nam’th (name’s) Zabulon, and they have a big houth an’ a lot of land.

Capt. G. A lot o’ sand, I guess you mean. Haow’d yer come ter know ’em so well?

J. Q. A. Oh! They was up here in the fall when we went a-chippin’ with Mary, and they talked with us a good deal.

L. J. Yeth, an’ the thkipper’th thon kept lookin’ at Mary.

J. Q. A. Yes, and so did Hank at you.

L. J. Hith name ain’t Hank! it’h Henry!

J. Q. A. Oh, Lawks!

Mrs. G. Whar is Mary?

J. Q. A. We left her down to the wharf, an’ she was a talkin’ to the skipper’s son.

L. J. Yeth, and the thkipper came out, and he talked, an’ they all laughed, and he thed to John Pin, “Run along, Totty, with your log o’ wood. They’ll foller ye, an’ tell yer pa an’ ma all about it.”

J. Q. A. I guess I aint Totty! (Chewing.) I seen ’em an’ after they done it,—

L. J. Oh, John Pin Ad! you muthn’t thay ‘I theen,’ Mary theth. You can’t thay ‘theen’ nor ‘done,’ unleth you can thay have’ before it; an’ you can’t thay ‘I theed,’ at all.

J. Q. A. I guess I can too. Mary needn’t feel so big ’cause she’s ben to Bradford ’cademy three months.

L. J. Yeth, you mutht thay ‘I have thawed,’ and ‘I hain’t theen,’ and ‘I have did,’ and ‘I hain’t done it,’ and you’ll be right.

J. Q. A. Poh! you ain’t right at all! Hear me. You must say ‘I have done, I have seen,’ or ‘I saw and I did’; and you must never say ‘I seed, I sawed, I seen,’ nor ‘I done it.’ That’s what Mary says.

L. J. Father thayth ‘I theen and I done’; and I gueth what father theth ith about right.

Capt. G. O child! Yer mustn’t talk as I do. Mary knows what’s proper to say, better’n yer old dad. He never had no edication. There was no ’cademy for him.

Mrs. G. Nor me, nuther. Gals wa’n’t ’lowed to go to school in my time, daown to Plymouth, when my folks lived there. There was too many boys wanted to go; and the gals had to stay ter hum, to make room for ’em.

(Enter Mary and William.)

Mary. Father, here’s Captain Miller’s son. I made his acquaintance down at the wharf last fall. (Goes to Mrs. G., seats herself on a stool near her, and arranges rags, and hands them to her.)

Capt. G. (rising and shaking hands with Will). Is that so?

Will. Yes! and, when I went home, I told the folks all about her and the children, and the Captain and Mrs. Gandy; and mother said one of her girl friends, a real intimate, married a Gandy.

Mrs. G. What was her name afore she was married?

Will. Johnson.

Mrs. G. Plumy Johnson, as I’m alive!

Will. Yes, her name was Plumy—Plumy Johnson.

Mrs. G. (shaking his hand) Wal, if ain’t right glad ter see yer. Set right daown an’ tell us all abaout your folks.

Will (sitting). There ain’t much to tell. Father, he’s skipper of the Betsey Ludgitt, and we live in North Pittston, Maine. We’ve got a nice little place there, and there’s ten of us children. I am the oldest.

Capt. G. (sitting). Haow long yer be’n skippin’?

Will. About five years. I’ve got so now I can handle a boat, and one of the other boys is going to take my place.

Capt. G. What are you goin’ ter dew?

Will. There’s a man out West, clear beyond the Ohio, that wants me to run a boat on the Mississippi, up and down. It’s a steamboat. He’s got a good mate for her that knows all about the ingine, and he says I can learn the ropes about that fast enough. But I don’t know. I hate to go so far from home, and almost alone too. (He looks conscious.)

Mrs. G. I should think yer would. Don’t stand gawpin’ raound, Leafy Jane. Go ’long and git yer knittin’-work. (L. J. obeys and seats herself on the log. J. Q. A. bothers her.) And yer marm, what does she say?

Will. Oh! marm, she hates to have me go; but she’s more willing than she would be, ’cause Hank Mudgitt, a likely Nantucket boy, wants to go with me, to be the cook. He’s been cooking for father. His marm was a Folger, and knew my marm when she lived to Nantucket, and she says I’d better not lose the chance.

Capt. G. Folger? Folger? Why! I’ve heerd that name afore. I knew a Captain Folger onct, of the barque Hulda Griggs. He had a lot o’ boys, an’ one on ’em went to college, and turned out a smart lawyer. I guess yer’d better not lose the chance. Lots o’ boys go West, and they do well, or they don’t come back to tell us. Horace Greeley told ’em all to go West, in his Trybune, you know, when he wrote the whole on’t. “Go West, young man,” he says, though he didn’t go himself. But I s’pose his advice was jest as good, same as the guide-board p’ints the way it never goes.

Will. The man that wants me says it’s a good steamboat, with a nice, clean cabin for a family to live in, if a captain had one.

Capt. G. Is it a side-wheeler or a skre-you?

J. Q. A. Oh! father, all them Mississippi steamboats are side-wheelers, and they have to be made flat-bottomed on account of the snags in the river, and the shallow water, so’s they can run ’em right up to the shore, where there’s no landing. Oliver Optic says so in one of his books.

Capt. G. Dew tell! I’d ruther have a sailin’ vessel. Give me a good three-masted schaouner, with a spankin’ breeze to make her go, and a bower anchor to cast when she comes inter port.

Will. The man says he’ll pay me so much a year, enough to live on, and give me a certain per cent on the freight, and a chance to buy into the vessel in two years.

Capt. G. A smackin’ good chance, I should say. I advise yer to snap at it. When does he want ye?

Will. Right off, in a month or so, and now, if I could get anybody, besides Hank Mudgitt, to go with me (looks at Mary), I shall write right off and accept the offer.

Capt. G. Somebody ter go with ye besides Hank! What do you want anybody else for? Ain’t he a good cook?

Mrs. G. What on airth do you mean?

Will. (to Capt. G.) Yes, but I want somebody, somebody to be—my—wife.

Capt. G. Dew tell! What kind of a wife do yer want? Not one o’ them gals that wears bangs an’ boot-heels, an’ go a-teetering along the road?

Will. No, I don’t want one of that kind. Mary—Mary says she’ll go with me if you are both willing.

Mrs. G. Aour Mary! Mary Gandy!

Capt. G. Wal, I swan to man!

Mrs. G. Why! Mary, where’d he git a chance to ask yer?

Mary. I saw him first, mother, as I told you, last fall, when I went down to the wharf with the children, chipping. You know you didn’t want them to go alone. He said then he should come back in the spring, and hoped he’d see me again.

Will. And I have seen her several times; and the other day I told her about the steamboat, and she ’lowed she was willing to go with me.

Mrs. G. I thought she was ’mazin’ fond o’ chippin’ all to onct.

Mary. I guess you mean that ‘I promised,’ don’t you, William?

Will. Yes, you promised, and I told father; and he said he guessed it was all right. He’d known o’ Captain Gandy quite a spell. The Nancy Paige lay at the wharf alongside the Betsey Ludgitt once, down to Castine.

J. Q. A. (trying to mend a whip-lash). By darn!

L. J. My Thunday-thkool teacher theth you muthn’t thay by darn; but if you mutht thay by anything, you can thay by jollerth (jollers).

J. Q. A. I saw the skipper’s son kiss Mary, and she kissed him just as he give me a log o’ wood. (Singing derisively.) Kissin’ the fellers, kissin’ the fellers!

(Will rises in confusion, and goes to back of stage.)

Mrs. G. Stop! John Quincy Adams Gandy!

Capt. G. (walking about). I snum to pucker. Wal! seein’ it’s all made up between yer, I don’t see as we have anything to do abaout it.

Mrs. G. I don’t know as it would do any good for me to say no, even if I wanted to. (To William) Haow long you goin’ to be raound here?

Will. Another week. Then I must go home with father to get my things and what money I’ve saved up, then come back and buy the fixings to furnish the cabin with. If Mary’s ready by that time, we will start for the Mississippi about the first of June.

Capt. G. Better come here every day, and let us see something of ye. P’r’aps Mary will conclude not to go, if she sees too much on ye.

Mrs. G. Yes. Come right here and stay. I feel as if Plumy Johnson’s son must be a good boy; an’, if Mary is set on havin’ ye, I want to get some acquainted with my new son-in-law. (Mary rises and crosses to William.)

L. J. I geth he ain’t the only thon-in-law you’ll have, mother.

Mrs. G. I hope he’ll be so good that I shall want another.

J. Q. A. (trying to snap L. J.’s ears). I s’pose you want to be a loveress, too. (Makes up a face.)

L. J. You won’t be.

J. Q. A. I will, too.

L. J. You won’t, nuther. (Makes up a face.)

Old Phin Gan-dowdy,

He’th an’ old rowdy.

J. Q. A. This is the way you’ll look when you are a loveress. (Imitates a fine young lady.) How are you, Hank! Mrs. Henry Mudgitt!

L. J. Go way—you gump!

Mrs. G. Do, children, stop yer bickerin’! (To Mary) I declare for’t’ I hate to hev yer go so far from hum. But, then (with a sigh), my mother lives e’en a’most to the jumpin’-off place daown East; and I hain’t seen her this five year.

Capt. G. (goes to Mrs. G. and puts hand on her shoulder). It’s the way o’ natur’, mother. The Bible says: “A man shall leave his father and mother, an’ shall be united to his wife.”

J. Q. A. Well, father, it don’t say she shall. It says he.

Capt. G. It means the same, any way. The Bible allus means she when it says he. It means ’em both. Genesis says, yer know, chap. V., verse 2, Male and female created he them, an’ blessed them, an’ called their name Adam, in the day when they was created. The Bible said that in the beginning. Even old Pete Rosson allows that.

Mrs. G. I wonder yer hadn’t thought o’ that when yer sold my caarf, aour caarf, mine as well as yourn.

Capt. G. (walking off). I van! I never did.

Mrs. G. If he did creat’ men an’ wimmin ekal, an’ call their name Adam, just as we call aourn Gandy, one on us has no right to sell the things that belong to both without askin’ each other’s leave.

Capt. G. (returning). I don’t s’pose they have, Lorany. If yer don’t beat ’em all in an argiment. (Aside) Hang that caarf! Come, mother, don’t let’s bicker any more abaout that. (To Mary) Yer’ll have quite a weddin’ tower, won’t ye, Mary, ’way out onto the Mississippi? Yer’ll have ter work spry ter git yer weddin’ toggery ready. Whar yer goin’ ter be married; ter hum?

Mrs. G. Lucky I saved my old receipee for weddin’ cake.

Will. We think we’d better go to the minister’s, and have it done quiet like, the very morning before we start. We sha’n’t feel like making much of a touse about it, ’cause everybody ’ll be crying to see Mary go off.

Mrs. G. And, then, our relations live so far off, they couldn’t any on’ em come. Lucky yer made them sheets, Mary. Yer wouldn’t ’a’ had half time enough naow to get ’em done.

Capt. G. I van! mother. It reminds me o’ the time when we went to live on the Nancy Paige.

Mrs. G. So it does me.

Capt. G. There’s nothing like the sea to live on, is there, mother? (Sings.)

“I’m on the sea,

I am where I would ever be,

The deep, the dark, the rolling sea.”

Mary. You’ll have to sing it “river” for us, father.

J. Q. A. (takes up the refrain, and snaps his whip at the end of each line).

I am where I would ever be-iver,

The deep, the dark, the rolling re-iver.

L. J. Thtop! you thap-head (sap-head), you thilly coot! (William and Mary whisper together.)

Capt. G. I guess I’ll go an’ fodder them caows. (Humming.)

“An’ turnin’ raound he straight did feel

A pywison sarpient byite hywis hee-ee-el.”

(Exit R.)

Will. (taking Mary by both hands). Be all ready, now Mary, when I come back? If I can, I’ll come on so as to stay a day or two before we’re married. But I’ll be here in season, any way. You fix the day, and let me know. And write often (whispers), dear Mary, won’t you?

Mary. Yes, William.

Will. Good-by!

Mary. Good-by! (Exit William, L.)

J. Q. A. Good-by! Good-by! Smack, smack!

Disposition of characters at end of Act I. Mrs. G. sitting at table braiding mat. Mary standing at left, with her hands clasped before her, looking down. J. Q. A. and L. J. in centre, bickering.

ACT II.

Cabin of the Creole Bride, a Mississippi steamboat cosily furnished. Doors R. and L. Table and cradle C. Pictures. Four books on a little shelf. A parasol and handkerchief lie on the table. Mary, the Captain’s wife, sits by the cradle sewing.

Mary (sings).

“By low baby,

By low baby,

By low baby,

By low by.”

(Rises.)

There! he’s asleep at last. He keeps awake just as long as he can, I do believe. (Takes a book from the shelf.) I don’t know what I should do this stormy weather, I am sure, if it weren’t for these books. Away up here, on this river, where we don’t get a newspaper but once in two weeks! (Turns over the books.) I am tired of “Baxter’s Saint’s Rest,” and I know “Alonzo and Melissa” by heart. I suppose I ought to read my Bible more, but here’s this book on navigation. (Reads.) “Thoms’ Navigator,” by Janet Thorms, a Yankee schoolmarm, they say, up near Boston. It seems fresh all the time. I like to study it, too, when I am rocking the cradle. (Sits and reads.) Somehow, it seems to come natural to me to know all about a boat, and I love any kind of a one. How they skip round the bend of the river, and over the sea, at home! I wonder why they call a vessel she! Father says they ought to call steamboats he, because they smoke so. Dear father! how I should like to see him, and hear him sing!

(Enter Phus, R.)

Phus (in a loud voice). Mis’, de cap’n say—

Mary. Sh! you’ll wake the baby.

Phus (in a loud whisper). Mis’, de cap’n dun tole me he not feel well, an’ you come to de weel-house. Phus tote de baby.

Mary (rising hastily). Take good care of him. (Exit R.)

Phus. Take good care ob him. (Imitates her voice, and tip-toes round the room.) How golly fine it am to be de cap’n’s mis’, a-sittin’ down har all fix’ up, and den walkin’ on deck wid de par-sol, totin’ de baby. Oh, Lor! (Sings softly.)

Min’ de pick’niny,

Min’ de pick’niny,

Take good care ob him.

Wot’s dem books? I dunno, caze I can’t read ’em all yit. But the cap’n’s mis’, she try larn me. Lemme see. (Takes up a book and reads.) “Meel-iss-see-felt-a-cold-han’-on-her-fore-head-an’-she-scream-ded-scream-ded.” Wot’s dat? Golly! I can’t do dat. (Shuts up the book.) Sh! sh! de baby’s wokem up. He’ll holler ef he see me. I’ll make him tink I’m de cap’n’s mis’. (He takes the parasol and opens it, spreads the handkerchief over his face, and sits down by the cradle. Enter Captain Miller, R., leaning on Mary’s shoulder.)

Mary. Tell me, dear, just how you feel. (Sees Phus.) Oh, Phus! you’ll scare the baby.

Phus. Mis’, de baby was a gwine to wokem up, and I specks he’d tink ’twas you.

Capt. M. Phus, take off that rig, and go on deck, you lubber! (Exit Phus, R.) Oh, I don’t know. I feel just as I did once when I was a boy, before I had the typhoid fever,—tired all over. (Sits.) My head is as light as a feather, and my feet are heavy as lead. I don’t feel as if I could step a step.

Mary. Lie down a little while, and perhaps you’ll feel better. How much farther do we go up river?

Capt. M. About two hundred miles. We shall reach the last station in a few days. (Takes off his jacket and shoes wearily, as he talks.) Patsy is at the wheel, and you can bring me word if he wants anything.

Mary (aside). Oh, dear! I know he is going to be sick. (To him) Where is the chart of the river?

Capt. M. On deck, in the wheel-house.

Mary. And all the things you use?

Capt. M. Yes. Why?

Mary. Because I want to know, so that you can have a good long nap.

Capt. M. Our course is all marked out, and what to steer by; but I shall feel better, I hope, after I have had some sleep. You’d better go on deck, once in a while, see how things are going on, and let me know. (Exit L., holding by the doorway.)

Mary (sitting). What shall I do! away up here, a hundred miles from a doctor. I am afraid William has the river fever, the same as Phus had last year. Oh! mother! mother! If I could only have you with me! If I could only get word to you! (Leans her head on the table.)

(Enter Phus, R.)

Phus. Whar de cap’n? Pats say he want know which way ter go, and de cap’n must tell him.

Mary. Phus, do you remember how sick you were last year?

Phus. An’! wouldn’t ’a’ libed ef you hadn’t ’a’ nussed me.

Mary. Do you want to pay me for it?

Phus. I ain’t got no money, mis’; but I prays ebery night: Lor’ bress de cap’n’s wife. She nuss me; make me well.

Mary. I don’t want any money, Phus. You can pay me in a better way.

Phus. An’ I sings in de cook-house w’en de pork’s a-fizzlin’, an’ Hank he likes it. (Sings mournfully.)

I’se poor Jo-Phus,—’Lijah cum down.

Sick in de ’teamboat,—’Lijah cum down.

Cap’n’s mis’ nuss me,—’Lijah cum down.

(Livelier.) An’ den I gits well,—’Lijah cum down.

Swing low de goolden charyot,

Rock de baby, car’ long de cap’n’s mis’.

’Lijah cum down.

(Mary does not listen.)

Mary. Phus, listen to me. The captain is very sick, and you can help me if you will; and more than pay me for anything I have done for you.

Phus. I’ll do ebryting. You so good to poor Phus—make me well, an’ larn me to read—see here. (Reads.) “Mee-liss-see-felt-a-scream-ded,” no, dat ain’t de place; “col’—col’—han’—” (cold hand.)

Mary. Never mind reading now, Phus. I want you to stay here while I go on deck, and listen to the captain. If he wakes up and wants anything, you must go in and tell him I will come right down; then you come and call me. (Exit R.)

Phus. Yaas, mis’! (Applies ear to keyhole of door, L.)

Curtain.

ACT III.

Forward deck of the Creole Bride. Wheel-house at R. gangway and railing at L., table and two camp chairs at C., chairs C. Mary at the wheel, with the chart and compass beside her.

Mary. I wonder if I am all right here! The course is not very clearly marked out. Willie is still so sick that he can’t tell me any more about steering, and Patsy don’t seem to know anything but his engine, or how to go when it is plain sailing. (Studies the chart.) Let me see! We must stop at three more stations before we reach the mouth of the Washita,—Munroe, Columbia, and Harrisonburg; and then we go down the Red and Yellow to Baton Rouge. Oh! yes, I see. We steer right here by Dead Man’s Bluff, and then by Run-away Swamp. How lucky I studied that book on navigation! It helps me so much to understand these marks on the chart. If Patsy would only behave well, I should be all right; but he don’t like the idea of being “bossed,” as he calls it, “by a woman.”

(Enter Patsy, R.)

Mary. Patsy, have you thrown out the line lately?

Patsy. Yes, mum.

Mary. Where are we?

Patsy. Be-gorries! I dunno, mum.

Mary. How much water?

Patsy. Faix! the lid was varry well down, and the mud was yaller.

Mary. That may mean something to you, I suppose. You can’t read. Bring me the line. (He bring it from L.)

Patsy. It’s tin fut, mum. (Aside) Bedad, she thinks she’s cap’n.

Mary. That’ll do, Take the line forward, and mind your engine.

Patsy (muttering). Mind the injun, is it? O’ coorse. Musha and faix, I wull! I’m the lasht lad not to be mindin’ me injun. (Drops the line and goes toward R.)

Mary. Patsy!

Patsy. Vart do yer want? I can’t be lavin’ my injun arl the time. True for yez!

Mary. Patsy! I told you to take the line forward!

Patsy. I’ll not do it, mum, for all of yez. Ye’re not the cap’n!

Mary (looking at him severely). Patsy! Take that line forrard, and be quick about it!

Patsy (takes the line to L., and exit R., muttering). I’ll not be bossed by no woman!

Mary. I don’t know what I shall do with Patsy. He threatens to leave me at the next station, and I can’t find a decent engineer short of Baton Rouge; and I mustn’t trouble William with it, he is still so feeble.

(Enter Phus, L.)

Phus. Mis’, de cap’n say he feel bet’ as did, an’ he wan’ ter see yer.

Mary. Very well, I’ll go down. You call Patsy to stand at the wheel; and then you go and stay with the baby.

Phus. Yes, mis’. (Calls, R.) Pats! Har! you Pats, lave dat injyne an’ cum an’ stan’ by de wheel. Pay—ats! Pay—ats! Pay—a—ts! Cum, Pats, to de weel-house! Mis’ say so.

(Enter Pats R. He takes the wheel.)

Mary (to Patsy). Mind your helm now; keep her on her course. (Exit Mary, R.)

Patsy. Ugh! Bedad!

Phus (sits down at the wheel-house and takes his banjo). Bress de Lor’, de cap’n’s bet’ as was. He say he mean git well. (Sings and rocks himself.)

Lor’ bress de cap’n,—’Lijah cum down.

Lor’ bress de cap’n’s mis’,—’Lijah cum down.

An’ let ’im git well,—’Lijah cum down.

As dis poor Jo-Phus did,—“Lijah cum down.

Swing low de goolden charyot,

Car’ long de baby, cap’n, an’ de cap’n’s mis’,

’Lijah cum down.

Patsy (putting his head out of the wheel-house). Musha! Shtop yer hullabaloo, you black nayger.

Phus. Dere aint no sich man round here. My name’s Jo-see-phus, Herodytus Miller. (Exit L.)

(Re-enter Mary, R., half supporting Captain Miller, who tries to walk; he sits down near the table wearily.)

Capt. M. (feebly). It’s no use, Mary, I can’t walk. I can’t use my legs a mite, and that’s a fact. The malaria has settled in them, and I don’t know as I shall ever walk again.

Mary (stands beside him, and keeps her eye on the vessel’s course). Yes, you will, dear. The doctor says so; and he says you must get away from the boat, go into the mountains and stay awhile, and then you will be as well as ever.

Capt. M. Oh, Mary! If I could only go to New England. I feel as if it would cure me. If I could only go to Maine, and see the White Hills, all covered with snow on top, from behind father’s house, see mother, and have some of their good victuals—(He breaks down.)

Mary. You shall go. It won’t cost any more to go there than it will to pay your board at some place near the mountains; and no matter if it does.

Capt. M. How can I leave the vessel? If I take the money to go East with, I shan’t be able to meet my payments, and shall lose my chance of buying into her.

Mary (to Patsy). Ease her off a couple of points. (To William) Never mind that! Don’t worry. It’s better to lose everything else than to lose your health. But you will not lose the boat. I can run her while you’re gone. Only three months! The doctor says he thinks that will do.

Capt. M. I don’t know about your running the boat, Mary. Ours is a thousand-mile trip, you know, next time, and it’s easier to come down than it is to go up. The Yellow-red winds like a corkscrew.

Mary. I know that, William; but I think I can manage her. I have done it; and here we are safe so far, and no accident yet.

Capt. M. (considering). This cargo is secure, and the next one all promised. But I hate to leave you, Mary, and the baby.

Mary (to Patsy). Keep her on her course, boy! (To William) I hate to have you go, William, only I know that it is for your good; and then, if I go, you’ll have to give up the boat, and we shan’t have anything to live on; and that will never do.

Capt. M. You’re right, Mary, as you always are.

(Enter Hank, the cook, with a waiter full of dishes.)

Hank. Here’s your lunch, sir.

Capt. M. Why, Hank! Have you come again? It isn’t more than half an hour since I ate my breakfast.

Hank (drawling). Yes, it is, sir. It’s an hour. And the doctor says you was to eat every hour.

Capt. M. (looks at the waiter). What have you got now?

Mary (to Patsy, hurriedly). Hard a-port, there! Give that snag a wide berth! (She goes quickly towards the wheel-house.) Go below, Patsy, and fire up, or we shan’t get to Munroe till moonrise. (Exit Patsy, L., muttering.)

Hank (to William). Waal, tha’s some fixings the Indians say is good for invaliges, and one on ’em showed me how to cook ’em.

Capt. M. What are they, Hank? Name over your bill of fare.

Hank. Waal, cap, this ere’s corn-pone, o’ coose; and a dodger or so; a slice o’ bacon; a helter-skelter; some succotash; two frog’s legs pealed and sizzled; a pigeon biled in milk; some baked punkin; eel’s tails soused; and some no-cake.

Capt. M. What! what! what! Are you going to stuff me to death, or poison me—which?

Hank. Oh, sir! you needn’t eat ’em all. The Injuns said if you eat just the right thing for you, you’d be sure to get well.

Capt. M. I dare say. They’d cure a dog with their charms and their notions.

Hank. Some of the vittals is good, and some pretty middlin’ poor, but it’s all good for suthin’,— or the pigs!

Capt. M. (laughing). I shouldn’t wonder. (Looking over the waiter.) What’s baked punkin for, Hank? It looks like raw, dried potato-parings.

Hank. The Indians said ’twas to chaw, and give you an appetite.

Mary (from the wheel-house). What in the world are the soused eel’s-tails for?

Hank. Oh, to make you feel lively, and cherk you up a little. They make brains.

Capt. M. What next? What’s the no-cake for, and where is it? Cake sounds kind o’ good. And hot biscuit. Mother’s hot biscuit! Oh! how I should like some of them.

Hank. Well, the no-cake is that aire white stuff piled up on that aire plate. It looks like something goodish; but when you chaw it, it feels like sand. The Injuns eat it, and they said ’twould make the cap’n sleep good.

Capt. M. I should think it would,—and dream of my grandmother. If it chews like sand, it will be heavy enough.

Hank. There ain’t no decent vittals for a sick man to eat in these diggings. ’Tain’t half so good as the Nantucket feed, such as my marm used to cook.

Capt. M. Oh, Hank! don’t speak of it! How I should like some fried perch,—some good fresh salt-water perch, with their heads on; and some steamed clams, fresh-dug Nantucket clams, with the shells all gaping at you. I feel as if I could eat a good four-quart tin pan full this minute, shells and all.

Hank. I’d like to make you a rippin’ good chowder, sir. Such as we have ter hum. What you want is real, good, hard, fresh cod-fish or haddock, head and all, some white potatoes (none o’ your flat yellow sweets), some onions, some Boston crackers, and a generous rasher of salt strip pork (none o’ your middlings). But I can’t do it. They never heerd of a Boston cracker, and there ain’t a decent piece o’ fresh salt-water fish between here and Nantucket. Only this darned canned stuff; and that’s enough to p’isen a feller.

Mary (to William, from the wheel-house). You’ll have some chowder when you get home, dear; and you’ll eat again of all the old New England food.

Hank. Oh, sir! you goin’ hum?

Capt. M. I think of it.

Mary (to Hank). Yes, he is going home; and pretty soon, too.

Hank. If you do, sir, I hope you’ll take a skip down to Nantucket, and see my folks. Marm ’ll be mighty glad to see you. I’ll write to her, and send her some money, and you can take the letter, sir, right along. And please, sir, fetch me word how the old place looks, and if marm seems comfortable.