Tales of the Chesapeake | Page 8

he
strode out of the Methodist meeting, rejoined his boatmen, and returned
to the island of Chincoteague.
Years passed, and the Jew grew very feeble. He had lasted his
fourscore and ten years, and prosperity had attended him through all,
and children loved him; but, true to his first and only fondness, his
heart was ever across the sea, where gentle Abraham, studiously intent
amongst the Rabbis, communicated with his father by every mail and
raised the old man's mind to a height of serious appreciation which
greed and commerce had never given him. Although hungering for his
boy, Issachar forebore to disturb young Abraham's studies until a bitter
illness came to him, and in his gloom and solitude his great want burst
from his lips, and he said aloud:
"Almighty Father! What will it avail to these old bones if the Temple
be rebuilded, and I die without placing my hands on the eyelids of my
boy and blessing him in Thy name? I will pluck from this Christian
image the last jewel and dispose of it, that he may return and place his
hands in mine, and receive my benediction, and gladden me with his
gratitude."
The image was therefore wholly separated from the cross. Nothing
remained but the figure in gold of that bloody Pillory on which He died
on whom two hundred millions of human beings rely for intercession
with their Creator and Destiny.
The days seemed months to the Jew of Chincoteague. The negroes
gathered round his cabin to be of assistance if he should require it; for
they also looked for young Abraham as the Shiloh of their race, and
would have died for old Issachar, unredeemed as they thought him,
except by his goodness to their prince and favorite.

A high tide, following a series of dreadful storms, arose on the coast of
the peninsula, as if the Gulf Stream, like a vast ploughshare, had
thrown the Atlantic up from its furrow and tossed it over the beach of
Assateague.
The sturdy ponies were all drowned. The sea was undivided from the
bay. Pungy boats and canoes drifted helplessly along the coast, and the
Eli alone was out of danger in the harbor of New York, waiting to
receive young Abraham. At last the freshet crept over the house-tops,
and nothing remained but the cottage of the Jew, planted on piles,
which lifting it higher than the surrounding houses, yet threatened it the
more if the water should float it from its pedestal and send it to sea.
Every effort was made to induce the Jew to abandon it, but he was
obdurate.
"By the tables of the law!" he said, "living or dead, here will I abide
until my son returns."
The bravest negro left the island of Chincoteague at last, placing food
beside old Issachar, and there he lay upon his pallet, with nothing to
pierce the darkness of his lair except that sacred cross he had raised
from the depths of the ocean. That object, like a sentient, overruling
thing, still shed its lustre upon the wretched interior of the deserted hut,
and, day by day, repeated its story to the neglected occupant.
The mighty storm increased in power as Christmas approached, in the
year one thousand eight hundred and fifty----. Wrecks came ashore on
the submerged shoal of Chincoteague, but there were now no wreckers
to labor for salvage. The Eli, too, was overdue. One night a familiar
gun was heard at sea, thrice, and twice thrice, and Issachar raised up
and said, in anguish:
"It is my schooner. My son is at hand and in danger. Oh! for a day's
strength, as I had it in my youth, to go to his relief through the surf. But,
miserable object that I am! I cannot rise from my bed. What help, what
hope, in the earth or in heaven can I implore?"
The naked cross beamed brightly all at once in the darkness of the

cabin. Issachar felt the legend it conveyed, and with piety, not apostacy,
he uttered:
"O Paschal Lamb! O Waif of God! Die Thou for me this night, and
give me to look upon the countenance of my son!"
The Jew, intently gazing at the cross, passed into such a stupor or
ecstasy that he had no knowledge of the flight of time. He only knew
that, after a certain dreamy interval, the door of his house yielded to a
living man, and, nearly naked with breasting the surf and fighting for
life, young Abraham staggered into the hut and recognized his father.
"O son!" cried Issachar, "I feel the news thou hast to tell. The Eli is
wrecked and thou only hast survived. The moments are precious. Hark!
this house is yielding to the buoyant current.