WOVEN WITH THE SHIP

By the Same Author

WHEN BLADES ARE OUT AND
LOVE'S AFIELD

Buff buckram, eight illustrations by E. Plaisted Abbott, with colored border decorations and head-pieces by Edward Stratton Holloway, $1.50

Mr. Brady's novel is full of fighting, gallant deeds and the surprises and alluring uncertainties of love-making. It has the vivid setting of Virginia and Carolina in 1781

"As a romance it is delightful."—Boston Transcript

"A perfect gem of a volume. One of the daintiest that ever came to the World's table."—New York World

"Oh, Captain Barry, you must do something!"
See page 35

WOVEN WITH THE SHIP

A NOVEL OF 1865

TOGETHER WITH CERTAIN
OTHER VERACIOUS TALES
OF VARIOUS SORTS

BY

CYRUS TOWNSEND BRADY, LL.D.

Author of "When Blades are Out and Love's Afield," "For the
Freedom of the Sea," "Hohenzollern," "The Quiberon
Touch," "Border Fights and Fighters," etc.

WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS BY

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY, FRANK
X. LEYENDECKER, W. GLACKENS, WILL
CRAWFORD, AND H. L. V. PARKHURST

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1902

Copyright, 1902, by
The Crowell & Kirkpatrick Company

Copyright, 1902, by
The Crowell Publishing Company

Copyright, 1902, by
J. B. Lippincott Company

Published October, 1902

Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A.

Lovingly Dedicated
to
Margaret and Katharine

Whose chief pleasure during one seashore
summer lay in listening to their
father while this
romance was

"Woven with the Ship"

PREFACE

Prefaces remind me of a certain text of Scripture,—i.e., "the last shall be first,"—for they are things written after which go before! Whether or not they serve a useful purpose is hard to say. I have several thousands of them in my library, most of which I have read, and perhaps the fact that I am a reader of prefaces may mark me as unique. And the mark may be accentuated to the gentle reader—if this preface should have any—when I say that I am also one of the few remaining authors who write them. Only one of my books is without a preface,—though some of them are disguised as notes, or forewords, or afterwords,—and I hereby apologize for the acephalous condition of that volume.

I am determined that this book shall be amply provided, and though I write the preface while I am sending back the proof galleys, yet I will begin at the beginning. Beginnings are sometimes interesting, although the interest of a beginning largely depends on the ending thereof. I shall hope that this book in the end may commend itself sufficiently to my indulgent readers to make the story of the beginning worth while.

"The years are many, the years are long," since a happy young sailor, fresh from his graduation at the United States Naval Academy, spent some of the pleasantest days of his life in the shadow of the old ship; for there was a ship, just such a one as I have described, and in just such a condition. There was a white house on the hill, too, and a very old naval officer, who took a great interest in the opening career of the young aspirant who passed so many hours lying on the grass amid the mouldering ways, with the huge bulk of the ship looming over his head and the sparkling waters of the bay breaking at his feet.

There were girls, too, and a sailor, and soldiers galore across the harbor in the barracks, and back of all the sleepy, dreamy, idle, quaint, and ancient little town. The story, of course, is only a romance; but the setting at least is actual, and there is this touch of realism in the tale: when the old ship was torn down to be made into kindling-wood, a part of it fell upon one of the destroyers and crushed the life out of him,—stern protest against an ignoble ending!

The idea of the story came to me twenty years ago. Indeed, in a brief, disconnected way I set it down on paper and forgot it until I chanced to resurrect it last year, when I threw aside the old notes and wrote the story de novo.

I intend it as a character sketch of the old admiral, the veteran sailor, the young officer, the innocent woman they all loved, and—dare I say it?—the mighty ship. Here are contrasts, surely.

When I wrote "Hohenzollern," I thought it would be perfectly plain to every one that it was not an historical novel. Vain hope! Yet I am not discouraged by the lack of perception on the part of the critics. Therefore I put this novel forth with a stronger confidence that it will not be considered in that category. Save for what I have admitted, there is not one word of history in it. Indeed, I have deliberately, and because it was my fancy, chosen to appropriate the name of Admiral Charles Stewart, "Old Ironsides,"—who did indeed live well into the Civil War period, but who died under very different circumstances,—for the name of the ancient captain in the white house on the hill. I apologize to his manes, his descendants, and his friends for the liberty.

Now, I do not write this because I wish to make any apology for the historical novel. Not at all. The thing is slightly overdone at present, but that is proof of its goodness. So far as I am concerned I will stand by my guns. I love to read historic romances when they are good, and I love to write them—even when they are as my own. I expect to write more of them, too; but this really is not one. It is a war story without any war, a sea story without any sea; yet it exhibits a great struggle and rings with a great victory. The reader may characterize it further at pleasure.

As for the second part of the volume I have called it Veracious Tales advisedly, for all of these stories are founded upon facts in one way or another. Some of them have been suggested to me by incidents with which I am familiar because in them I bore a small part. The substance of one of them came from a young English traveller who told a romantic incident at a delightful dinner at the New York University Club. A real diary suggested another. An historical mystery as to what became of a certain cargo of slaves captured by Decatur in the Mediterranean evoked a third. Neglected chapters in history and biography are responsible for some of the others, as the Martinique tale, for the Diamond Rock was once a ship! Sir Henry Irving's marvellous rendition of Matthias in The Bells so possessed me with its power that after I came home from the theatre I could not sleep until I had written the story. All of these tales represent real incidents, therefore, or are founded upon them in some way.

Writing a short story, with me at least, is very different from writing a novel. I can