IT happened in 1857. ft started at
son. and finally cmlorl in something
s*' grisly or curiously hoaiitiful —
that it won a first prize, a few years
ago. in a national contest conducted
hv Believe- 1 t-Or-Not Ripley.
Л
true
story of old Wiluiingtoii «lavs.
Kver since John had been liorn. his
father. Captain Silas II. Martin.
o\vner-skip|M‘r of the 250-ton clipper.
Margaret Crawford, begged his wife
the elipper whs named after her —
to let him take the boy on one of his
itinerate, fourteen-month voyages
that carried him half way around the
globe. Mut she would shake her head.
"No, Silas," she would say. "I’m
afraid something might happen to
him."
When Naneey shortened to Nance
— was Inirn ten years Inter and got old
enough to scamper up the ratlines of
his ship, he would beg of his wife —
“Sav. Margaret, let me have the
kids on niv next trip. My boat’s
steady. It gets mighty lonesome out
there."
Milt his wife would pat the old
salt s arm and shake her head slowly.
“I'm afraid, Silas. The kiddies are
too much of me to turn loose for a
day. nillch less fourteen months. No.
boy; wait until they get. a little
older."
So the captain waited . . . and
watched John and Nance grow like
young pines. The years passed until
John was thirty- four, but he'd never
been to sea. Nance had bloomed like
a siiii flower until she was a young
lady of twenty-four, and she bail nev¬
er sailed with her father either. The
captain was growing old. Hisdaysof
voyages ami the smell of salt spray
were about over. Hut lie still nursed
Ills dreams of taking the kiddies, as
be would call them, on one of his
voyages.
Then came his day; he had them
at last on board bis vessel, starting
о
IT on a long journey. Watching the
Margaret Crawford ease out to mid¬
st renin, he saw his wife, now old and
white headed, waving from the
wharf. Ili> look his pipe out of his
mouth and nipped his ear. She was
yelling something "... bring them
back. Silas! Goodbye! Goodbye!"
When the ship was seven months
out. the skipper was still wrapped in
the gruff, warm glow of happiness at
having his boy and girl with him.
Then one April morning, after a
rather stormy night, the captain woke
up and found John missing. John
had gone on deck to watch the war
of the storm . . . -loh ii was never seen
again. . . .
A gloom, like a black canopy, set-
30
The
Sea’s
Strangest
Story
By XOIKM.IN IdSIFR
tied on the ship’s cargo of humanity.
But her great white sails stayed taut
as a banjo's head and her tapering
nose rooted into the belly of the
waves. The symphony of the wind
and reckless gurgle of the spray,
ringing in the captain’s ears, was a
mournful dirge.
“John's gone." he'd iiitunhle. try¬
ing to convince himself. After a few
days he noticed that Nance wasn't
This marble cross marks the grave of
Naneey Martin, at Wilmington, who
was buried sitting in a chair which
had been nailed to the bottom of a
box, filled with whiskey.
The marble shaft on the left con¬
tains her obituary notes and also
those of her brother, who passed
away on the same ocean voyage which
is described by Mr. Foster in the ac¬
companying article.
looking so well. “Taking it pretty
hard," he'd tell himself.
“Buck up. girl," he'd pat her thin
shoulders. His own eyes were sad with
an oration beyond tbiit of tears.
“Face the sea; look forward to the
sunsets; think of the pretty things
in the next |»ort. . . Nance would
throw herself into his arms; tears
dripping down his coat.
In three days Nance was very low.
Her face was burned with fever; her
eyes, bone- rim mod sockets; yellow
cavities devoured her cheeks. During
those three days, the skipper sat and
watched, with pitiable hopelessness,
the terrifying triiiisformation. Kv-
erything he tried in the medical chest
only made her worse.
К
very hour that
she was awake, he'd lean forward,
straining with hope's mystic antici¬
pation. and softly say. "Feel better,
girl!"
"No. Daddv." she'd sav. Or:
“Worse. Daddy."
Then on May 25. while the sun was
setting on the horizon like a large
orange and its yellow juice spilling in
the sea. and the waves growled like
tiny puppies at play. Nance turned
and slowly took her Daddy's hand.
"Dad." she whispered. Her voice
faded with her struggle to complete
each word, and her chest labored with
uncertain breathing. "Dad. I'm . . .
afraid. If I ... I —don't bury me at
sea. I'll be . . . lonesome. . . . So . . .
far away. ..."
Nance died. For two days she lay
cold in her cabin — a cabin still fresh
with memories of her. But the skipper
was sitting in his own room, looking
through the (tort-hole picture of sea
and sky, ami seeing only a watery
Ыпг.
"Don't bury me at sea!" He was
ten days from the next |»<»rt and six
months from home. Yet "don’t bury
me at sea!”
Later, he said to the mate. "Build
me a pine box 5x4x4, leave the top off.
Then nail a chair to the floor of the
box. When completed" he braced
himself and spoke his orders "lake
Nance and set her in the elm it*. Fill
the cask full of whiskey, and nail the
lid on. It should preserve her until
we get back home." He stumbled
blindly away, remembering his wife’s
last words : "Bring them back.
Silas.
When the ship finally reached Wil¬
mington it was decided to bury
Nance, like she was, in her strange
coffin. She was buried at Oakdale
Cemetery, in Wilmington; and she’s
still there, as well preserved as she
was the day she died, sitting in a
chair— in a cask of whiskey. . . .
