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About Richards' weekly gazette. (Athens, Ga.) 1849-1850 | View Entire Issue (March 30, 1850)
‘ ’ ‘'’ ‘ j “ ‘ ‘ a smtMMm mimlt mmii, —..psiona to litimtois, th uts mb sckhibbs, mb t® ibul iktelugool For Richards’ Weekly Gazelte W A T C II! BY MRS. C. W. DUBOSE. * 4 Watch, therefore ; for ye know not what hour your Lord doth tome. 9 ’ Pilgrim on life's weary journey, Wanderer on earth's barren soil, Let your lamp be trimmed and burning, Ready for your master’s toil! Watch! ye know not when he comet h— * Be ye ready at his voice— Heady when the summons soundeth, Which should make your souls rejoice! ~ Watch and pray !” for no one knoweth, When the day or hour shall be, Os the Master’s glorious coining In 11 is heavenly majesty ! Life is short! but not the ending Os our share of bliss or woe ; All beyond the grave there lieth Other worlds to which we go ! When the call of Death shall summon Wearied spirits to their rest, And the valley’s sod shall slumber Peacefully upon our breast: Theu the Master's voice shall call us. And, obedient to His word. Must our souls go forth to meet Him, When that solemn call is heard! fc * Watch and pray !” this brief existence Very soon must ended be, And these forms of life and beauty, In the tomb sleep silently! Hearts that now with joy are beating— Spirits that are stout and brave— Pnresisfcingly are wending To the silence of the grave ! To that bourne whose hidden secret, Traveller ne'er returns to tell, All unconsciously we ’re tending, While life’s billows round us swell: Bearing us in silence onward, As around they swiftly roll— Every moment drawing nearer To that dark, unfathomed goal! Watch and pray !” the Lord is coining: Woe to those who fail to keep Steady watch for His appearing. And in thoughtless silence sleep ! From that sleep His voice shall rouse them, When’t will be, alas ! too late ; Then in silent, sad repentance, Vainly at the door they’ll wait! WatdV J the hour is drawing nearer— ■ilo*teas on the fatal day, When your Lord shall come to seek you : Be ye ready ! “ watch and pray !” Trias Boa MESS* .— — .. —— THE FIELD_OF TERROR. BY BF. LA MOTTK FOUfttlE. CHAPTER I . During the latter part of the war, which terminated with the peace of Westphalia, there assembled at the foot of the Riesett berg, in a beautiful part of the country of Silesia, a number of persons who were the relations, and had lately succeeded to the property, of an opulent deceased farmer. This man had died without children, and had left several farms and fields scattered about that fertile country; and his heirs were now met together to divide the in heritance. For this purpose, they assembled in the principal inn of one of the villages; and they found no difficulty among themselves as to the allotment of every part of the es tate except one particular piece of ground, which was known by the name of the “Haunted Field,” or “Field of Terror,” on account of the wonderful stories which were told concerning it- 1 l'* s was entirely overgrown with wild flowers, and an abundance of rank and luxuriant shi übs, which, while they bore ample testimony to the vigor and fertility of the soil, were equally indicative of the neglect and deso lation to which it was abandoned. For a long series of years, no ploughshare had penetrated its surface, and no seed had been cast upon its furrows; or if, at intervals, the attempt was marie, the cattle had been invariably seized with frenzy, had wildly broken from the yoke, and the ploughman and his men had rushed from the spot in fright and alarm, affirming that it was haunted by the most terrific phantoms, who followed the laborer in his occupation with the most fearful familiarity, looking over his shoulder with such hideous as pects, that no one could venture to con tinue his work. The question now arose, to whom this field should be allotted. As is the common course in the world, every one felt that this spot, which would be useless and of no value in his own case, might yet be ex tremely applicable, and even advantageous, to his neighbor ; and thus the contest for its right appropriation, continued till a late hour of the evening. At length, one of the party proposed a remedy, which, though not directly benefitting any one present, seemed to promise a settlement of the dispute. •‘By a codicil in the will, 1 ’ said he, “we are enjoined to shew some mark of kind ness to a poor relation of the testator, who iives hard by in the village. It is true, the girl is very distantly related to us; and there can be no doubt that, portionless as she is, she will yet procure a good hus band, for she is virtuous and frugal, and goes by the name of the pretty Sabine.— Suppose we give up this • Field of Terror’ to her; we shall in this way discharge the injunctions of our lamented relative ; and, to say the truth, it may yet prove a rich dowry for her, provided she can find a husbaud who will venture to cultivate it.” The others immediately consented to this proposal, and one of the relatives was despatched to communicate the intelligence of their bounty. In the mean time, as the twilight drew on, somebody tapped at Sabine’s cottage window ; and to her question of “ Who’s there V a reply was given, which had the instant etlcct of withdrawing the rustic bolt of her little window. It was a voice long and anxiously expected—the voice of her brave Frederick, who, born poor as her self, had some years before set out for the wars, in the hope of gaining some little subsistence, to enable him to marry his be loved Sabine, whose heart, filled with the purest allection, was entirely devoted to him. It was a delightful picture too see Sabine leaning out of her wired lattice, with tears of joy starting in her beautiful eyes, as the erect and youthful soldier gazed upon her in modest, silent bliss, and extended to wards her his faithful hand. “ Ah, Frederick !” she said, in a low and bashful voice, “ God be praised, thou art returned safe; this has been my constant prayer morn and evening. And tell me, Frederick, have you made your fortune in ttie campaign'?” “ Fortunes are not so soon won,” said Frederick, shaking his head, and smiling ; “ and prizes do not fall to every one. How ever, 1 am better off than when I.went away; and if you have but a courageous heart, 1 think we may marry, and get through the world pretty well.” “Kind-hearted Frederick!” ejaculated Sabine, “to take a poor orphan for better and worse!” “Come,” said Frederick, “give me but one friendly ‘yes,’ and promise to be mine, and we shall be happy in each other, and thrive, and live like princes.” “And have you got your discharge, and are you really no longer a soldier ?” Frederick, looking into his knapsack, that held his treasures, brought out a sil ver medal, which he reached to Sabine; and as she received it, the light of the little lamp in her chamber fell on the piece. There was a burst drum figured in an old fashioned manner, and over it were written the words, “God be praised, the war is ended!” “ Perhaps,” added Frederick, helping her to decipher the medal, “it is not yet peace, hut it is thought we shall have no moie fighting at present, and our colonel has therefore discharged his men.” At this intelligence, Sabine held out her hand, as a pledge of her affection to her lover, and invited him to come into her lit tle dwelling, where he seated himself by her side, and related how he had won his gold and silver in honorable battle, and in the open field, from a foreign officer of rank whom he had made prisoner—having obtained the money as his ransom. Sabine, as she turned her wheel, listened with deep attention to her lover’s recital, bestowing, from time to time, a smile of fond approbation upon his conduct, and in wardly rejoicing tjiat no reproach could hereafter be thrown upon their slender means, thus honorably acquired. Their conversation was now interrupted by the appearance of the person who came to communicate the message entrusted to him. Sabine, with maidenly blushes, pre sented her intended husband to the stran ger, and the latter replied, “This is well— -1 have arrived very opportunely ; for if your betrothed has not brought back a for tune from the wars, the gift which I am directed to present to you in the name of your relations, will be a welcome addition; indeed, it was the will of the testator, that you should be remembered in a handsome way.” Frederick was too much offended at the boasting manner in which this communica tion was made, to testify any joy on the occasion. But the humble Sabir.e, igno rant of the mode in which her relatives had evinced their generosity, received the communication as an interposition of Pro vidence, with her head modesty bent down, while a smile of heartfelt, grateful joy shone on her countenance. But as soon as she heard that the Field of Terror was assigned to her as her portion, and in li quidation of her just claims, the sordid be havior of her relations pressed on her heart with a painful, sickening coldness, and she felt it impossible to refrain from shedding tears of disappointed hope. Her relation, with a smile of half-sup pressed contempt, expressed his regret that she should have allowed herself to expect more than her friends had thought right to allot her. “And, indeed,” he observed, “this is a much larger proportion of the inheritance than you could fairly hope to receive as a ! matter of right.” With this speech he was about to retire, i when Frederick interrupted him, and with 1 that deliberate coolness which attends a j mind conscious of its own superiority, he said— “ Sir, I perceive that you and your fel lows have been pleased to convert the be nevolent intentions of the deceased into a mere piece of mockery, and that it is your joint determination to withhold every shil ling of his property from my bride. But we will, nevertheless, accept your offer, in full confidence that, under the guidance of God, this haunted field, in the hands of an honest and active soldier, will be a more 1 productive bargain than a set of covetous, envious relations imend it to be.” The messenger, who felt rather uneasy at the tone and manner assumed by the young soldier, did not hazard a reply, and with an altered countenance hurried out of the cottage, and made the best of his way back. Frederick now kissed away the tears from Sabine's cheeks, and hastentd to the priest, to fix an early day for their marriage. CHAPTER 11. After the lapse of a few weeks, Frede rick and Sabine were married, and entered upon their slender house-keeping. The gold and silver pieces he had brought from the wars, the young soldier chiefly expend ed in the purchase of a fine yoke of oxen ; part was invested in seed and in the neces sary implements of husbandry, and the ar ticles of household furniture; the rest was reserved for daily expenditure, to be dealt out in the most frugal manner, till the har vest of the succeeding year should replen ish their stores. But as Frederick took his departure, with his cattle and plough, for the field of labor, he looked back and smiled to his good Sabine, saying, that he was now going to invest his gold, which another year would restore to him two-fold. Sabine could only follow him with her anxious looks, and wish, in her heart, that he were once safely returned from the dreaded “Field of Terror.” And home, truly, he came, and that long before the vesper-bell had sounded ; but far from being so cheerful, as, in the native confidence of his heart, he had pro mised himself in the mornieg, when he went forth singing to his work. He drag ged laboriously after him the lragments of l.is shattered plough; before him paced, with difficulty, one of his oxen, sorely maimed —and marks of blood were seen on his own head and shoulder. But still his soldier-spirit did not fail him, and he bore up under his misfortunes with a courageous and even merry heart, consoling, at the same time, the grief of the weeping Sa bine. “Come,” said he, smilingly, “get your pickling-tubs in order, for this goblin who reigns in the ‘Field oi Terror.’ has provid ed us with an abundance of beef. Ihe beast I brought home with me has so in jured himself in his frenzy, that he will not be fit for any farther work; and as for the other, he ran off into the mountains, and there 1 saw him plunge from a steep rock into the torrent below, where 1 fancy he now lies, and front wltence, I dare say, he will never again make his appearance.” “Oh, these relations ! these wicked re lations !” sobbed the disconsolate Sabine. “My hurt is of no consequence,” said Frederick; “it was but the oxen that crushed me between them when they ran mad, and I endeavored to stop them ; but it matters not grieving, and in the morning l will start afresh.” Sabine was now sr terrified at what had happened, that she ued every means in her power to dissuade aer husband from any farther attempt at cultivating the unlucky field ; but he only leplied by saying, “ that so long as he coull move an arm or a leg, the field should hsve no rest. Land which we cannot plougl, we must delve ; and 1 am no timid heart of labor, but a good and steady soldier, ever whom a goblin can have no power.’ He now slaugltered the wounded ox, and cut it up; and oi the next morning, while Sabine was busial in preparing it forpickle. Frederick pursued his road to the haunted field, with his pekaxe and spade, with al most as good a Heart as on the day before, when he set out with his fine yoke of oxen and his handsome new plough. This time, he returned rather late in the evening, somevhat pale and exhausted, but in high spirits, and ready to tranquil ize his anxious wife. “ This is ratker hard work,” said he, laughing, “forthere comes a sort of gob lin-fellow, who stands first on this side— then on that —sometimes in one form— sometimes in aiother—and mocks me with his foolish talk ind tricks; but he seems to feel no small surprise that 1 give so lit tle heed to his pranks; and from this I be gin to take fresh courage. Besides, why should an honest man, who goes straight forward, and minds his work, care for such beings The same kind of thing continued for many days together. The brave Frederick pursued, without interruption, his daily la bor of digging, sowing, and destroying the weeds and useless plants which had over spread the field. It is true, the slow pro cess of the spade enabled him to cultivate only a small portion of the whole ground, but this served to make him all the more zealous and industrious in his labors; and he was at length rewarded by seeing a crop spring up, which promised, and event ually produced, a sufficient, if not an abun dant harvest. Even the toil of reaping, and transporting it from the field to the barn, was thrown entirely upon his own shoulders; for the laborers in the vicinity would not have engaged, for any conside ration, to spend a day upon the dreaded “Field of Terror;” and he would, on no account, permit Sabine to lend her assist ance. A child was born, and in three years two more ; and so things went on, without any remarkable occurrence. By hard stri ving and industry, Frederick compelled the Haunted Field to yield him one crop after another; and thus, like an honest man, redeemed his word to Sabine, that he would find sufficient to support her. It happened, one evening in autumn, as the shades of night began to draw on, and Frederick was still busied with his spade, that a tall, robust man, of unusual size of limb, black and sooty asacharcoal-burner, and holding a huge furnace-iron in his hand, appeared suddenly before him, and said— “ Are there no cattle to be had in this part of the country, that you thus labor away with your two hands 1 One would suppose, by the extent of your land-marks, that you were a wealthy farmer.” Frederick was perfectly aware of who it was that addressed him, and treated him in the same cool way with which he usually received the goblin in the field. He held his tongue, endeavored to withdraw his at tention from the figure before him to his work, and to labor on with redoubled ar dor. But his swarthy visitor, instead of disappearing, as is the usual practice of these goblins, to present himself again in a more frightful and hideous form, remain ed where he stood, and in a friendly tone continued — “My good fellow, you are doing both yourself and me injustice by this conduct of yours. Give me now an honest and candid answer, and perhaps 1 may be able to find a remedy for your misfortunes.” “Well, then,” rejoined Frederick, “in God’s name be it so. If you are but ca joling me with these friendly words, the fault be at your door, and not at mine.” With this, he began to relate the whole story of his adventures since he had taken possession of the field He gave an undis guised recital of his first distress, a faithful representation of his just and honest indig nation against the goblin who haunted his property, and detailed the difficulty he found, under such continual interruption and provocation, in supporting; his family by the mere application of his hoe and sjiade. The stranger gave an attentive ear to the narrative, seemed lost in thought for a few minutes, and then broke forth in the fol lowing address: “It would seem, friend, that you know who I am ; and I look upon it as a proof of your frank and manly disposition, that you have made no concealment, but that you have spoken out boldly of the displeasure you entertain towards me. To say the truth, you have certainly had sufficient cause; but in thus putting your courage to the test, 1 will make a proposal which will, I hope, indemnify you for a good deal of what is past. You must know, then, that I have had my till of wild and fantastic tricks through wood, and field, and moun tain, and 1 begin to fancy I should like to attach myself to some quiet family, that I may live for some half a year or so a peaceful, orderly life. What do you say to taking me for six months as your ser vant ?” “ It is not right of people of your sort.” said Frederick, “thus to pass your jokes upon an honest man, who repose* confi dence in you.” “No, no,” replied the other, “there is no joke in it. I tell you it is my serious intention. You will find in me a sturdy, active servant; and as long as I live with you, not a single spirit or goblin will ven ture to shew himself on the ‘ Field of Ter ror,’ so that you may admit whole herds of cattle to browse upon it.” “1 should like the thing well enough,” rejoined Frederick, “if 1 were but sure that you would keep your word, and, moreover, that I were doing right in deal ing with you at all •‘That must be your own affair,” said the stranger; “but I have never broken my word since these Riesenburg mountains have stood ; and a mere creature of evil and malice 1 certainly am not. A little merry, and w and, and tricky, sometimes, 1 own —but that is all!” “ Why, th n,” said Frederick, “I be lieve that yo . are the celebrated Rube zahl.” “Harkee!” cried the stranger, interrupt ing him, with a frown, “if that be your opinion, I would also have you to know, that the mighty spirit of the mountains will not permit that name, and that he chooses to call himself the Monarch of the Hills.” “ That would be an odd sort of a ser vant, whom 1 must call the Monarch of the Hills,” said Frederick, in a tone of raillery. “You may call me Waldmann, then,” rejoined his companion. Frederick looked awhile towards the ground, pondering upon the course he should adopt, and at length exclaimed “Well, so be it! I think 1 can hardly do amiss in accepting your services. I have often seen irrational animals drilled into domestic use—carrying parcels, turn ing spits, and other household duties— why not a goblin ?” His new servant burst into a hearty laugh at this observation, and said — “ I must acknowledge, such an estimate was never made of any of my kind before. But that I heed not —'tis my humor, and so ’tis a bargain, my honored master!” Frederick, however, made it a condition that his new servant should, on no account whatever, discover to Sabine or the chil dren that he had lived in the Haunted Field, or in the old caverns of the Riesen berg, nor at any time play any goblin tricks about the house or farm. Waldmann pledged his word to all this ; so the matter was concluded, and home they both went together, in a very friendly mood. CHAPTER 111. Sabine was not a little surprised at this addition to their household, and could scarcely look upon the swarthy, gigantic servant, without fear. The children were at first so much alarmed, that they would not venture out of doors when he was at work in the garden or in the yard; but his quiet, and good-natured, and friendly be havior soon reconciled all the household to his presence; and if he now and then had a frolicksome fit, and chased the dog and the fowls, they thought it only sport iveness and good humor, and a single look from the master was at any time sufficient to bring him within proper bounds. In full reliance upon the promises of the Mountain-Lord, Frederick applied the slen der savings of many years to the purchase of oxen; and with his newly mended plough drove to the field in the highest glee. Sa- bine looked after him with an anxious sor rowful countenance, and with an equally anxious mind awaited his return in the evening, fearing a renewal of the same dis asters and the same disappointed hopes, or that his personal injuries this time might be more dangerous and alarming than be fore. But with the sound of the vesper-bell Frederick came home singing through the village, driving his sleek, well-fed oxen be fore him, kissed his wife and children in the fulness of his joy, and shook his ser vant cordially by the hand. Waldmann now frequently went to the field alone, while his master remained be hind engaged about the yard or garden. A considerable portion of the Field of Terror was cleared and cultivated; and to the great astonishment of the village neigh bours, and the equal discontent and envy of Sabine’s selfish relations, every thingas sumed an air of prosperity and comfort.— It is true, Frederick, when alone, often re flected that all this might lie but of short duration ; “ and I know not how l shall manage with the harvest,” he exclaimed, “ for Waldmann’s time will then be out, and the goblin of the field may choose to appear with redoubled power.” But he considered that the gathering-in of the crop was a labour which of itself gave addition al vigour to the workman’s arm and heart; and it was possible that Waldmann, for old acquintance-sake, might keep the land free from such guests—as in fact, at times of cheerful relaxation, he almost seemed to intimate. In the course of time the needful labours of the field were completed. Winter ai rived, and Frederick daily drove to the for est for a stock of fuel and wood. On one of these days it so chanced that Sabine was entreated to visit a poor widow in the vil lage, who lay dangerously ill, and whom, as far as their increasing means admitted, Frederick and his wife had been accustom ed to relieve. She was at a loss how to dispose of the children during her absence; but Waldmann offered his services, with whose stories the children were always de lighted, and with whom they were ever pleased to remain ; and she proceeded on her charitable errand without further hes itation. About an hour after her departure, Frederick returned from the forest; and having disposed of his wagon iu the out house, and put up his cattle in the stall, he proceeded towards the house to revive his numbed and frozen limbs by the blaze of a cheerful fire’ On approaching the door, a cry of painful distress from his ctiiidren met his ear. He rushed into the house, and on entering ihe room found the children creeping behind the stove, and crying aloud for help, while Waldmann was wildly jumping about the room with shouts of violent laughter, making the most hideous faces, and with a crown of sparks and rays of flame playing about his head. “What is all this?” said Frederick, in a tone of indignant anger; and the fiery decorations of Waldinaun’s head disappear ed, his fantastic mernmeul instantly ceased, and, standing in a humble posture, he be gan to excuse himself by saying that he was only trying to amuse the children.— But the children ran towards then father, crying and complaining that Waldmann had first of all told them a number of most horrific stories, and that then he had as sumed a variety of frightful disguises, some times appearing with the head ol a ram, sometimes with that of a dog. “Enough! enough!” exclaimed Frede rick. “ Away, sirrah ! you and Ino longer remain uuder the same roof.” With this he seized Waldman by the arm, and pushed him violently out of the house, desiring the children to remain quiet ly in the room, and to dismiss their fears, as their father was now come, and they werp quite safe. Waldmann suffered all this without utter ing a word of expostulation ; but as soon as he found himself alone with Frederick in the open court, he said, with a smiling coun tenance ; “ Hear, master; suppose we hush this matter up, and make a fresh bargain. 1 know l have done a very foolish thing; but, 1 assure you, it shall never happen again. Somehow or other my old humor came upon me, and I forgot myself for the time.” “ For that very reason, because you can forget yourself,” rejoined Frederick, “we part. You might terrify my children into a paroxysm of madness; and, as I have said, our contract is at an end.” “My half-year has not expired,” said Waldmann, in a dogged tone; “I will go back into the house.” “Not a step further, at your peril; you shall not again touch my threshold!” cried Frederick. “ You have broken the agree ment by your accursed goblin-pranks, and all that l can Jo is to pay you your full wages. Here, take it and be off with you.” “My full wages'?” said the Mountain spirit, with a contemptuous sneer; “ have you never seen my stores of gold in the caverns of yonder hills'?” “ I do this more on my own account than yours,” said Fiederick ; “no manshallcall me his debtor.” And with that he forced the money into Waldmann’s pocket. “ And what is to be done w ith the Field of Terror?” inquired VValdmann, in a grave but almost angry tone. “ Whatever God wills,” rejoined Frede rick. “ Twenty Fields of Terror are of no importance to me in comparison with the safety of a single hair of my poor children’s heads. Take yourself away,or I shall serve you in a way you may not like, or soon forget.” “ Softly !” cried the Mountain-spirit, “ softly, my friend. When such as I con descend to assume a human form, we choose one of rather stern materials. You might chance to come by the worst in this fray, and then, God be merciful unto you!” “ That He has ever been,” said Frederick, “ and has also given me a good strength of arm, as thou shalt find. Back to your mountains, you odious being! I warn you for the last time.” Excited by this reproach to a pitch of vio lent fury, Waldmann sprung upon Frede rick, and an obstinate fight ensued. They struggled about the yard for a considerable time, each using every means in his power to overthrow his adversary, without victo ry declaring itself on either side; till at length Frederick, by his superior skill in wrestling, managed to bring his opponent to the earth, and having placed his knee upon the chest of his fallen loe, began to beat him most lustily, exclaiming, “I will teach you to attack your master, my pre cious Lord of the Hills!” The Lord of the Hills, however, laughed so heartily at this address, that Frederick, conceiving his manly efforts to be the sub ject of derision, only laid on with redoubled vigour, till at length the former exclaimed, “Mercy! enough! hold! 1 am not laugh ing at you, I am laughing at myself, and 1 humbly beg your pardon !” “ That is another affair,” said Frederick, as he rose up and assisted his conquered adversary to regain his legs. “ I have now learnt what human life is, from the very foundation upwards,’’said the latter, still continuing his noisy laughter ; “ I doubt if any of my kindred have ever pursued the study so profoundly. But harkee, my good friend, you must admit that 1 carried on the war in an honourable way ; for, as you will see yourself, I might with ease have called in half a dozen moun tain-spirits to my assistance, though, amidst all this laughter, I know not how [ should have set about it.” Frederick, with a serious air, now looked at the still laughing Rubezahl, and said, “You will, I suppose, entertain a grudge against me ; and this will not only be re paid me at the Field of Terror, but in many an evil chance elsewhere. Still I cannot repent of what I have done. I have only exercised my just authority in protecting my children; and were the thing to do over again, 1 should treat you just in the same way.” “No, no!” said Rubezahl, laughingly, “don't make yourself uneasy. I have had quite enough for once. Cultivate the Field of Terror from year to year, at your own will and pleasure; and I here promise yon that no fearful phantom shall be seen upon it from this day forwards, as long as the Riesenberg stands. And so farewell, say honest, strong-handed master!” With this he gave a friendly nod,and dis appeared ; nor was he ever more seen by- Frederick. But he kept his word to the full, and even more. An unheard-of de gree of prosperity attended all the labours of his former master, and Frederick soon be came the richest farmer in the village. And when his children were permitted to play in the Field of Terror—a spot which both they and Sabine now visited without the smallest fear—they would relate in the evening how Watldmann had appeared to them and told them humorous tales, and how they found choice confectionaries, or beautiful carved toys, or golden ducats, in their pockets on their return home. Exported and Transported Defined. —A gentleman recently married, was en joying with his fair one, an evening walk along ‘.he beach. “Pray, my dear,” said the lady, “ what is the difference between exported and transported V’ At that mo ment a vessel left the harbor, bound for a foreign port. “ Were you, my love,” re turned the gentleman, “aboard that vessel, you would be exported and I would be transported
