William H. Macy  Source  Whalesite

HER FIRST AND THIRD HUSBAND.

W. H. Macy

Ballou's Monthly Magazine
Vol. XLV, No. 6 (Jun 1877)
pp. 574-581.

HER FIRST AND THIRD HUSBAND.

      In the house nearly opposite to my father's, in the days of my boyhood, lived Captain David Russell, a retired mariner, who appeared to be in comfortable circumstances, and to enjoy life as a hale hearty man of sixty odd, who is happy in his domestic relations, as he ought to be.

      He had two sons, the elder of whom was in active service at sea as mate of a ship, while the other, who was about thirty, kept a small store down town, and lived with his wife and one little fairy of a girl in a part of the same house with the old folks, though making a separate family. The name on his sign door down town read, "J. Bunker Russell," and I observed that the neighbors in speaking of him often called him "John Bunker," as if that were his full name. Even my own mother, though she took pride in being very correct as to the use of names, would sometimes forget herself and send me on an errand to John Bunker's store. I could not help thinking this very strange, and one day, on my return, I determined to know whether there was any good reason for it.

      "Mother," said I, "isn't his name John Bunker Russell?"

      "Why yes, child. What makes thee ask?" My mother was a birthright Quaker, and from the force of education and habit generally used the plain language to her children, though she did not insist upon our doing the same, but left us quite free in this respect.

      "Why, you most always tell me to go down to John Bunker's store."

      "Do I? Well, what of it? That's his name, or at least a part of it. But if thee is so particular, I must try to remember and say Russell every time."

      "Oh, I am not very particular, mother, but you are in every other case but this."

      Mother laughed. "Well, I'll tell thee," she said. "His name was John Bunker, and the Russell was added after he grew up. Now don't bother me with questions about it, for I couldn't tell thee the whole particulars of the story."

      "Then of course," said I, "he isn't David Russell's son?"

      "I didn't say that he was or wasn't," answered my dear mother. "There now, let me alone."

      "And as Captain Paul Russell is older than John Bunker," said I, puzzling over it, "of course Aunt Judith Russell, as we call her, isn't Paul's own mother."

      "Yes, she is, too. Now ask thy father, when he gets back from New York, and he

can tell thee all about it, for he knows the names of the different places, and the ships, and all about it."

      My father was then absent, being captain of a coaster; but I did not fail to get the whole story of the Russell family from him on his return. And now, at this distance of time, when all the principal parties in the drama have passed on, I can tell the story in my own way.

      On a Sabbath morning in 1805, David Russell and Judith Swain stood side by side in the Friends' meeting-house at Nantucket, and solemnly pledged themselves, each to the other, as husband and wife, after the manner of their sect. Both were young and ardent, full of hope for the future, and rich in love for each other, if not in worldly goods and chattels. David had already shipped when he plighted his faith to his bride, and the honeymoon had not yet waned when he sailed on a voyage to Walwich Bay as mate of the good ship Leo, whereof his old acquaintance and neighbor, Aaron Bunker, was master.

      The ship held her course across the Atlantic towards the Azores, intending to touch at one of these islands before proceeding on her southern voyage, and when nearly up with the longitude of Flores, a heavy gale was experienced, compelling the ship to lay to for safety. During Russell's watch on deck one night, and when the gale was at its height, a strange sail was seen close aboard, driving directly down upon the Leo's quarter, under scudding canvas. Owing to the blackness of the night and the rate at which the stranger was moving, she was so near when the alarm was given that there was no time to get the ship headed off to avoid a collision. Russell, in a voice of thunder, ordered the tiller to be jammed hard up, and then jumped upon the taffrail just as the strange ship's jibboom, high in air, passed across, sweeping away the Leo's spanker gaff and all the gear attached, as if it had been cobwebs, while the bluff of the bow, striking a spare spar which projected through the stern-hawse of the Leo, snapped off like a mere pipestem. But both ships were saved, for it was but a glancing blow. The danger had been perceived just in time by those on board the scudding ship, but the helm had been forced hard a starboard. At the instant of contact, she was swinging rapidly in obedience to her rudder, and as the spare spar broke, the two vessels cleared each other by a very touch-and-go.

      The little whaler, despite her helm, was forced up into the wind, and narrowly escaped foundering before she could be got back to her former course. When this was fairly done, all on board breathed more freely, but shuddered as they thought of the hair-breadth escape from total destruction. But where, oh, where, was Mr. Russell? The last seen of the young mate was when he jumped upon the taffrail, the last sound heard from him was his stentorian cry to those on board the strange ship, "Starboard! Hard a starboard!" His fate, like that of thousands of brave seamen and soldiers, was to be summed up in the one awful word, "Missing!"

      All that could be known of the stranger was that she was a very large ship, and apparently a man-of-war, and some had heard voices shouting in great excitement, but seemingly in some foreign tongue. At daylight the next morning the gale had somewhat abated, but no sail was in sight from the Leo's masthead, and so without material damage, save in the loss of her chief mate, she made sail, touching at Fayal, where a new officer was shipped, and then proceeded on her cruise in the South Atlantic.

      Meanwhile the young wife, in her quiet home at Nantucket, had settled down into the matron, enrolling herself in the ranks of those whose missions seemed to be, in those days, to wait like faithful Penelope for the return of their long-absent lords. But she had not to wait long for the fatal tidings; for the early arrival of another whaler from Walwich Bay, which had spoken the Leo, set the dreadful truth beyond all doubt, and the bride of a few short months was a widow, even before the beautiful seal of maternity had been set upon the fair brow.

      In due time the Leo, deeply laden with oily treasure, arrived home.

      The sight of her lost husband's shipmates only stirred anew the wound in the widow's heart; yet there was consolation in the sympathetic visit of Captain Bunker, and his generous praises of his lost mate. The Leo was to be fitted out again immediately, and the captain's stay on shore was very brief. Time works wonders, as we all know, and it had already begun to exert its healing influence. Aaron Bunker though on the verge of thirty, was thus far a

bachelor, and to the surprise of both matrons and maidens, he seemed determined to remain so for the present. And so when he had made more voyages, and five years had elapsed since the fatal night of the collision off the Azores, it was a matter of no surprise to the staid and prudent members of the Society of Friends that David Russell's widow stood again in the meeting-house, to exchange vows with her second husband. She had done well, everybody said: little Paul would have a kind father, and as for Aaron, he, too, had certainly chosen wisely.

      And Judith was, indeed, happy in the new marriage relation, though as Captain Bunker had more voyages to make, she was still forced to continue the part of waiting Penelope. Two more years passed, and the long train of grievances endured by our seamen had led to a rupture between our government and that of Great Britain.

      It was a heavy hour for Judith Bunker when the news of the declaration of war reached her island home. Captain Bunker had sailed but a few months before on a voyage to the Pacific Ocean; he was away on the other side of Cape Horn, and his return not to be looked for under two years. Would the Ardent run the gauntlet in safety? was now an anxious question, for, in addition to the ordinary dangers of the seas, it was now predicted by those who ought to know, that the enemy's naval cruisers would infest every sea, the Pacific as well as the Atlantic. But like a brave little woman, she tried to hope for the best, and while she prayed for the safety of her husband, she strove to do her whole duty by her two boys, so unlike each other, and yet so equally dear to her mother's heart. As she looked upon Paul, now a stout stripling, and already talking of the time when he, too, should go "round Cape Horn," a tear would sometimes escape her, as a tribute to the memory of him to whom the freshness of her first love had been given. But this was over in a moment, for her heart told her that he was gone forever, and that her duties were with the living present and the anxious future.

      The story now returns to David Russell, who, although mourned as lost, and believed to be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, had been preserved by one of those strange chances which seem little short of miracles, and which are yet not so uncommon in the sailor or soldier. At the moment of the collision when the strange ship's jibboom was nearly over his head, he had been thrown from his balance and lost his footing. Clutching wildly in the air, he seized upon some rope, he knew not what, but supposed at the instant it was the spanker rang of his own ship. More rapidly than he could think, he was lifted and swung out into the darkness, while his only safety lay in clinging desperately to whatever he had laid hold upon. A moment more, and he realized that he was far away from the Leo, and among the bowsprit gear of the other ship. Her jibboom had been carried away in the conflict, but he had been fortunate enough to escape without bodily injury. As soon as he found his footing, and partially regained strength, he made his way in over the ship's bow, when he found himself surrounded by a crowd of rough bearded seamen, talking in a language which he did not understand, but which he knew well enough to be French.

      From the size of the ship, and the great number of men on her deck, he supposed that she was a man-of-war, and he was soon taken in charge by a young officer who spoke good English, and escorted aft to tell his story to the captain. That potentate thought the story sufficiently marvelous, but as he could not doubt the tale with the living evidence before him, he only shrugged his shoulders and expressed his astonishment in pantomime, as Russell's statement was interpreted to him. The vessel was the Formidable, line-of-battle-ship, which had been with several others of her class on the West Indian station, but was now returning, to join the combined French and Spanish fleet. She had been separated from her consorts before the gale came on, and was now making the best of her way to the home rendezvous. Beyond the loss of her jibboom, the ship had sustained no material damage in the collision with the Leo.

      Russell was well treated on board the Frenchman, but the prospect before him was anything but cheering to a young man of his character and nationality. His voyage, which he had begun with such high hopes, was of course broken up and lost. All Europe was in a state of war, and the chances of returning to his own country for years to come were very uncertain, even if he were permitted to be a free agent. But

every able-bodied man, and especially every able seaman, was wanted in these troubled times; the fleet of both English and French must be manned, and those in authority were not wont to be over-scrupulous as to the means made use of to get recruits. From the hour he set foot on board the man-of-war, Russell was beset with solicitations to enter his name as a volunteer in the French navy, but all offers and blandishments were steadily refused. His determination, kept always in view, was to make his escape and get back to his own country as soon as any opportunity presented itself, and he resolved that if he served under any other flag than his own, it should be under compulsion, and never as a volunteer.

      In due time the Formidable safely ran the gauntlet of the English blockading squadron, and joined the combined fleet in the Bay of Cadiz. But Russell was not permitted to go on shore, and though he succeeded in gaining the ear of the French admiral, he received no satisfaction from the interview, for the truth was, he was too fine a man to be lost. He was urged, coaxed, solicited, and even threatened, but he steadily refused to enlist, and returned to the Formidable as a sort of prisoner, though on duty. He preferred duty of any kind, however, to a life of sulky inaction, so he resolved to be quiet and submissive, and to bide his time.

      In a few days the whole fleet put to sea, and soon after gave battle to the ships of Nelson off Trafalgar. In the great conflict, Russell found himself bearing a part, though with little heart or soul in that result; but the Formidable was one of the captured ships, and he became a prisoner in the hands of the English, thus literally jumping out of the pan into the fire, for notwithstanding his straight-forward story, confirmed by his French shipmates, little heed was given to it, and it was apparent that England expected every man – who spoke good English – to do his duty..

      He was transferred and changed about from one ship to another, until his original statement and his identity were entirely lost sight of. When he attempted to remonstrate, he was charged with being a renegade Englishman, and threatened with hanging at the yardarm; for he was assured that it would not be difficult to find those who would swear to him as a deserter from the British navy. There was no help for it but patience, and he submitted to his fate, but always doing duty as a pressed man, and stoutly refusing to enroll his name as a volunteer. Thus seven years of the prime of his life were worn away, with no opportunity for escape from his thraldom. He was seldom allowed to go on shore in any port where it was possible to desert successfully, and was always under watch and guard as a pressed man, and one not to be trusted out of sight.

      He had several times written letters to his wife, and to others in his native island, but none of these ever reached their destination. Two or three attempts at desertion had proved failures, and had only served to make his situation the harder, and to cut off the little liberty which had before been allowed him. Swallowed up in the insatiable maw of the British navy, he had nearly settled down into the most hopeless, aimless existence, when the war was declared in 1812, and he found himself compelled to serve actively against the land of his birth. But still a little gleam of hope stole into his benighted heart, when he learned that he, with others, was to be assigned to the Ringdove, sloop-of-war, and sent on a cruise to the Pacific Ocean.

      The chances of communicating with his home, and even the chance of final escape, would be much improved if he could get into the South Sea on the further side of Cape Horn. With this hope to live for, he became more cheerful, and did his duty so well that he soon rose high in the estimation of the commander and officers of the Ringdove, being valued as one of the finest seamen on board.

      After doubling Cape Horn, the sloop-of-war proceeded to Valparaiso to refit, finding no American vessel in port on the arrival, Russell, having completely won the confidence of his commanding officer, was allowed liberty on shore with his watch mates, and he now determined to make a bold push for freedom. He bargained with a Chilian, who agreed, for a certain consideration, to stow him away in his own house, and keep him snug until the Ringdove should be far away in blue water. But as his watch was likely to have another turn on shore before sailing, he meant to defer his attempt until this last day on land, when the ship would be ready for sea. He saw no one in his wanderings about the port whom he could

recognize as an old acquaintance, but having learned in the course of his inquiries that the captain of a Nantucket whaler was lying sick in the marine hospital, he went without loss of time to find him. He was admitted according to his request, but was cautioned not to talk to the sick man, who was prostrate with fever, and not in a condition to bear any fatigue or excitement. Still he was not considered to be in danger, the attendant said; only "comfortably sick." "What was his name?" The official did not remember, but it was down on the books somewhere.

      Russell approached the bedside eagerly, for he felt almost sure he could recognize any shipmaster of those who claimed Nantucket as their birthplace.

      Nor was he mistaken in this instance, for eight years of active service, and a long fit of sickness, had not so changed the looks of his old friend and comrade Aaron Bunker but that he was instantly known. Russell's first impulse was to rush to him, to grasp his hand, to take him in his arms; but he restrained himself, and stood waiting to see what effect his apparition, as if from the dead, would have upon the captain. The sick man, who appeared to be quite clear in mind, at first turned his glance mechanically and with an air of indifference upon the man in English man-of-war rig, but gradually his dull eyes dilated, and strange emotion made itself visible in his haggard face. He placed his thin hand over his eyes, as if to get a better view.

      "He never had a twin brother, that I knew of," he muttered to himself. Then suddenly he cried, in great agitation, "Speak man! Are you David Russell, or his ghost?" Then, as if ashamed of this emotion, he closed his eyes, muttering again, "No – no – he went to the bottom of the Atlantic eight years ago. Besides, if he were alive, he never could wear that rig."

      His hand was seized with a strong hearty grasp, which made him start up from his pillow. There was no attendant near to interfere, or the interview might have been cut short at this point.

      "I am David Russell, in the flesh, and no ghost at all. It's a long story to tell how I come to be here, and sailing under these colors; but you may, and you do know, Aaron Bunker, that it is not of my own free will, and I trust to break my chains very soon. You are the first man from old Nantucket that I have looked upon for eight years. But I must not excite you while you are so weak. Be calm now, and tell me all about home and the dear ones I left there."

      His heart was so full that he could not yet utter the name of the one dear one, dearer than all else besides. But he was entirely unprepared for the terrible agitations of this old friend, whom he thus exhorted to be calm.

      "Calm, calm!" repeated the sick man, in almost a shriek of agony. "David Russell, you – But no, it is all a dream, and yet it is not, for I am in my right mind. How in heaven's name did you – But no matter, it's enough that you are here alive, and telling me to be calm!"

      Russell thought he must be wandering in mind, and did his best to quiet and soothe him. But the one question he must have an answer to.

      "My wife, Aaron? Tell me that my wife is well, or was when you last left home. Tell me this, Aaron, and I will not excite you more. I will leave you as soon as you have answered this question!"

      "Leave! No, sit down, man. Sit here, close at my side, for you must know all," said the sick man, with forced calmness. "Your wife? How can I tell you? and yet I must. My God! David Russell, do you know? No, of course you do not know that your wife has been my wife for the past three years!"

      The grasp of the hand relaxed. Russell's face dropped upon the side of the bed, and his strong frame shook with the agony of the first shock. Both men were silent for two or three minutes.

      "She mourned you truly, David, and gave five full years to your memory. I made three more voyages in the Leo, always waiting and hoping before I spoke to her of love. I have been very happy with Judith, and I have been faithful to your boy, David – for you have a boy, and a noble one, too – as I was to my own, who is still but an infant. Both boys call her 'mother,' David, and she loves them equally. But if she knew what you and I know at this moment, I think her dear heart would be broken."

      Another shudder went through the powerful frame – the last one – and Russell raised his face with an expression stern and

yet tender. He seemed to have seen his way clear, and to be strong with high resolve.

      "Her dear heart shall not be broken, Aaron, for she need never know the truth. I confess that for eight years I have cherished the hope of meeting Judith again in this world; but that is all over now. Go back to your wife, Aaron, and be happy; for although she is also my wife, it could bring nothing but misery to her to know that I am living."

      "But you must know, David, that the legal claim is yours."

      "If it is mine, I waive it now and forever. I shall try to escape as soon as I can from this accursed British service; but I shall never make myself known to any townsman of mine. There is room enough somewhere in the world for us. This secret is yours and mine, Aaron. I know that you will keep it inviolate for her sake."

      "And you have no blame either for her or me?" asked Captain Bunker, in a choking voice.

      "Blame! no; my wife – our wife, Aaron, is above all blame. There is no blame attaching to any one in such a case; and yet strange it is that this very fact makes it the harder to bear for all three of the parties. Keep the secret, Aaron, to your grave! I only ask that you will do your duty by my boy, as I know you have done it heretofore, and let me be forgotten."

      "I would gladly promise all this to you, David, for I know and feel that you are right. Yours is the best and only true solution of such a problem, whatever the law may say about it. For the sake of her peace – though I hope not from any more selfish motive – I could make you the promise you ask for, and keep it too. But in this case, David, the problem will work out its own solution in a better way even than you have suggested. I feel that such promises on my part would be idle, for I shall never live to fulfill them. They say that I am getting better now, but I know that my strength is failing day by day, and feel that my time on earth is very short. No, you need not tell me that I am foolish, or that I alarm myself without good cause, for I see it in your face that you are going to say something of the kind. I think I know my own condition and chances of life, and I feel sure that I never shall see Judith again. Now I want you in your turn to make a promise to me. If you break away from the service under the English flag, which I think you will do very soon, make inquiries about me, and as soon as you know that I have ceased to live, return to your wife. For she is lawfully and truly your wife, and will love you, if you returned under those circumstances, even as she now loves your memory, believing you dead for years. David, we both love this woman, and are studying her happiness; if you love her well enough to conceal from her the knowledge of your existence, that she may be happy with me, you must certainly love her well enough to promise that you will do as I desire, in case you hear of my death."

      "I will!" answered Russell, solemnly. "But if I should escape, as I hope to in this port, the chances are that I shall return to America penniless. You have not thought of that."

      "Indeed I have," answered Aaron Bunker. "I have left something behind, for I have been moderately prosperous in money matters, and meant, when I sailed in the Ardent, that this should be my last voyage. Judith is not penniless, by any means. By my will, executed before I sailed, all that I leave goes to her during life, and after her, to your child and mine, in equal shares. Promise me this, too, David – that you will be a father to my boy, as I have been and always intended to be to yours."

      The promise was given by Russell with as much emotion as if his friend had been really at the point of death.

      "I feel very happy in this promise, for we know that, as old shipmates, we can rely upon each other's word. Give me your hand upon it, David. Mark what I say, I am nearer the end than you or the doctors think – but I am not afraid to die, for I have kept a fair record; and though I married your wife, it seems, yet I have done no wrong, knowingly, to man or woman. With this promise from you, I may say that I am quite content, and stand ready when the time comes. And now let us talk of other matters. My ship, the Ardent, is nearly full of oil – at any rate, she has a good voyage in her hold already. She is now out here on a short cruise, in charge of my mate, Joe Barnard; you know him well. Joe is a good whaleman and a worthy fellow, but he is not a man I would desire to leave in charge, if I had any choice in the matter. He will follow anywhere, if

somebody else will lead, but he lacks confidence in himself as soon as he is thrown upon his own resources. I only wish that you, David Russell, were on board the Ardent and had command of her."

      "Do you expect her in here soon?" Russell asked.

      "No, I hope not, for she would run into the very jaws of death before I could get on board myself, weak as I am now. I told Mr. Barnard to look in at Talcahuana first, and to find out there whether any man-of-war was in this bay before he started round here. I gave him these orders because I had heard a rumor that your ship, the Ringdove, and several others were coming round in this station, hoping to capture David Porter, who is scouring the Pacific in that saucy frigate the Essex."

      The attendant belonging to the hospital here hurried in with a very anxious face, like a night-watchman rushing up after a row is all over. But seeing the sick man evidently so calm and happy, he returned again, and the two held another hour's conversation together. Russell related the story of his miraculous escape on the night of the collision, and something of his subsequent adventures; and Captain Bunker went more into the detail concerning a hundred matters at home, in which the long absent wanderer was deeply interested. He was still full of anxiety about the ship, and from time to time returned to that subject. He himself owned a quarter of the Ardent and her cargo. She was a great traveler, and with a fair start, he did not fear the Ringdove, or any other British cruiser; but there were the chances of the elements, and his want of confidence in his mate's firmness.

      At the hour of parting they mutually renewed their promises concerning the woman they loved and her children.

      "But," said Aaron, again, " my promise amounts to nothing, because I shall never live to carry it out. When you come ashore again, call here before you start up country for Santiago. I may have more to say to you. If I am not living, I will leave a written message for you."

      When Russell got his last liberty day on shore, some ten days later, he lost no time in making inquiry at the hospital. But the shock to his feelings was terrible when he learned that Captain Bunker had been buried the day before. His words had been indeed prophetic, and he was nearer his end when he uttered them than he himself had supposed. A package was delivered to Russell by the steward of the hospital, and on opening it a considerable sum in ready money was found, with three letters directed by the feeble hand of the dying man. One of these was for Russell himself, another for Judith, and the third for his mate on board the Ardent.

      Russell could be of no further use at the hospital, and his duties at once called him elsewhere. He sought his Chilian friend, and having exchanged his man-of-war clothes for the dress of the country, they mounted their horses for a ride inland. But just then a courier came up from the southward with a report that a ship, supposed to be a whaler, was in sight, coasting along towards the port. A word to this guide, and still better a dollar displayed to his view, served to change their direction, and they rode at breakneck speed along shore to the southward.

      A ride of three hours brought them abreast of the ship, and Francisco, further stimulated by another dollar, was not long in finding a friend who was ready to carry them out in his fishing-boat. As the wind was light, they soon succeeded in heading off the Ardent, for Russell knew her well enough from Aaron's description.

      "Where's Mr. Barnard?" demanded Russell, as he jumped in on the quarter-deck.

      Mr. Barnard was below, suffering from severe injuries, having been hurt by a whale a few days before. The second mate now had charge, and knowing little of navigation, had got hold of the land, as he expressed it, and was following it along towards the Bay of Valparaiso.

      "You are rushing right into the enemy's hands," said Russell. "You had better bring her to the wind, and work off again as fast as you can, for the Ringdove is in the bay, and her boats will be out after you, as they have got the news before this time. It was lucky that I heard it before the English officers did. But I must see Joe Barnard at once. I have a letter for him, and I hope he is able to read it."

      He was able to read, though suffering from severe injuries, and the reading of the letter, written by a dying man, who was master and part owner of the ship, and delivered as it was by an old acquaintance

risen from a watery grave, had wonderful effect. Russell found himself at once in a post of honor, fully authorized to act, and, in fact, commander of the Ardent de facto if not de jure. For both the crippled and suffering mate and the young inexperienced second officer were glad to be relieved of the responsibility.

      While the Ringdove's boats were waiting at the mouth of Valparaiso Bay, to board and capture the Ardent in neutral waters, and the police were hunting far and near for the deserter Russell, the stout little whaler, with the deserter in charge, was speeding away under a crowd of canvas, laying her course for Cape Horn – homeward bound.

      It was a day of great rejoicing among the good people of the island when the news spread abroad that a deeply-laden ship, known by her distinctive flag to be the Ardent, had successfully run the gauntlet of the hostile cruisers, and was coming to anchor off Nantucket Bar. It was not until the swift whaleboat lowered from her sides touched the beach at the Cliff Shore, that the truth was known concerning the death of Captain Bunker, and the resurrection of David Russell from his supposed ocean grave. He did not present himself before his wife until she sent for him, but the letter of Aaron, with the seal unbroken as he received it, was delivered to her by a trusty hand, and its contents, sacred to her eyes alone, made all things clear, and prepared the way to happiness. Upon the first interview between Judith and her long-lost husband, not even the pen of the novelist has a right to intrude.

      After a suitable interval of time David and Judith remarried, and entered upon a new career of happiness. After peace was proclaimed the captain made two more successful voyages, taking his boy Paul with him, and then returned with a competency. By special act of the General Court, little John Bunker had the name of Russell added, and until grown to manhood knew of no other father than the man who is still equally dear to him and to his sailor brother, and who was thus strangely their mother's first and third husband.

Source:

Macy, William Hussey
"Her First and Third Husband."
      Ballou's Monthly Magazine.
Vol. 45, No. 6 (Jun 1877)
pp. 574-581.

William H. Macy  Source  Whalesite