The Pirate, and The Three Cutters
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Title: The Pirate, and The Three Cutters
Author: Frederick Marryat
Illustrator: Edmund J. Sullivan
Release date: July 2, 2009 [eBook #29291]
Most recently updated: January 5, 2021
Language: English
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Woodie4, Joseph Cooper and the
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THE PIRATE
AND
THE THREE CUTTERS
[Illustration: Publishers mark]
[Illustration: _Cain._]
THE PIRATE
AND
THE THREE CUTTERS
BY
CAPTAIN MARRYAT
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDMUND J. SULLIVAN
AND AN INTRODUCTION BY DAVID HANNAY
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1897
_All rights reserved_
INTRODUCTION
Among the few subjects which are still left at the disposal of the
duly-gifted writer of romance is the Pirate. Not but that many have
written of pirates. Defoe, after preparing the ground by a pamphlet
story on the historic Captain Avery, wrote _The Life, Adventures, and
Piracies of Captain Singleton_. Sir Walter Scott made use in somewhat
the same fashion of the equally historic Gow--that is to say, his pirate
bears about the same relation to the marauder who was suppressed by
James Laing, that Captain Singleton does to Captain Avery. Michael Scott
had much to say of pirates, and he had heard much of them during his
life in the West Indies, for they were then making their last fight
against law and order. The pirate could not escape the eye of Mr. R. L.
Stevenson, and accordingly we have an episode of pirates in the episode
of the _Master of Ballantrae_. Balsac, too, wrote _Argow le Pirate_
among the stories which belong to the years when he was exhausting all
the ways in which a novel ought not to be written. Also the pirate is a
commonplace in boys' books. Yet for as much as he figures in stories for
old and young, it may be modestly maintained that nobody has ever yet
done him quite right.
Defoe's Captain Singleton is a harmless, thrifty, and ever moral pirate,
of whom it is impossible to disapprove. Sir Walter's is a mild
gentleman, concerning whom one wonders how he ever came to be in such
company. Michael Scott's pirate is a bloodthirsty ruffian enough, and
yet it is difficult to feel that a person who dressed in such a highly
picturesque manner, and who was commonly either a Don or a Scotch
gentleman of ancient descent, was quite the real thing. Mr. Stevenson's
pirate is nearer what one knows must have been the life. He is a
cowardly, lurking, petty scoundrel. John Silver is certainly something
very different, but then when Mr. Stevenson drew the commanding figure
in Treasure Island he was not making a portrait of a pirate, but was
only making play with the well-established puppet of boys' books. Yet,
after all, the pirate, if he was not such an agreeable rascal as John
Silver, was not always the greedy, spiritless rogue drawn in the _Master
of Ballantrae_. To do him properly and as he was, he ought to be
approached with a mixture of humour and morality, and also with a
knowledge of the facts concerning him, which to the best of my knowledge
have never been combined in any writer.
Captain Johnson, in his valuable _General History of the Pirates from
their First Rise and Settlement in the Island of Providence to the
present time_, begins with antiquity. He mounts up the dark backward
abyss of time till he meets with the pirates who captured Julius Caesar,
and were suppressed by Pompey. This is not necessary. Our pirate was a
very different fellow from those broken men of the ancient world, the
wrecks of States shattered by Rome and the victims of the usury of the
Knights who collected in the creeks of Cilicia. It is not quite easy to
say what he was, but we know well enough what he was not. He was not for
many generations the recognised enemy of the human race. On the
contrary, he was often a comparative respectable person, who was
disposed to render service to his king and country at a crisis, even if
he did not see his advantage in virtuous conduct. To begin with, he was
only a seafaring man who carried on the universal practice of the Middle
Ages after they had ceased to be recognised as legitimate. Then for a
long time a pirate was not thought worthy of hanging until he had shown
a hopelessly contumacious disposition by refusing the king's pardon
several times. Sir William Monson, who was admiral to James I., saw no
harm in recruiting well-known pirates for His Majesty's service. On the
coast of Ireland he found Irish country gentlemen of respectable
position, and the agents of London trading firms, engaged in friendly
business transactions with these skimmers of the sea. The redoubted
Captain Bartholomew Roberts, to skip over a century, went about the
world recruiting for a well-organised piratical business, and there were
many among his followers who would have been honest men if temptation
had not come in their way, and who hastened to leave a life of vice so
soon as the neighbourhood of one of His Majesty's cruisers made it
dangerous. We ought not to speak of these men with harsh contempt. The
king's government was largely responsible for their existence, by
promising pardon to all who would come in before a given date. They came
in and brought their booty with them. Captain Johnson had the pleasure
of the personal acquaintance of several who were living in comfortable
retirement at Rotherhithe or at Limehouse, and in the enjoyment, for
aught we know to the contrary, of the respect of their neighbours. They
had come in on a proclamation, and there was nothing more to be said
against them. In many cases, no doubt, when the booty was spent they
drifted back to the old irregular courses, and on that road those of
them who did not get shot when boarding a galleon, or go down at sea,
or die of starvation among the keys of the West Indies, did sooner or
later contrive to overtake the gallows. But these men, if they were not
quite so moral and orderly as Captain Singleton, or so romantic as the
pirates of Michael Scott, were not altogether bloodthirsty, merciless
scoundrels. Many of them had every intention of returning to their
country upon the appearance of the next proclamation, and as they saw
the prospect of a safe return for themselves they were not under the
necessity of acting on the rule that dead men tell no tales. They did
not make their prisoners walk the plank. They did not even burn their
prizes, but were often content with taking out such provisions and
portable property as their immediate occasions made desirable, and then
allowing the plundered merchant-ship to continue her voyage. They were
by no means so thoroughly hated as they ought to have been, to judge by
the more recent opinion held of the pirate.
In fact, till towards the end of the pirate's existence he was nearly as
much the product of the Government's management as of his own sins.
During Charles II.'s reign, his governors in Jamaica gave what they were
pleased to term commissions to all who would plunder the Spaniard. The
Spaniards retaliated by giving commissions to all who would plunder
anyone else. The marauder who victimised the Spaniard was sure of a
market, and a refuge in Jamaica. The other marauder who was prepared to
feed upon English, Dutch, or French, was sure of a welcome in Cuba. When
Governments suddenly took to being virtuous, a sense of wrong inflamed
the minds of the men who had hitherto been allowed to live in recognised
lawlessness. Captain Kidd, for example, manifestly thought that Lord
Bellomont and the other gentleman who sent him out to Madagascar to
cruise against the pirates, were only assuming a decent excuse for a
little speculation in piracy on their own account. The freebooters who
settled at Providence, in the Bahamas, were really to be pardoned for
not realising that the happy days of Governor Moddiford at Jamaica were
over. When they were made to understand that there were to be no more of
these cakes and ale, the majority, under the command of Captain
Jennings, promptly came in. Captain Jennings was the owner of an estate
in Jamaica, and he brought a comfortable little sum back with him from
his piratical adventures. The residue, who probably had no comfortable
sum to bring with them, did not come in, and as they were given to
understand that they would certainly be hanged if caught, they took in
self-defence to giving no quarter. So at the end of the great war, the
powers who had encouraged privateering while the fighting lasted,
without inquiring too closely how far the privateer confined his
operations to the enemy only without plundering the neutral, became
suddenly very strict. Then the men whom they had allowed to become
hardened to a life of pillage took refuge in downright piracy. These men
were the _Pescadores del Puerto Escondido_ who enlightened the pages of
Michael Scott. The Spaniards tolerated them as the English Governors of
Jamaica had once encouraged the Buccaneers. It was not until a combined
vigorous effort of the English and the United States navies had driven
them off the sea, and till they had begun to support themselves by
plundering plantations, that the Captains-General of Cuba took them in
hand.
Now, in all this life, floating as it did between the honest and the
dishonest, there was room for something more human than the be-sashed,
velvet-jacketed, crimson-capped, and long-knifed heroes of Michael
Scott, or than the mere rogue and floating footpad we meet in _The
Master of Ballantrae_. There was also room, it must be candidly allowed,
for something better than Captain Cain of the _Avenger_. The _Pirate_ is
not among the books which one most willingly re-reads out of Marryat's
very respectably lengthy list of stories. Yet it is not without gaiety,
and, as is ever the case with him, the man-of-war scenes are all alive.
Captain Plumpton, and Mr. Markital the first lieutenant, and Edward
Templemore the midshipman, are credible. Whenever Marryat has to
introduce us to a man-of-war, he could draw on inexhaustible treasure of
reminiscences, or of what is for the story-writer's purpose quite as
good, of types and incidents which his imagination had made out of
incidents supplied by his memory. The naval parts of the _Pirate_ are no
doubt variations on what he had recently written in _Midshipman Easy_,
but they are not mere repetitions, and they have the one saving quality
of life, which will make even a poorly constructed story readable.
It is impossible to say as much for the captain and crew of the
_Avenger_. Cain is not only not a pirate, but he is not a human being.
He is a Byronic or even a Michael Scottish hero--an impossible monster,
compounded of one virtue and a thousand crimes. There never was any such
person, and even on paper he is not tolerable for more than a paragraph
or two without the help of verse. The crew of the _Avenger_ is an
inconceivable ship's complement for any pirate. Credulity itself cannot
even in early life accept the capture of the Portuguese carrack. Marryat
drew on his recollections of the time when he was a midshipman with
Cochrane in the _Impèrieuse_, for the figure of the old steersman, who
sticks to his post under the fire of the _Avenger_. He had seen the
mate of a Spanish trading ship behaving in just that way when attacked
by boats from the _Impèrieuse_. When he was asked why he did not
surrender, though he was mortally wounded and had no chance of escape,
he answered that he was an 'old Christian.' The term, which by the way
only means a pure-blooded Spaniard, puzzled Marryat and his shipmates.
It is not wonderful that he did not understand its meaning, since in
spite of campaigning in Spain, and many visits to Spanish ports, he
never learnt to avoid the absurd blunder of putting the title Don before
a surname. But if the steersman is drawn from life, so are not either
the carrack, which is a fragment of the sixteenth century, out of its
place, nor 'Don' Ribiera and his sons, nor the bishop, nor anybody else
in that ill-fated ship, nor the stilted, transpontine style of their
conversation. Francisco and his bible are no more credible than the
carrack and the bishop. Francisco's brother and his love affairs are not
more credible, though they are decidedly more tolerable. The daughters
of Spanish Governors who carry on flirtations on the sea-shore with the
captains of English men-of-war, who are carried off by pirates and
rescued in the nick of time, whose papas not only consent to their
marriage with the heretical object of their affections but send boxes
full of gold doubloons, together with their blessing, are so much better
than life that we need not quarrel when invited to meet any number of
them. The sea adventures in Marryat are always good, and so are the
fights. The storms and wrecks, the rafts and wonderful escapes, the
defences of houses, and the escapes of pirates and smugglers from under
the very guns of His Majesty's frigates, are as welcome as, and are much
more credible than, the lovely daughters of benevolent Spanish
governors. Of them there is no want, and for their sake the _Pirate_
can be read; but it is not what Marryat might have made it if he had
written it in the spirit in which he was to write _Snarley-Yow_.
In _The Three Cutters_ Marryat allowed himself to take a little holiday
in company with another kind of sea malefactor whom he knew intimately
well. He had already played with the smuggler in _The King's Own_. In
this little story he reintroduces us to M'Elvina, somewhat disguised,
and in altered circumstances, but essentially the same.
_The Three Cutters_ may be supposed to have been written to fill out the
volume containing _The Pirate_ and those twenty engravings from drawings
by Clarkson Stanfield, which still make the first edition a desirable
possession. This function, whether it was originally designed or not, is
very agreeably fulfilled by the history of the _Arrow_, the _Active_,
and _Happy-go-lucky_. Although he wrote very few of them, Marryat had a
happy hand with a short story. _The S. W. and by W. and 1/4 W. Wind_ and
_Moonshine_ are very happy examples of the magazine story. _The Three
Cutters_ is somewhat longer than either, but the difference in bulk is
due less to any greater amount of pure story there is than to the care
with which Marryat introduces his three vessels, and sketches their
respective starting-places--Plymouth, Portsmouth, and St. Malo. Here
again it is to be noted that Marryat is far more at home in the
man-of-war than in the smuggler or the yacht. Mr. Appleboy, with his
forty-five years' service, and the interesting story which remains
untold of the something which took place in '93 or '94, his seventeen
daily tumblers of gin-toddy, his mate and his midshipman, is a part, and
not an inferior one, of Marryat's inimitable naval gallery. The
_Happy-go-lucky_ is perhaps rather a smuggler of the Pays Bleu than of
the British Channel, but she is sufficiently in place in a story not
intended to be too slavishly faithful to life. Morrison, the
sailing-master, with his augury of the blue pigeon, is real, and nothing
can be more consistent with human nature than that he should have cursed
the bird when he did finally find himself in prison. As for the
adventures, they belong to the region of the fantastic, which does not
pretend to be anything else. The idea of a yacht which endeavours the
capture of a smuggler, and is herself made prize by him, is of course a
motive for farce.
The scenes on board the captive yacht are not exactly horse-play. There
are too many ladies concerned, and Marryat, in spite of occasional
lapses of taste, preferred to write like a gentleman. But if there is no
horse-play there is a great deal of what I hope it is permissible to
describe as 'lark.' The sour old maid Miss Ossulton, her niece Cecilia,
who, if she has not much character, is still a very nice girl, the
frisky widow Mrs. Lascelles, make a capital trio. Given a gallant
dashing smuggler, who is really a gentleman in disguise, in possession
of the yacht, and determined to revenge himself on the owner by taking a
little harmless amusement, it follows that lively incidents are to be
expected. Marryat did not work the situation out at any length, probably
because he felt that the stuff would not bear much handling. If he cut
his story short for this reason he was undoubtedly right. It is so
difficult as to be quite impossible for the majority of writers to hang
just on the border of the outrageously impossible for more than a few
pages. While it lasts it is very good fun. The reformation of
Pickersgill through the influence of Mrs. Lascelles is quite in
Marryat's manner. His heroes, when they need reformation, are commonly
brought into the right path by the combined influence of a pretty woman
and a round sum of money. Mrs. Lascelles, too, was unquestionably just
the woman to marry Pickersgill. Having married an old man to please her
parents, and having inherited his money, she had decided both to marry
again and to please herself in her second husband. Experience shows that
the Mrs. Lascelles of real life not uncommonly fall into the hands of a
ruffian or an adventurer. Marryat was not making a study of real life,
and he was too fond of his puppets; and besides that would have been
another story, which would have been superfluous, considering that
Marryat wanted to end this one. So Mrs. Lascelles had her fine dashing
seaman, who stood six feet odd in his stockings, and was also a
gentleman in disguise. Of course she was happy ever after. One has a
haunting suspicion that the story was not only written to fill out the
volume, but also to accompany Clarkson Stanfield's three very pretty
plates of Plymouth, Portsmouth, and St. Malo. If so, that only proves
that when a man is a born storyteller he can write good stories for very
humble business reasons.
CONTENTS
THE PIRATE
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE BAY OF BISCAY 3
CHAPTER II
THE BACHELOR 11
CHAPTER III
THE GALE 20
CHAPTER IV
THE LEAK 26
CHAPTER V
THE OLD MAID 34
CHAPTER VI
THE MIDSHIPMAN 43
CHAPTER VII
SLEEPER'S BAY 50
CHAPTER VIII
THE ATTACK 60
CHAPTER IX
THE CAPTURE 69
CHAPTER X
THE SAND-BANK 87
CHAPTER XI
THE ESCAPE 93
CHAPTER XII
THE LIEUTENANT 104
CHAPTER XIII
THE LANDING 111
CHAPTER XIV
THE MEETING 124
CHAPTER XV
THE MISTAKE 135
CHAPTER XVI
THE CAICOS 145
CHAPTER XVII
THE TRIAL 158
CHAPTER XVIII
CONCLUSION 173
THE THREE CUTTERS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
CUTTER THE FIRST 185
CHAPTER II
CUTTER THE SECOND 199
CHAPTER III
CUTTER THE THIRD 208
CHAPTER IV
PORTLAND BILL 216
CHAPTER V
THE TRAVESTIE 227
CHAPTER VI
THE SMUGGLING YACHT 239
CHAPTER VII
CONCLUSION 247
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE PIRATE
PAGE
Cain _Frontispiece_
'Coco ab ten finger, and take long while suck em all dry' 7
Coco shouted to his utmost, and fortunately attracted notice 9
'That will do, Jonathan; I'll ring for coffee presently' 18
Oswald Bareth gained the helm, which he put hard up 23
'I'll cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts to break
into the spirit-room' 32
Found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by William
the footman 35
'Antony, for shame! fie, for shame!' 41
He walked with his coat flying open, his thumbs stuck into
the arm-holes of his waistcoat 44
A general discharge from a broadside of carronades, and a heavy
volley of muskets, was the decided answer 62
'Take that, babbler, for your intelligence; if these men are
obstinate, we may have worked for nothing' 72
'_Blood for blood!_' cried Francisco, as he fired his pistol at
Cain, who staggered, and fell on the deck 82
Before Francisco had gained the sand-bank she was hull-down
to the northward 85
At last he snatched up the haulyards of his boat's sail, and
hastened down to the spot to afford such succour as might
be possible 95
The flames increased in violence, mounting up to the masts
and catching the sails one after another 101
Don Felix de Maxos de Cobas de Manilla d'Alfarez, too busy
with his cigar to pay attention to his daughter 107
Francisco fixed the glass against the sill of the window, and
examined the vessel some time in silence 113
The ball entered the left shoulder of Hawkhurst, and he
dropped his hold 122
'God bless you, boy! God bless you!' said Cain; 'but leave
me now' 129
'Blood for blood I will have,' continued the mate, holding up his
clenched hand, and shaking it almost in the pirate captain's face 139
The pirate captain was seen to raise his body convulsively half
out of the water--he floundered, sank, and was seen no more 152
Clara sprang into his arms, and was immediately in a state of
insensibility 155
The pirates at the bar 160
As soon as she was sufficiently composed, was sworn, and gave
her evidence 166
'Blood for blood!' 171
'Captain Templemore, I wish you joy!' 178
'_Resurgam!_' said the butler 181
THE THREE CUTTERS
The ladies 188
The Hon. Miss Cecilia Ossulton 190
'Fie! Mr. Vaughan,' cried Cecilia Ossulton; 'you know it
came from your heart' 197
Lieutenant Appleboy 201
'Salt water, sir!' cried Jem. 'Yes, sir,' replied Mr. Appleboy,
tossing the contents of the tumbler in the boy's face 206
The captain of the _Happy-go-lucky_, Jack Pickersgill 210
Jeannette held her finger up to Corbett, saying, with a smile,
'_méchant!_' and then quitted the room 214
The gun was loaded, and not being more than a mile from the
smuggler, actually threw the ball almost a quarter of the
way 219
'Well, gentlemen, what do you want?' said Pickersgill 222
'Pirates!--_bloody, murderous stick-at-nothing_ pirates!'
replied the steward 229
'Upon my soul, my lord,' cried Maddox, dropping on his knees,
'there is no Burgundy on board--ask the ladies' 237
Miss Ossulton, frightened out of her wits, took his arm; and,
with Mrs. Lascelles on the other, they went up to the hotel 245
'Mrs. Lascelles,' said Pickersgill, 'before we part, allow me to
observe, that it is _you_ who have induced me to give up
my profession----' 255
THE PIRATE
CHAPTER I
THE BAY OF BISCAY
It was in the latter part of the month of June, of the year 179--, that
the angry waves of the Bay of Biscay were gradually subsiding, after a
gale of wind as violent as it was unusual during that period of the
year. Still they rolled heavily; and, at times, the wind blew up in
fitful, angry gusts, as if it would fain renew the elemental combat; but
each effort was more feeble, and the dark clouds which had been summoned
to the storm now fled in every quarter before the powerful rays of the
sun, who burst their masses asunder with a glorious flood of light and
heat; and, as he poured down his resplendent beams, piercing deep into
the waters of that portion of the Atlantic to which we now refer, with
the exception of one object, hardly visible, as at creation, there was a
vast circumference of water, bounded by the fancied canopy of heaven. We
have said, with the exception of one object; for in the centre of this
picture, so simple, yet so sublime, composed of the three great
elements, there was a remnant of the fourth. We say a remnant, for it
was but the hull of a vessel, dismasted, water-logged, its upper works
only floating occasionally above the waves, when a transient repose from
their still violent undulation permitted it to reassume its buoyancy.
But this was seldom; one moment it was deluged by the seas, which broke
as they poured over its gunwale; and the next it rose from its
submersion, as the water escaped from the portholes at its sides.
How many thousands of vessels--how many millions of property--have been
abandoned, and eventually consigned to the all-receiving depths of the
ocean, through ignorance or through fear! What a mine of wealth must lie
buried in its sands! what riches lie entangled amongst its rocks, or
remain suspended in its unfathomable gulf, where the compressed fluid is
equal in gravity to that which it encircles, there to remain secured in
its embedment from corruption and decay, until the destruction of the
universe and the return of chaos! Yet, immense as the accumulated loss
may be, the major part of it has been occasioned from an ignorance of
one of the first laws of nature, that of specific gravity. The vessel to
which we have referred was, to all appearance, in a situation of as
extreme hazard as that of a drowning man clinging to a single rope-yarn;
yet, in reality, she was more secure from descending to the abyss below
than many gallantly careering on the waters, their occupants dismissing
all fear, and only calculating upon a quick arrival into port.
The _Circassian_ had sailed from New Orleans, a gallant and
well-appointed ship, with a cargo, the major part of which consisted of
cotton. The captain was, in the usual acceptation of the term, a good
sailor; the crew were hardy and able seamen. As they crossed the
Atlantic, they had encountered the gale to which we have referred, were
driven down into the Bay of Biscay, where, as we shall hereafter
explain, the vessel was dismasted, and sprang a leak, which baffled all
their exertions to keep under. It was now five days since the frightened
crew had quitted the vessel in two of her boats, one of which had
swamped, and every soul that occupied it had perished; the fate of the
other was uncertain.
We said that the crew had deserted the vessel, but we did not assert
that every existing being had been removed out of her. Had such been the
case, we should not have taken up the reader's time in describing
inanimate matter. It is life that we portray, and life there still was
in the shattered hull thus abandoned to the mockery of the ocean. In the
_caboose_ of the _Circassian_, that is, in the cooking-house secured on
deck, and which fortunately had been so well fixed as to resist the
force of the breaking waves, remained three beings--a man, a woman, and
a child. The two first-mentioned were of that inferior race which have,
for so long a period, been procured from the sultry Afric coast, to
toil, but reap not for themselves; the child which lay at the breast of
the female was of European blood, now, indeed, deadly pale, as it
attempted in vain to draw sustenance from its exhausted nurse, down
whose sable cheeks the tears coursed, as she occasionally pressed the
infant to her breast, and turned it round to leeward to screen it from
the spray which dashed over them at each returning swell. Indifferent to
all else, save her little charge, she spoke not, although she shuddered
with the cold as the water washed her knees each time that the hull was
careened into the wave. Cold and terror had produced a change in her
complexion, which now wore a yellow, or sort of copper hue.
The male, who was her companion, sat opposite to her upon the iron range
which once had been the receptacle of light and heat, but was now but a
weary seat to a drenched and worn-out wretch. He, too, had not spoken
for many hours; with the muscles of his face relaxed, his thick lips
pouting far in advance of his collapsed cheeks, his high cheekbones
prominent as budding horns, his eyes displaying little but their whites,
he appeared to be an object of greater misery than the female, whose
thoughts were directed to the infant and not unto herself. Yet his
feelings were still acute, although his faculties appeared to be
deadened by excess of suffering.
'Eh, me!' cried the negro woman faintly, after a long silence, her head
falling back with extreme exhaustion. Her companion made no reply, but,
roused at the sound of her voice, bent forward, slid open the door a
little, and looked out to windward. The heavy spray dashed into his
glassy eyes, and obscured his vision; he groaned, and fell back into his
former position. 'What you tink, Coco?' inquired the negress, covering
up more carefully the child, as she bent her head down upon it. A look
of despair, and a shudder from cold and hunger, were the only reply.
It was then about eight o'clock in the morning, and the swell of the
ocean was fast subsiding. At noon the warmth of the sun was communicated
to them through the planks of the _caboose_, while its rays poured a
small stream of vivid light through the chinks of the closed panels. The
negro appeared gradually to revive; at last he rose, and with some
difficulty contrived again to slide open the door. The sea had gradually
decreased its violence, and but occasionally broke over the vessel;
carefully holding on by the door-jambs, Coco gained the outside, that he
might survey the horizon.
'What you see, Coco?' said the female, observing from the _caboose_ that
his eyes were fixed upon a certain quarter.
'So help me God, me tink me see something; but ab so much salt water in
um eye, me no see clear,' replied Coco, rubbing away the salt which had
crystallised on his face during the morning.
'What you tink um like, Coco?'
'Only one bit cloud,' replied he, entering the _caboose_, and resuming
his seat upon the grate with a heavy sigh.
'Eh, me!' cried the negress, who had uncovered the child to look at it,
and whose powers were sinking fast. 'Poor lilly Massa Eddard, him look
very bad indeed--him die very soon, me fear. Look, Coco, no ab breath.'
The child's head fell back upon the breast of its nurse, and life
appeared to be extinct.
'Judy, you no ab milk for piccaninny; suppose um ab no milk, how can
live? Eh! stop, Judy, me put lilly finger in um mouth; suppose Massa
Eddard no dead, him pull.'
Coco inserted his finger into the child's mouth, and felt a slight
drawing pressure. 'Judy,' cried Coco, 'Massa Eddard no dead yet. Try
now, suppose you ab lilly drop oder side.'
Poor Judy shook her head mournfully, and a tear rolled down her cheek;
she was aware that nature was exhausted. 'Coco,' said she, wiping her
cheek with the back of her hand, 'me give me heart blood for Massa
Eddard; but no ab milk--all gone.'
This forcible expression of love for the child, which was used by Judy,
gave an idea to Coco. He drew his knife out of his pocket, and very
coolly sawed to the bone of his forefinger. The blood flowed and
trickled down to the extremity, which he applied to the mouth of the
infant.
'See, Judy, Massa Eddard suck--him not dead,' cried Coco, chuckling at
the fortunate result of the experiment, and forgetting at the moment
their almost hopeless situation.
The child, revived by the strange sustenance, gradually recovered its
powers, and in a few minutes it pulled at the finger with a certain
degree of vigour.
[Illustration: '_Coco ab ten finger, and take long while suck em all
dry._']
'Look, Judy, how Massa Eddard take it,' continued Coco. 'Pull away,
Massa Eddard, pull away. Coco ab ten finger, and take long while suck em
all dry.' But the child was soon satisfied, and fell asleep in the arms
of Judy.
'Coco, suppose you go see again,' observed Judy. The negro again crawled
out, and again he scanned the horizon.
'So help me God, dis time me tink, Judy--yes, so help me God, me see a
ship!' cried Coco joyfully.
'Eh!' screamed Judy faintly, with delight; 'den Massa Eddard no die.'
'Yes, so help me God--he come dis way!' and Coco, who appeared to have
recovered a portion of his former strength and activity, clambered on
the top of the _caboose_, where he sat, cross-legged, waving his yellow
handkerchief, with the hope of attracting the attention of those on
board; for he knew that it was very possible that an object floating
little more than level with the water's surface might escape notice.
As it fortunately happened, the frigate, for such she was, continued her
course precisely for the wreck, although it had not been perceived by
the look-out men at the mast-heads, whose eyes had been directed to the
line of the horizon. In less than an hour our little party were
threatened with a new danger, that of being run over by the frigate,
which was now within a cable's length of them, driving the seas before
her in one widely extended foam, as she pursued her rapid and impetuous
course. Coco shouted to his utmost, and fortunately attracted the
notice of the men who were on the bowsprit, stowing away the
foretopmast-staysail, which had been hoisted up to dry after the gale.
[Illustration: _Coco shouted to his utmost, and fortunately attracted
notice_.]
'Starboard, hard!' was roared out.
'Starboard it is,' was the reply from the quarter-deck, and the helm was
shifted without inquiry, as it always is on board of a man-of-war;
although, at the same time, it behoves people to be rather careful how
they pass such an order, without being prepared with a subsequent and
most satisfactory explanation.
The topmast studding-sail flapped and fluttered, the foresail shivered,
and the jib filled as the frigate rounded to, narrowly missing the
wreck, which was now under the bows, rocking so violently in the white
foam of the agitated waters that it was with difficulty that Coco could,
by clinging to the stump of the mainmast, retain his elevated position.
The frigate shortened sail, hove-to, and lowered down a quarter-boat,
and in less than five minutes Coco, Judy, and the infant were rescued
from their awful situation. Poor Judy, who had borne up against all for
the sake of the child, placed it in the arms of the officer who relieved
them, and then fell back in a state of insensibility, in which condition
she was carried on board. Coco, as he took his place in the stern-sheets
of the boat, gazed wildly round him, and then broke out into peals of
extravagant laughter, which continued without intermission, and were the
only replies which he could give to the interrogatories of the
quarter-deck, until he fell down in a swoon, and was entrusted to the
care of the surgeon.
CHAPTER II
THE BACHELOR
On the evening of the same day on which the child and the two negroes
had been saved from the wreck by the fortunate appearance of the
frigate, Mr. Witherington, of Finsbury Square, was sitting alone in his
dining-room, wondering what could have become of the _Circassian_, and
why he had not received intelligence of her arrival. Mr. Witherington,
as we said before, was alone; he had his port and his sherry before him;
and although the weather was rather warm, there was a small fire in the
grate, because, as Mr. Witherington asserted, it looked comfortable. Mr.
Witherington having watched the ceiling of the room for some time,
although there was certainly nothing new to be discovered, filled
another glass of wine, and then proceeded to make himself more
comfortable by unbuttoning three more buttons of his waistcoat, pushing
his wig farther off his head, and casting loose all the buttons at the
knees of his breeches; he completed his arrangements by dragging towards
him two chairs within his reach, putting his legs upon one while he
rested his arm upon the other. And why was not Mr. Witherington to make
himself comfortable? He had good health, a good conscience, and eight
thousand a year.
Satisfied with all his little arrangements, Mr. Witherington sipped his
port wine, and putting down his glass again, fell back in his chair,
placed his hands on his breast, interwove his fingers; and in this most
comfortable position recommenced his speculations as to the non-arrival
of the _Circassian_.
We will leave him to his cogitations while we introduce him more
particularly to our readers.
The father of Mr. Witherington was a younger son of one of the oldest
and proudest families in the West Riding of Yorkshire; he had his choice
of the four professions allotted to younger sons whose veins are filled
with patrician blood--the army, the navy, the law, and the Church. The
army did not suit him, he said, as marching and counter-marching were
not comfortable; the navy did not suit him, as there was little comfort
in gales of wind and mouldy biscuit; the law did not suit him, as he was
not sure that he would be at ease with his conscience, which would not
be comfortable; the Church was also rejected, as it was, with him,
connected with the idea of a small stipend, hard duty, a wife and eleven
children, which were anything but comfortable. Much to the horror of his
family he eschewed all the liberal professions, and embraced the offer
of an old backslider of an uncle, who proposed to him a situation in his
banking-house, and a partnership as soon as he deserved it; the
consequence was, that his relations bade him an indignant farewell, and
then made no further inquiries about him: he was as decidedly cut as one
of the female branches of the family would have been had she committed a
_faux pas_.
Nevertheless Mr. Witherington senior stuck diligently to his business,
in a few years was partner, and at the death of the old gentleman, his
uncle, found himself in possession of a good property, and every year
coining money at his bank.
Mr. Witherington senior then purchased a house in Finsbury Square, and
thought it advisable to look out for a wife.
Having still much of the family pride in his composition, he resolved
not to muddle the blood of the Witheringtons by any cross from Cateaton
Street or Mincing Lane; and after a proper degree of research, he
selected the daughter of a Scotch earl, who went to London with a bevy
of nine in a Leith smack to barter blood for wealth. Mr. Witherington
being so unfortunate as to be the first comer, had the pick of the nine
ladies by courtesy; his choice was light-haired, blue-eyed, a little
freckled, and very tall, by no means bad-looking, and standing on the
list in the Family Bible No. IV. From this union Mr. Witherington had
issue: first, a daughter, christened Moggy, whom we shall soon have to
introduce to our readers as a spinster of forty-seven; and second,
Antony Alexander Witherington, Esquire, whom we just now have left in a
very comfortable position, and in a very brown study.
Mr. Witherington senior persuaded his son to enter the banking-house,
and, as a dutiful son, he entered it every day: but he did nothing more,
having made the fortunate discovery that 'his father was born before
him'; or, in other words, that his father had plenty of money, and would
be necessitated to leave it behind him.
As Mr. Witherington senior had always studied comfort, his son had early
imbibed the same idea, and carried his feelings, in that respect, to a
much greater excess: he divided things into comfortable and
uncomfortable. One fine day Lady Mary Witherington, after paying all the
household bills, paid the debt of Nature; that is, she died: her husband
paid the undertaker's bill, so it is to be presumed that she was buried.
Mr. Witherington senior shortly afterwards had a stroke of apoplexy,
which knocked him down. Death, who has no feelings of honour, struck him
when down. And Mr. Witherington, after having lain a few days in bed,
was by a second stroke laid in the same vault as Lady Mary Witherington;
and Mr. Witherington junior (our Mr. Witherington), after deducting
£40,000 for his sister's fortune, found himself in possession of a clear
£8000 per annum, and an excellent house in Finsbury Square. Mr.
Witherington considered this a comfortable income, and he therefore
retired altogether from business.
During the lifetime of his parents he had been witness to one or two
matrimonial scenes, which had induced him to put down matrimony as one
of the things not comfortable; therefore he remained a bachelor.
His sister Moggy also remained unmarried; but whether it was from a very
unprepossessing squint which deterred suitors, or from the same dislike
to matrimony as her brother had imbibed, it is not in our power to say.
Mr. Witherington was three years younger than his sister; and although
he had for some time worn a wig, it was only because he considered it
more comfortable. Mr. Witherington's whole character might be summed up
in two words--eccentricity and benevolence; eccentric he certainly was,
as most bachelors usually are. Man is but a rough pebble without the
attrition received from contact with the gentler sex; it is wonderful
how the ladies pumice a man down to a smoothness which occasions him to
roll over and over with the rest of his species, jostling but not
wounding his neighbours, as the waves of circumstances bring him into
collision with them.
Mr. Witherington roused himself from his deep reverie and felt for the
string, connected with the bell-pull, which it was the butler's duty
invariably to attach to the arm of his master's chair previous to his
last exit from the dining-room; for, as Mr. Witherington very truly
observed, it was very uncomfortable to be obliged to get up and ring the
bell; indeed, more than once Mr. Witherington had calculated the
advantages and disadvantages of having a daughter about eight years old
who could ring the bell, air the newspapers, and cut the leaves of a new
novel.
When, however, he called to mind that she could not always remain at
that precise age, he decided that the balance of comfort was against it.
Mr. Witherington having pulled the bell again, fell into a brown study.
Mr. Jonathan, the butler, made his appearance; but observing that his
master was occupied, he immediately stopped at the door, erect,
motionless, and with a face as melancholy as if he was performing mute
at the porch of some departed peer of the realm; for it is an understood
thing, that the greater the rank of the defunct the longer must be the
face, and, of course, the better must be the pay.
Now, as Mr. Witherington is still in profound thought, and Mr. Jonathan
will stand as long as a hackney-coach horse, we will just leave them as
they are, while we introduce the brief history of the latter to our
readers. Jonathan Trapp has served as foot-_boy_, which term, we
believe, is derived from those who are in that humble capacity receiving
a _quantum suff._ of the application of the feet of those above them to
increase the energy of their service; then as foot-_man_, which implies
that they have been promoted to the more agreeable right of
administering instead of receiving the above dishonourable applications;
and lastly, for promotion could go no higher in the family, he had been
raised to the dignity of butler in the service of Mr. Witherington
senior. Jonathan then fell in love, for butlers are guilty of
indiscretions as well as their masters: neither he nor his fair flame,
who was a lady's-maid in another family, notwithstanding that they had
witnessed the consequences of this error in others, would take warning;
they gave warning, and they married.
Like most butlers and ladies'-maids who pair off, they set up a
public-house; and it is but justice to the lady's-maid to say that she
would have preferred an eating-house, but was overruled by Jonathan, who
argued, that although people would drink when they were not dry, they
never would eat unless they were hungry.
Now, although there was truth in the observation, this is certain, that
business did not prosper: it has been surmised that Jonathan's tall,
lank, lean figure injured his custom, as people are but too much
inclined to judge of the goodness of the ale by the rubicund face and
rotundity of the landlord, and therefore inferred that there could be no
good beer where mine host was the picture of famine. There certainly is
much in appearances in this world; and it appears, that in consequence
of Jonathan's cadaverous appearance, he very soon appeared in the
_Gazette_; but what ruined Jonathan in one profession procured him
immediate employment in another. An appraiser, upholsterer, and
undertaker, who was called in to value the fixtures, fixed his eye upon
Jonathan, and knowing the value of his peculiarly lugubrious appearance,
and having a half-brother of equal height, offered him immediate
employment as a mute. Jonathan soon forgot to mourn his own loss of a
few hundreds in his new occupation of mourning the loss of thousands;
and his erect, stiff, statue-like carriage, and long melancholy face, as
he stood at the portals of those who had entered the portals of the next
world, were but too often a sarcasm upon the grief of the inheritors.
Even grief is worth nothing in this trafficking world unless it is paid
for. Jonathan buried many, and at last buried his wife. So far all was
well; but at last he buried his master, the undertaker, which was not
quite so desirable. Although Jonathan wept not, yet did he express mute
sorrow as he marshalled him to his long home, and drank to his memory in
a pot of porter as he returned from the funeral, perched, with many
others, like carrion crows on the top of the hearse.
And now Jonathan was thrown out of employment from a reason which most
people would have thought the highest recommendation. Every undertaker
refused to take him, because they could not _match_ him. In this
unfortunate dilemma Jonathan thought of Mr. Witherington junior; he had
served and he had buried Mr. Witherington his father, and Lady Mary his
mother; he felt that he had strong claims for such variety of services,
and he applied to the bachelor. Fortunately for Jonathan, Mr.
Witherington's butler-incumbent was just about to commit the same folly
as Jonathan had done before, and Jonathan was again installed, resolving
in his own mind to lead his former life, and have nothing more to do
with ladies'-maids. But from habit Jonathan still carried himself as a
mute on all ordinary occasions--never indulging in an approximation to
mirth, except when he perceived that his master was in high spirits, and
then rather from a sense of duty than from any real hilarity of heart.
Jonathan was no mean scholar for his station in life, and, during his
service with the undertaker, he had acquired the English of all the
Latin mottoes which are placed upon the hatchments; and these mottoes,
when he considered them as apt, he was very apt to quote. We left
Jonathan standing at the door; he had closed it, and the handle still
remained in his hand. 'Jonathan,' said Mr. Witherington, after a long
pause, 'I wish to look at the last letter from New York; you will find
it on my dressing-table.'
Jonathan quitted the room without reply, and made his reappearance with
the letter.
'It is a long time that I have been expecting this vessel, Jonathan,'
observed Mr. Witherington, unfolding the letter.
'Yes, sir, a long while; _tempus fugit_,' replied the butler in a low
tone, half shutting his eyes.
'I hope to God no accident has happened,' continued Mr. Witherington;
'my poor little cousin and her twins! e'en now that I speak, they may be
all at the bottom of the sea.'
'Yes, sir,' replied the butler; 'the sea defrauds many an honest
undertaker of his profits.'
'By the blood of the Witheringtons! I may be left without an heir, and
shall be obliged to marry, which would be very uncomfortable.'
'Very little comfort,' echoed Jonathan--'my wife is dead. _In coelo
quies._'
'Well, we must hope for the best; but this suspense is anything but
comfortable,' observed Mr. Witherington, after looking over the contents
of the letter for at least the twentieth time.
'That will do, Jonathan; I'll ring for coffee presently;' and Mr.
Witherington was again alone and with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
A cousin of Mr. Witherington, and a very great favourite (for Mr.
Witherington, having a large fortune, and not having anything to do with
business, was courted by his relations), had, to a certain degree,
committed herself; that is to say that, notwithstanding the injunctions
of her parents, she had fallen in love with a young lieutenant in a
marching regiment, whose pedigree was but respectable, and whose fortune
was anything but respectable, consisting merely of a subaltern's pay.
Poor men, unfortunately, always make love better than those who are
rich, because, having less to care about, and not being puffed up with
their own consequence, they are not so selfish, and think much more of
the lady than of themselves. Young ladies, also, who fall in love, never
consider whether there is sufficient 'to make the pot boil'--probably
because young ladies in love lose their appetites, and, not feeling
inclined to eat at that time, they imagine that love will always supply
the want of food. Now, we will appeal to the married ladies whether we
are not right in asserting that, although the collation spread for them
and their friends on the day of the marriage is looked upon with almost
loathing, they do not find their appetites return with interest soon
afterwards. This was precisely the case with Cecilia Witherington, or
rather Cecilia Templemore, for she had changed her name the day before.
It was also the case with her husband, who always had a good appetite,
even during his days of courtship; and the consequence was that the
messman's account, for they lived in barracks, was, in a few weeks,
rather alarming. Cecilia applied to her family, who very kindly sent her
word that she might starve; but, the advice neither suiting her nor her
husband, she then wrote to her cousin Antony, who sent her word that he
would be most happy to receive them at his table, and that they should
take up their abode in Finsbury Square. This was exactly what they
wished; but still there was a certain difficulty; Lieutenant
Templemore's regiment was quartered in a town in Yorkshire, which was
some trifling distance from Finsbury Square; and to be at Mr.
Witherington's dinner-table at 6 P.M., with the necessity of appearing
at parade every morning at 9 A.M., was a dilemma not to be got out of.
Several letters were interchanged upon this knotty subject; and at last
it was agreed that Mr. Templemore should sell out, and come up to Mr.
Witherington with his pretty wife. He did so, and found that it was much
more comfortable to turn out at nine o'clock in the morning to a good
breakfast than to a martial parade. But Mr. Templemore had an honest
pride and independence of character which would not permit him to eat
the bread of idleness, and after a sojourn of two months in most
comfortable quarters, without a messman's bill, he frankly stated his
feelings to Mr. Witherington, and requested his assistance to procure
for himself an honourable livelihood. Mr. Witherington, who had become
attached to them both, would have remonstrated, observing that Cecilia
was his own cousin, and that he was a confirmed bachelor; but, in this
instance, Mr. Templemore was firm, and Mr. Witherington very unwillingly
consented. A mercantile house of the highest respectability required a
partner who could superintend their consignments to America. Mr.
Witherington advanced the sum required; and in a few weeks Mr. and Mrs.
Templemore sailed for New York.
[Illustration: '_That will do, Jonathan; I'll ring for coffee
presently._']
Mr. Templemore was active and intelligent; their affairs prospered; and
in a few years they anticipated a return to their native soil with a
competence. But the autumn of the second year after their arrival proved
very sickly; the yellow fever raged; and among the thousands who were
carried off Mr. Templemore was a victim, about three weeks after his
wife had been brought to bed of twins. Mrs. Templemore rose from her
couch a widow and the mother of two fine boys. The loss of Mr.
Templemore was replaced by the establishment with which he was
connected, and Mr. Witherington offered to his cousin that asylum which,
in her mournful and unexpected bereavement, she so much required. In
three months her affairs were arranged; and with her little boys hanging
at the breasts of two negro nurses--for no others could be procured who
would undertake the voyage--Mrs. Templemore, with Coco as male servant,
embarked on board of the good ship _Circassian_, A I, bound to
Liverpool.
CHAPTER III
THE GALE
Those who, standing on the pier, had witnessed the proud bearing of the
_Circassian_ as she gave her canvas to the winds, little contemplated
her fate: still less did those on board; for confidence is the
characteristic of seamen, and they have the happy talent of imparting
their confidence to whomsoever may be in their company. We shall pass
over the voyage, confining ourselves to a description of the
catastrophe.
It was during a gale from the north-west, which had continued for three
days, and by which the _Circassian_ had been driven into the Bay of
Biscay, that, at about twelve o'clock at night, a slight lull was
perceptible. The captain, who had remained on deck, sent down for the
chief mate. 'Oswald,' said Captain Ingram, 'the gale is breaking, and I
think before morning we shall have had the worst of it. I shall lie down
for an hour or two: call me if there be any change.'
Oswald Bareth, a tall, sinewy-built, and handsome specimen of
transatlantic growth, examined the whole circumference of the horizon
before he replied. At last his eyes were steadily fixed to leeward:
'I've a notion not, sir,' said he; 'I see no signs of clearing off to
leeward: only a lull for relief, and a fresh hand at the bellows, depend
upon it.'
'We have now had it three days,' replied Captain Ingram, 'and that's the
life of a summer's gale.'
'Yes,' rejoined the mate; 'but always provided that it don't blow black
again. I don't like the look of it, sir; and have it back we shall, as
sure as there's snakes in Virginny.'
'Well, so be if so be,' was the safe reply of the captain. 'You must
keep a sharp look-out, Bareth, and don't leave the deck to call me; send
a hand down.'
The captain descended to his cabin. Oswald looked at the compass in the
binnacle--spoke a few words to the man at the helm--gave one
or two terrible kicks in the ribs to some of the men who were
_caulking_--sounded the pump-well--put a fresh quid of tobacco into his
cheek, and then proceeded to examine the heavens above. A cloud, much
darker and more descending than the others, which obscured the
firmament, spread over the zenith, and based itself upon the horizon to
leeward. Oswald's eye had been fixed upon it but a few seconds, when he
beheld a small lambent gleam of lightning pierce through the most opaque
part; then another, and more vivid. Of a sudden the wind lulled, and the
_Circassian_ righted from her careen. Again the wind howled, and again
the vessel was pressed down to her bearings by its force; again another
flash of lightning, which was followed by a distant peal of thunder.
'Had the worst of it, did you say, captain? I've a notion that the worst
is yet to come,' muttered Oswald, still watching the heavens.
'How does she carry her helm, Matthew?' inquired Oswald, walking aft.
'Spoke a-weather.'
'I'll have that trysail off of her, at any rate,' continued the mate.
'Aft, there, my lads! and lower down the trysail. Keep the sheet fast
till it's down, or the flogging will frighten the lady passenger out of
her wits. Well, if ever I own a craft, I'll have no women on board.
Dollars shan't tempt me.'
The lightning now played in rapid forks; and the loud thunder, which
instantaneously followed each flash, proved its near approach. A deluge
of slanting rain descended--the wind lulled--roared again--then
lulled--shifted a point or two, and the drenched and heavy sails
flapped.
'Up with the helm, Mat!' cried Oswald, as a near flash of lightning for
a moment blinded, and the accompanying peal of thunder deafened, those
on deck. Again the wind blew strong--it ceased, and it was a dead calm.
The sails hung down from the yards, and the rain descended in
perpendicular torrents, while the ship rocked to and fro in the trough
of the sea, and the darkness became suddenly intense.
'Down, there, one of you! and call the captain,' said Oswald. 'By the
Lord! we shall have it. Main braces there, men, and square the yards.
Be smart! That topsail should have been in,' muttered the mate; 'but I'm
not captain. Square away the yards, my lads!' continued he; 'quick,
quick!--there's no child's play here!'
Owing to the difficulty of finding and passing the ropes to each other,
from the intensity of the darkness, and the deluge of rain which blinded
them, the men were not able to execute the order of the mate so soon as
it was necessary; and before they could accomplish their task, or
Captain Ingram could gain the deck, the wind suddenly burst upon the
devoted vessel from the quarter directly opposite to that from which the
gale had blown, taking her all aback, and throwing her on her beam-ends.
The man at the helm was hurled over the wheel; while the rest, who were
with Oswald at the main-bits, with the coils of ropes, and every other
article on deck not secured, were rolled into the scuppers, struggling
to extricate themselves from the mass of confusion and the water in
which they floundered. The sudden revulsion awoke all the men below, who
imagined that the ship was foundering; and, from the only hatchway not
secured, they poured up in their shirts with their other garments in
their hands, to put them on--if fate permitted.
Oswald Bareth was the first who clambered up from to leeward. He gained
the helm, which he put hard up. Captain Ingram and some of the seamen
also gained the helm. It is the rendezvous of all good seamen in
emergencies of this description; but the howling of the gale--the
blinding of the rain and salt spray--the seas checked in their running
by the shift of wind, and breaking over the ship in vast masses of
water--the tremendous peals of thunder--and the intense darkness which
accompanied these horrors, added to the inclined position of the vessel,
which obliged them to climb from one part of the deck to another, for
some time checked all profitable communication. Their only friend, in
this conflict of the elements, was the lightning (unhappy, indeed, the
situation in which lightning can be welcomed as a friend); but its vivid
and forked flames, darting down upon every quarter of the horizon,
enabled them to perceive their situation; and, awful as it was, when
momentarily presented to their sight, it was not so awful as darkness
and uncertainty. To those who have been accustomed to the difficulties
and dangers of a seafaring life, there are no lines which speak more
forcibly to the imagination, or prove the beauty and power of the Greek
poet, than those in the noble prayer of Ajax:--
Lord of earth and air,
O king! O father! hear my humble prayer.
Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
Give me to see--and Ajax asks no more.
If Greece must perish--we thy will obey;
But _let us perish in the face of day_!
[Illustration: _Oswald Bareth gained the helm, which he put hard up._]
Oswald gave the helm to two of the seamen, and with his knife cut adrift
the axes, which were lashed round the mizenmast in painted canvas
covers. One he retained for himself--the others he put into the hands of
the boatswain and the second mate. To speak so as to be heard was almost
impossible, from the tremendous roaring of the wind; but the lamp still
burned in the binnacle, and by its feeble light Captain Ingram could
distinguish the signs made by the mate, and could give his consent. It
was necessary that the ship should be put before the wind, and the helm
had no power over her. In a short time the lanyards of the mizen rigging
were severed, and the mizen mast went over the side, almost unperceived
by the crew on the other parts of the deck, or even those near, had it
not been from blows received by those who were too close to it, from the
falling of the topsail sheets and the rigging about the mast.
Oswald, with his companions, regained the binnacle, and for a little
while watched the compass. The ship did not pay off, and appeared to
settle down more into the water. Again Oswald made his signs, and again
the captain gave his assent. Forward sprang the undaunted mate, clinging
to the bulwark and belaying-pins, and followed by his hardy companions,
until they had all three gained the main channels. Here, their exposure
to the force of the breaking waves, and the stoutness of the ropes
yielding but slowly to the blows of the axes, which were used almost
under water, rendered the service one of extreme difficulty and danger.
The boatswain was washed over the bulwark and dashed to leeward, where
the lee-rigging only saved him from a watery grave. Unsubdued, he again
climbed up to windward, rejoined and assisted his companions. The last
blow was given by Oswald--the lanyards flew through the dead-eyes--and
the tall mast disappeared in the foaming seas. Oswald and his companions
hastened from their dangerous position, and rejoined the captain, who,
with many of the crew, still remained near the wheel. The ship now
slowly paid off and righted. In a few minutes she was flying before the
gale, rolling heavily, and occasionally striking upon the wrecks of the
masts, which she towed with her by the lee-rigging.
Although the wind blew with as much violence as before, still it was not
with the same noise, now that the ship was before the wind with her
after-masts gone. The next service was to clear the ship of the wrecks
of the masts; but, although all now assisted, but little could be
effected until the day had dawned, and even then it was a service of
danger, as the ship rolled gunwale under. Those who performed the duty
were slung in ropes, that they might not be washed away; and hardly was
it completed, when a heavy roll, assisted by a jerking heave from a sea
which struck her on the chesstree, sent the foremast over the starboard
cathead. Thus was the _Circassian_ dismasted in the gale.
CHAPTER IV
THE LEAK
The wreck of the foremast was cleared from the ship; the gale continued;
but the sun shone brightly and warmly. The _Circassian_ was again
brought to the wind. All danger was now considered to be over, and the
seamen joked and laughed as they were busied in preparing jury-masts to
enable them to reach their destined port.
'I wouldn't have cared so much about this spree,' said the boatswain,
'if it warn't for the mainmast; it was such a beauty. There's not
another stick to be found equal to it in the whole length of the
Mississippi.'
'Bah! man,' replied Oswald; 'there's as good fish in the sea as ever
came out of it, and as good sticks growing as ever were felled; but I
guess we'll pay pretty dear for our spars when we get to Liverpool--but
that concerns the owners.'
The wind, which at the time of its sudden change to the southward and
eastward had blown with the force of a hurricane, now settled into a
regular strong gale, such as sailors are prepared to meet and laugh at.
The sky was also bright and clear, and they had not the danger of a lee
shore. It was a delightful change after a night of darkness, danger, and
confusion; and the men worked that they might get sufficient sail on the
ship to steady her, and enable them to shape a course.
'I suppose, now that we have the trysail on her forward, the captain
will be for running for it,' observed one who was busy turning in a
dead-eye.
'Yes,' replied the boatswain; 'and with this wind on our quarter we
shan't want much sail, I've a notion.'
'Well then, one advantage in losing your mast--you haven't much trouble
about the rigging.'
'Trouble enough, though, Bill, when we get in,' replied another gruffly;
'new lower rigging to parcel and sarve, and every block to turn in
afresh.'
'Never mind, longer in port--I'll get spliced.'
'Why, how often do you mean to get spliced, Bill? You've a wife in every
State, to my sartin knowledge.'
'I arn't got one at Liverpool, Jack.'
'Well, you may take one there, Bill; for you've been sweet upon that
nigger girl for these last three weeks.'
'Any port in a storm, but she won't do for harbour duty. But the fact
is, you're all wrong there, Jack: it's the babbies I likes--I likes to
see them both together, hanging at the niggers' breasts, I always think
of two spider-monkeys nursing two kittens.'
'I knows the women, but I never knows the children. It's just six of one
and half-a-dozen of the other; ain't it, Bill?'
'Yes; like two bright bullets out of the same mould. I say, Bill, did
any of your wives ever have twins?'
'No; nor I don't intend, until the owners give us double pay.'
'By the bye,' interrupted Oswald, who had been standing under the
weather bulkhead, listening to the conversation, and watching the work
in progress, 'we may just as well see if she has made any water with all
this straining and buffeting. By the Lord! I never thought of that.
Carpenter, lay down your adze and sound the well.'
The carpenter, who, notwithstanding the uneasiness of the dismasted
vessel, was performing his important share of the work, immediately
complied with the order. He drew up the rope-yarn, to which an iron rule
had been suspended, and lowered down into the pump-well, and perceived
that the water was dripping from it. Imagining that it must have been
wet from the quantity of water shipped over all, the carpenter
disengaged the rope-yarn from the rule, drew another from the junk lying
on the deck, which the seamen were working up, and then carefully
proceeded to plumb the well. He hauled it up, and, looking at it for
some moments aghast, exclaimed, '_Seven feet_ water in the hold, by
G--d!'
If the crew of the _Circassian_, the whole of which were on deck, had
been struck with an electric shock, the sudden change of their
countenances could not have been greater than was produced by this
appalling intelligence.
Heap upon sailors every disaster, every danger which can be accumulated
from the waves, the wind, the elements, or the enemy, and they will bear
up against them with a courage amounting to heroism. All that they
demand is, that the one plank 'between them and death' is sound, and
they will trust to their own energies, and will be confident in their
own skill: but _spring a leak_, and they are half paralysed; and if it
gain upon them they are subdued; for when they find that their exertions
are futile, they are little better than children.
Oswald sprang to the pumps when he heard the carpenter's report. 'Try
again, Abel--it cannot be: cut away that line; hand us here a dry
rope-yarn.'
Once more the well was sounded by Oswald, and the result was the same.
'We must rig the pumps, my lads,' said the mate, endeavouring to conceal
his own fears; 'half this water must have found its way in when she was
on her beam-ends.'
This idea, so judiciously thrown out, was caught at by the seamen, who
hastened to obey the order, while Oswald went down to acquaint the
captain, who, worn-out with watching and fatigue, had, now that danger
was considered to be over, thrown himself into his cot to obtain a few
hours' repose.
'Do you think, Bareth, that we have sprung a leak?' said the captain
earnestly. 'She never could have taken in that quantity of water.'
'Never, sir,' replied the mate; 'but she has been so strained, that she
may have opened her top-sides. I trust it is no worse.'
'What is your opinion, then?'
'I am afraid that the wreck of the masts have injured her; you may
recollect how often we struck against them before we could clear
ourselves of them; once, particularly, the mainmast appeared to be right
under her bottom, I recollect, and she struck very heavy on it.'
'Well, it is God's will; let us get on deck as fast as we can.'
When they arrived on deck, the carpenter walked up to the captain, and
quietly said to him, '_Seven feet three, sir._' The pumps were then in
full action; the men had divided, by the direction of the boatswain,
and, stripped naked to the waist, relieved each other every two minutes.
For half an hour they laboured incessantly.
This was the half-hour of suspense: the great point to be ascertained
was, whether she leaked through the top-sides, and had taken in the
water during the second gale; if so, there was every hope of keeping it
under. Captain Ingram and the mate remained in silence near the
capstern, the former with his watch in his hand, during the time that
the sailors exerted themselves to the utmost. It was ten minutes past
seven when the half-hour had expired; the well was sounded and the line
carefully measured--_Seven feet six inches!_ So that the water had
gained upon them, notwithstanding that they had plied the pumps to the
utmost of their strength.
A mute look of despair was exchanged among the crew, but it was followed
up by curses and execrations. Captain Ingram remained silent, with his
lips compressed.
'It's all over with us!' exclaimed one of the men.
'Not yet, my lads; we have one more chance,' said Oswald. 'I've a notion
that the ship's sides have been opened by the infernal straining of last
night, and that she is now taking it in at the top-sides generally; if
so, we have only to put her before the wind again, and have another good
spell at the pumps. When no longer strained, as she is now with her
broadside to the sea, she will close all up again.'
'I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Bareth is not right,' replied the carpenter;
'however, that's my notion, too.'
'And mine,' added Captain Ingram. 'Come, my men! never say die while
there's a shot in the locker. Let's try her again.' And, to encourage
the men, Captain Ingram threw off his coat and assisted at the first
spell, while Oswald went to the helm and put the ship before the wind.
As the _Circassian_ rolled before the gale, the lazy manner in which she
righted proved how much water there was in the hold. The seamen exerted
themselves for a whole hour without intermission, and the well was again
sounded--_eight feet!_
The men did not assert that they would pump no longer; but they too
plainly showed their intentions by each resuming in silence his shirt
and jacket, which he had taken off at the commencement of his exertions.
'What's to be done, Oswald?' said Captain Ingram, as they walked aft.
'You see the men will pump no longer; nor, indeed, would it be of any
use. We are doomed.'
'The _Circassian_ is, sir, I am afraid,' replied the mate: 'pumping is
of no avail; they could not keep her afloat till daybreak. We must
therefore trust to our boats, which I believe to be all sound, and quit
her before night.'
'Crowded boats in such a sea as this!' replied Captain Ingram, shaking
his head mournfully.
'Are bad enough, I grant; but better than the sea itself. All we can do
now is to try and keep the men sober, and if we can do so it will be
better than to fatigue them uselessly; they'll want all their strength
before they put foot again upon dry land--if ever they are so fortunate.
Shall I speak to them?'
'Do, Oswald,' replied the captain; 'for myself I care little, God knows;
but my wife--my children!'
'My lads,' said Oswald, going forward to the men, who had waited in
moody silence the result of the conference--'as for pumping any longer
it would be only wearing out your strength for no good. We must now look
to our boats; and a good boat is better than a bad ship. Still this gale
and cross-running sea are rather too much for boats at present; we had
therefore better stick to the ship as long as we can. Let us set to with
a will and get the boats ready, with provisions, water, and what else
may be needful, and then we must trust to God's mercy and our own
endeavours.'
'No boat can stand this sea,' observed one of the men. 'I'm of opinion,
as it's to be a short life, it may as well be a merry one. What d'ye
say, my lads?' continued he, appealing to the men.
Several of the crew were of the same opinion; but Oswald, stepping
forward, seized one of the axes which lay at the main-bits, and going up
to the seaman who had spoken, looked him steadfastly in the face--
'Williams,' said the mate, 'a short life it may be to all of us, but not
a merry one; the meaning of which I understand very well. Sorry I shall
be to have your blood, or that of others, on my hands; but as sure as
there's a heaven, I'll cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts
to break into the spirit-room. You know I never joke. Shame upon you! Do
you call yourselves men, when, for the sake of a little liquor now, you
would lose your only chance of getting drunk every day as soon as we get
on shore again? There's a time for all things; and I've a notion this is
a time to be sober.'
As most of the crew sided with Oswald, the weaker party were obliged to
submit, and the preparations were commenced. The two boats on the booms
were found to be in good condition. One party was employed cutting away
the bulwarks that the boats might be launched over the side, as there
were no means of hoisting them out. The well was again sounded. Nine
feet water in the hold, and the ship evidently settling fast. Two hours
had now passed, and the gale was not so violent; the sea, also, which at
the change of wind had been cross, appeared to have recovered its
regular run. All was ready; the sailors, once at work again, had, in
some measure, recovered their spirits, and were buoyed up with fresh
hopes at the slight change in their favour from the decrease of the
wind. The two boats were quite large enough to contain the whole of the
crew and passengers; but, as the sailors said among themselves (proving
the kindness of their hearts), 'What was to become of those two poor
babbies, in an open boat for days and nights, perhaps?' Captain Ingram
had gone down to Mrs. Templemore, to impart to her their melancholy
prospects; and the mother's heart, as well as the mother's voice, echoed
the words of the seamen, 'What will become of my poor babes?'
It was not till nearly six o'clock in the evening that all was ready:
the ship was slowly brought to the wind again, and the boats launched
over the side. By this time the gale was much abated; but the vessel was
full of water, and was expected soon to go down.
[Illustration: '_I'll cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts
to break into the spirit-room._']
There is no time in which coolness and determination are more required
than in a situation like the one in which we have attempted to describe.
It is impossible to know the precise moment at which a water-logged
vessel, in a heavy sea, may go down; and its occupants are in a state of
mental fever, with the idea of their remaining in her so late that she
will suddenly submerge, and leave them to struggle in the wave. This
feeling actuated many of the crew of the _Circassian_, and they had
already retreated to the boats. All was arranged; Oswald had charge of
one boat, and it was agreed that the larger should receive Mrs.
Templemore and her children, under the protection of Captain Ingram. The
number appointed to Oswald's boat being completed he shoved off, to make
room for the other, and laid-to to leeward, waiting to keep company.
Mrs. Templemore came up with Captain Ingram, and was assisted by him
into the boat. The nurse, with one child, was at last placed by her
side; Coco was leading Judy, the other nurse, with the remaining infant
in her arms; and Captain Ingram, who had been obliged to go into the
boat with the first child, was about to return to assist Judy with the
other, when the ship gave a heavy pitch, and her forecastle was buried
in the wave; at the same time the gunwale of the boat was stove by
coming in contact with the side of the vessel. 'She's down, by G--d!'
exclaimed the alarmed seamen in the boat, shoving off to escape from the
vortex.
Captain Ingram, who was standing on the boat's thwarts to assist Judy,
was thrown back into the bottom of the boat; and before he could
extricate himself, the boat was separated from the ship, and had drifted
to leeward.
'My child!' screamed the mother; 'my child!'
'Pull to again, my lads!' cried Captain Ingram, seizing the tiller.
The men, who had been alarmed at the idea that the ship was going down,
now that they saw that she was still afloat, got out the oars and
attempted to regain her, but in vain--they could not make head against
the sea and wind. Further and further did they drift to leeward,
notwithstanding their exertions; while the frantic mother extended her
arms, imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had stimulated the
sailors to the utmost, perceived that further attempts were useless.
'My child! my child!' screamed Mrs. Templemore, standing up, and holding
out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign from the captain, the head of
the boat was veered round. The bereaved mother knew that all hope was
gone, and she fell down in a state of insensibility.
CHAPTER V
THE OLD MAID
One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have described, Mr.
Witherington descended to his breakfast-room somewhat earlier than
usual, and found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no
less a personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on the
fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that he did not hear
his master's entrance. 'By my ancestor, who fought on his stumps! but I
hope you are quite comfortable, Mr. William; nay, I beg I may not
disturb you, sir.'
William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was a little
taken aback: 'I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr. Jonathan had not time to
look over the paper.'
'Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.'
'Mr. Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over the
_deaths_, that news of that kind may not shock you.'
'Very considerate, indeed.'
'And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.'
'A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?'
'I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about, sir--the----I
forget the name, sir.'
Mr. Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon caught the
paragraph in which the rescue of the two negroes and child from the
wreck of the _Circassian_ was fully detailed.
'It is indeed!' exclaimed Mr. Witherington. 'My poor Cecilia in an open
boat! one of the boats was seen to go down--perhaps she's dead--merciful
God! one boy saved. Mercy on me! where's Jonathan?'
[Illustration: _Found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by
William the footman._]
'Here, sir,' replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just brought in
the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind his master's chair, for
it was a case of danger, if not of death.
'I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast--shan't eat,
though--appetite all gone.'
'People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,' replied
Jonathan. 'Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a mourning coach?'
'A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair of horses!
Jonathan, you're crazy.'
'Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for the coachman
and servants who attend you, sir?'
'Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a death: it appears
that the negro thinks only one of the boats went down.'
'_Mors omnia vincit_,' quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.
'Never you mind that; mind your own business. That's the postman's
knock--see if there are any letters.'
There were several; and amongst the others there was one from Captain
Maxwell, of the _Eurydice_, detailing the circumstances already known,
and informing Mr. Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes
and the child to his address by that day's coach, and that one of the
officers, who was going to town by the same conveyance, would see them
safe to his house.
Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr. Witherington--had dined
at his house in company with the Templemores, and therefore had
extracted quite enough information from the negroes to know where to
direct them.
'By the blood of my ancestors! they'll be here to-night,' cried Mr.
Witherington; 'and I have saved my journey. What is to be done? better
tell Mary to get rooms ready: d'ye hear, William; beds for one little
boy and two niggers.'
'Yes, sir,' replied William; 'but where are the black people to be put?'
'Put! I don't care; one may sleep with cook, the other with Mary.'
'Very well, sir, I'll tell them,' replied William, hastening away,
delighted at the row which he anticipated in the kitchen.
'If you please, sir,' observed Jonathan, 'one of the negroes is, I
believe, a man.'
'Well, what then?'
'Only, sir, the maids may object to sleep with him.'
'By all the plagues of the Witheringtons! this is true; well, you may
take him, Jonathan--you like that colour.'
'Not in the dark, sir,' replied Jonathan, with a bow.
'Well then, let them sleep together; so that affair is settled.'
'Are they man and wife, sir?' said the butler.
'The devil take them both! how should I know? Let me have my breakfast,
and we'll talk over the matter by and by.'
Mr. Witherington applied to his eggs and muffin, eating his breakfast as
fast as he could, without knowing why; but the reason was that he was
puzzled and perplexed with the anticipated arrival, and longed to think
quietly over the dilemma, for it was a dilemma to an old bachelor. As
soon as he had swallowed his second cup of tea he put himself into his
easy-chair, in an easy attitude, and was very soon soliloquising as
follows:--
'By the blood of the Witheringtons! what am I, an old bachelor, to do
with a baby, and a wet-nurse as black as the ace of spades, and another
black fellow in the bargain? Send him back again! yes, that's
best? but the child--woke every morning at five o'clock with its
squalling--obliged to kiss it three times a day--pleasant!--and then
that nigger of a nurse--thick lips--kissing child all day, and then
holding it out to me--ignorant as a cow--if the child has the
stomach-ache she'll cram a pepper-pod down its throat--West India
fashion--children never without the stomach-ache--my poor, poor
cousin!--what has become of her and the other child, too?--wish they may
pick her up, poor dear! and then she will come and take care of her own
children--don't know what to do--great mind to send for sister
Moggy--but she's so _fussy_--won't be in a hurry. Think again.'
Here Mr. Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the door.
'Come in,' said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if she had
been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her appearance without the
usual clean apron.
'If you please, sir,' said she, curtseying, 'I will thank you to suit
yourself with another cook.'
'Oh, very well,' replied Mr. Witherington, angry at the interruption.
'And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day--indeed, sir,
I shall not stay.'
'Go to the devil! if you please,' replied Mr. Witherington angrily; 'but
first go out and shut the door after you.'
The cook retired, and Mr. Witherington was again alone.
'Confound the old woman--what a huff she is in! won't cook for black
people, I suppose--yes, that's it.'
Here Mr. Witherington was again interrupted by a second double tap at
the door.
'Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.'
It was not the cook, but Mary, the housemaid, that entered.
'If you please, sir,' said she, whimpering, 'I should wish to leave my
situation.'
'A conspiracy, by heavens! Well, you may go.'
'To-night, sir, if you please,' answered the woman.
'This moment, for all I care!' exclaimed Mr. Witherington in his wrath.
The housemaid retired; and Mr. Witherington took some time to compose
himself.
'Servants all going to the devil in this country,' said he at last;
'proud fools--won't clean rooms after black people, I suppose--yes,
that's it, confound them all, black and white! here's my whole
establishment upset by the arrival of a baby. Well, it is very
uncomfortable--what shall I do?--send for sister Moggy?--no, I'll send
for Jonathan.'
Mr. Witherington rang the bell, and Jonathan made his appearance.
'What is all this, Jonathan?' said he; 'cook angry--Mary crying--both
going away--what's it all about?'
'Why, sir, they were told by William that it was your positive order
that the two black people were to sleep with them; and I believe he told
Mary that the man was to sleep with her.'
'Confound that fellow! he's always at mischief; you know, Jonathan, I
never meant that.'
'I thought not, sir, as it is quite contrary to custom,' replied
Jonathan.
'Well then, tell them so, and let's hear no more about it.'
Mr. Witherington then entered into a consultation with his butler, and
acceded to the arrangements proposed by him. The parties arrived in due
time, and were properly accommodated. Master Edward was not troubled
with the stomach-ache, neither did he wake Mr. Witherington at five
o'clock in the morning; and, after all, it was not very uncomfortable.
But, although things were not quite so uncomfortable as Mr. Witherington
had anticipated, still they were not comfortable; and Mr. Witherington
was so annoyed by continual skirmishes with his servants, complaints
from Judy, in bad English, of the cook, who, it must be owned, had taken
a prejudice against her and Coco, occasional illness of the child, _et
cætera_, that he found his house no longer quiet and peaceable. Three
months had now nearly passed, and no tidings of the boats had been
received; and Captain Maxwell, who came up to see Mr. Witherington, gave
it as his decided opinion that they must have foundered in the gale. As,
therefore, there appeared to be no chance of Mrs. Templemore coming to
take care of her child, Mr. Witherington at last resolved to write to
Bath, where his sister resided, and acquaint her with the whole story,
requesting her to come and superintend his domestic concerns. A few days
afterwards he received the following reply:--
'BATH, _August_.
'MY DEAR BROTHER ANTONY--Your letter arrived safe to hand on
Wednesday last, and I must say that I was not a little surprised at
its contents; indeed, I thought so much about it that I revoked at
Lady Betty Blabkin's whist-party, and lost four shillings and
sixpence. You say that you have a child at your house belonging to
your cousin, who married in so indecorous a manner. I hope what you
say is true; but, at the same time, I know what bachelors are
guilty of; although, as Lady Betty says, it is better never to talk
or even to hint about these improper things. I cannot imagine why
men should consider themselves, in an unmarried state, as absolved
from that purity which maidens are so careful to preserve; and so
says Lady Betty, with whom I had a little conversation on the
subject. As, however, the thing is done, she agrees with me that it
is better to hush it up as well as we can.
'I presume that you do not intend to make the child your heir,
which I should consider as highly improper; and, indeed, Lady
Betty tells me that the legacy-duty is ten per cent., and that it
cannot be avoided. However, I make it a rule never to talk about
these sort of things. As for your request that I will come up and
superintend your establishment, I have advised with Lady Betty on
the subject, and she agrees with me that, for the honour of the
family, it is better that I should come, as it will save
appearances. You are in a peck of troubles, as most men are who are
free-livers, and are led astray by artful and alluring females.
However, as Lady Betty says, "the least said, the soonest mended."
'I will, therefore, make the necessary arrangements for letting my
house, and hope to join you in about ten days; sooner, I cannot, as
I find that my engagements extend to that period. Many questions
have already been put to me on this unpleasant subject; but I
always give but one answer, which is, that bachelors will be
bachelors! and that, at all events, it is not so bad as if you were
a married man: for I make it a rule never to talk about, or even to
hint about these sort of things, for, as Lady Betty says, "Men will
get into scrapes, and the sooner things are hushed up the better."
So no more at present from your affectionate sister,
'MARGARET WITHERINGTON.
'_P.S._--Lady Betty and I both agree that you are very right in
hiring two black people to bring the child into your house, as it
makes the thing look _foreign_ to the neighbours, and we can keep
our own secrets.
M. W.'
'Now, by all the sins of the Witheringtons, if this is not enough to
drive a man out of his senses! Confound the suspicious old maid! I'll
not let her come into this house. Confound Lady Betty, and all
scandal-loving old tabbies like her! Bless me!' continued Mr.
Witherington, throwing the letter on the table, with a deep sigh, 'this
is anything but comfortable.'
But if Mr. Witherington found it anything but comfortable at the
commencement, he found it unbearable in the sequel.
[Illustration: '_Antony, for shame! fie, for shame!_']
His sister Moggy arrived, and installed herself in the house with all
the pomp and protecting air of one who was the saviour of her brother's
reputation and character. When the child was first brought down to her,
instead of perceiving at once its likeness to Mr. Templemore, which was
very strong, she looked at it and at her brother's face with her only
eye, and shaking her finger, exclaimed--
'O Antony! Antony! and did you expect to deceive me?--the nose--the
mouth exact--Antony, for shame! fie, for shame!'
But we must hurry over the misery that Mr. Witherington's kindness and
benevolence brought upon him. Not a day passed--scarcely an hour,
without his ears being galled with his sister's insinuations. Judy and
Coco were sent back to America; the servants, who had remained so long
in his service, gave warning one by one, and, afterwards, were changed
as often almost as there was a change in the moon. She ruled the house
and her brother despotically; and all poor Mr. Witherington's comfort
was gone until the time arrived when Master Edward was to be sent to
school. Mr. Witherington then plucked up courage, and after a few stormy
months drove his sister back to Bath, and once more found himself
comfortable.
Edward came home during the holidays, and was a great favourite; but the
idea had become current that he was the son of the old gentleman, and
the remarks made were so unpleasant and grating to him, that he was not
sorry, much as he was attached to the boy, when he declared his
intention to choose the profession of a sailor.
Captain Maxwell introduced him into the service; and afterwards, when,
in consequence of ill-health and exhaustion, he was himself obliged to
leave it for a time, he procured for his _protégé_ other ships. We must,
therefore, allow some years to pass away, during which time Edward
Templemore pursues his career, Mr Witherington grows older and more
particular, and his sister Moggy amuses herself with Lady Betty's
remarks, and her darling game of whist.
During all this period no tidings of the boats, or of Mrs. Templemore
and her infant, had been heard; it was therefore naturally conjectured
that they had all perished, and they were remembered but as things that
had been.
CHAPTER VI
THE MIDSHIPMAN
The weather-side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigate _Unicorn_ was
occupied by two very great personages: Captain Plumbton, commanding the
ship, who was very great in width if not in height, taking much more
than his allowance of the deck, if it were not that he was the
proprietor thereof, and entitled to the lion's share. Captain P. was not
more than four feet ten inches in height; but then he was equal to that
in girth: there was quite enough of him, if he had only been _rolled
out_. He walked with his coat flying open, his thumbs stuck into the
arm-holes of his waistcoat, so as to throw his shoulders back and
increase his horizontal dimensions. He also held his head well aft,
which threw his chest and stomach well forward. He was the prototype of
pomposity and good-nature, and he strutted like an actor in a
procession.
The other personage was the first lieutenant, whom Nature had pleased to
fashion in another mould. He was as tall as the captain was short--as
thin as his superior was corpulent. His long, lanky legs were nearly up
to the captain's shoulders; and he bowed down over the head of his
superior, as if he were the crane to hoist up, and the captain the bale
of goods to be hoisted. He carried his hands behind his back, with two
fingers twisted together; and his chief difficulty appeared to be to
reduce his own stride to the parrot march of the captain. His features
were sharp and lean as was his body, and wore every appearance of a
cross-grained temper.
He had been making divers complaints of divers persons, and the captain
had hitherto appeared imperturbable. Captain Plumbton was an
even-tempered man, who was satisfied with a good dinner. Lieutenant
Markitall was an odd-tempered man, who would quarrel with his bread and
butter.
[Illustration: _He walked with his coat flying open, his thumbs stuck
into the arm-holes of his waistcoat._]
'Quite impossible, sir,' continued the first lieutenant, 'to carry on
the duty without support.'
This oracular observation, which, from the relative forms of the two
parties, descended as it were from above, was replied to by the captain
with a 'Very true.'
'Then, sir, I presume you will not object to my putting that man in the
report for punishment?'
'I'll think about it, Mr. Markitall.' This, with Captain Plumbton, was
as much as to say, No.
'The young gentlemen, sir, I am sorry to say, are very troublesome.'
'Boys always are,' replied the captain.
'Yes, sir; but the duty must be carried on, and I cannot do without
them.'
'Very true--midshipmen are very useful.'
'But I'm sorry to say, sir, that they are not. Now, sir, there's Mr.
Templemore; I can do nothing with him--he does nothing but laugh.'
'Laugh!--Mr. Markitall, does he laugh at you?'
'Not exactly, sir; but he laughs at everything. If I send him to the
mast-head, he goes up laughing; if I call him down, he comes down
laughing; if I find fault with him, he laughs the next minute: in fact,
sir, he does nothing but laugh. I should particularly wish, sir, that
you would speak to him, and see if any interference on your part----'
'Would make him cry--eh? better to laugh than cry in this world. Does he
never cry, Mr. Markitall?'
'Yes, sir, and very unseasonably. The other day, you may recollect, when
you punished Wilson the marine, whom I appointed to take care of his
chest and hammock, he was crying the whole time; almost tantamount--at
least an indirect species of mutiny on his part, as it implied----'
'That the boy was sorry that his servant was punished; I never flog a
man but I'm sorry myself, Mr. Markitall.'
'Well, I do not press the question of his crying--that I might look
over; but his laughing, sir, I must beg that you will take notice of
that. Here he is, sir, coming up the hatchway. Mr. Templemore, the
captain wishes to speak to you.'
Now, the captain did not wish to speak to him, but, forced upon him as
it was by the first lieutenant, he could do no less. So Mr. Templemore
touched his hat, and stood before the captain, we regret to say, with
such a good-humoured, sly, confiding smirk on his countenance, as at
once established the proof of the accusation, and the enormity of the
offence.
'So, sir,' said Captain Plumbton, stopping in his perambulation, and
squaring his shoulders still more, 'I find that you laugh at the first
lieutenant.'
'I, sir?' replied the boy, the smirk expanding into a broad grin.
'Yes; you, sir,' said the first lieutenant, now drawing up to his full
height; 'why, you're laughing now, sir.'
'I can't help it, sir--it's not my fault; and I'm sure it's not yours,
sir,' added the boy demurely.
'Are you aware, Edward--Mr. Templemore, I mean--of the impropriety of
disrespect to your superior officer?'
'I never laughed at Mr. Markitall but once, sir, that I can recollect,
and that was when he tumbled over the messenger.'
'And why did you laugh at him then, sir?'
'I always do laugh when any one tumbles down,' replied the lad; 'I can't
help it, sir.'
'Then, sir, I suppose you would laugh if you saw me rolling in the
lee-scuppers?' said the captain.
'Oh!' replied the boy, no longer able to contain himself, 'I'm sure I
should burst myself with laughing--I think I see you now, sir.'
'Do you, indeed! I'm very glad that you do not; though I'm afraid, young
gentleman, you stand convicted by your own confession.'
'Yes, sir, for laughing, if that is any crime; but it's not in the
Articles of War.'
'No, sir; but disrespect is. You laugh when you go to the mast-head.'
'But I obey the order, sir, immediately--do I not, Mr. Markitall?'
'Yes, sir, you obey the order; but, at the same time, your laughing
proves that you do not mind the punishment.'
'No more I do, sir. I spend half my time at the mast-head, and I'm used
to it now.'
'But, Mr. Templemore, ought you not to feel the disgrace of the
punishment?' inquired the captain severely.
'Yes, sir, if I felt I deserved it I should. I should not laugh, sir, if
_you_ sent me to the mast-head,' replied the boy, assuming a serious
countenance.
'You see, Mr. Markitall, that he can be grave,' observed the captain.
'I've tried all I can to make him so, sir,' replied the first
lieutenant; 'but I wish to ask Mr. Templemore what he means to imply by
saying, "when he deserves it." Does he mean to say that I have ever
punished him unjustly?'
'Yes, sir,' replied the boy boldly; 'five times out of six I am
mast-headed for nothing--and that's the reason why I do not mind it.'
'For nothing, sir! Do you call laughing nothing?'
'I pay every attention that I can to my duty, sir; I always obey your
orders; I try all I can to make you pleased with me--but you are always
punishing me.'
'Yes, sir, for laughing, and, what is worse, making the ship's company
laugh.'
'They "haul and hold" just the same, sir--I think they work all the
better for being merry.'
'And pray, sir, what business have you to think?' replied the first
lieutenant, now very angry. 'Captain Plumbton, as this young gentleman
thinks proper to interfere with me and the discipline of the ship, I beg
you will see what effect your punishing may have upon him.'
'Mr. Templemore,' said the captain, 'you are, in the first place, too
free in your speech, and, in the next place, too fond of laughing. There
is, Mr. Templemore, a time for all things--a time to be merry, and a
time to be serious. The quarter-deck is not the fit place for mirth.'
'I'm sure the gangway is not,' shrewdly interrupted the boy.
'No--you are right, nor the gangway; but you may laugh on the
forecastle, and when below with your messmates.'
'No, sir, we may not; Mr. Markitall always sends out if he hears us
laughing.'
'Because, Mr. Templemore, you're always laughing.'
'I believe I am, sir; and if it's wrong I'm sorry to displease you, but
I mean no disrespect. I laugh in my sleep--I laugh when I awake--I laugh
when the sun shines--I always feel so happy; but though you do mast-head
me, Mr. Markitall, I should not laugh, but be very sorry, if any
misfortune happened to you.'
'I believe you would, boy--I do indeed, Mr. Markitall,' said the
captain.
'Well, sir,' replied the first lieutenant, 'as Mr. Templemore appears to
be aware of his error, I do not wish to press my complaint--I have only
to request that he will never laugh again.'
'You hear, boy, what the first lieutenant says; it's very reasonable,
and I beg I may hear no more complaints. Mr. Markitall, let me know when
the foot of that foretopsail will be repaired--I should like to shift it
to-night.'
Mr. Markitall went down under the half-deck to make the inquiry.
'And, Edward,' said Captain Plumbton, as soon as the lieutenant was out
of ear-shot, 'I have a good deal more to say to you upon this subject,
but I have no time now. So come and dine with me--at my table, you know,
I allow laughing in moderation.'
The boy touched his hat, and with a grateful, happy countenance, walked
away.
We have introduced this little scene that the reader may form some idea
of the character of Edward Templemore. He was indeed the soul of mirth,
good-humour, and kindly feelings towards others; he even felt kindly
towards the first lieutenant, who persecuted him for his risible
propensities. We do not say that the boy was right in laughing at all
times, or that the first lieutenant was wrong in attempting to check it.
As the captain said, there is a time for all things, and Edward's laugh
was not always seasonable; but it was his nature, and he could not help
it. He was joyous as the May morning; and thus he continued for years,
laughing at everything--pleased with everybody--almost universally
liked--and his bold, free, and happy spirit unchecked by vicissitude or
hardship.
He served his time--was nearly turned back, when he was passing his
examination, for laughing, and then went laughing to sea again--was in
command of a boat at the cutting-out of a French corvette, and when on
board was so much amused by the little French captain skipping about
with his rapier, which proved fatal to many, that at last he received a
pink from the little gentleman himself, which laid him on deck. For
this affair, and in consideration of his wound, he obtained his
promotion to the rank of lieutenant--was appointed to a line-of-battle
ship in the West Indies--laughed at the yellow fever--was appointed to
the tender of that ship, a fine schooner, and was sent to cruise for
prize-money for the admiral, and promotion for himself, if he could, by
any fortunate encounter, be so lucky as to obtain it.
CHAPTER VII
SLEEPER'S BAY
On the western coast of Africa there is a small bay, which has received
more than one name from its occasional visitors. That by which it was
designated by the adventurous Portuguese, who first dared to cleave the
waves of the Southern Atlantic, has been forgotten with their lost
maritime preeminence; the name allotted to it by the woolly-headed
natives of the coast has never, perhaps, been ascertained; it is,
however, marked down in some of the old English charts as Sleeper's Bay.
The mainland which, by its curvature, has formed this little dent, on a
coast possessing, and certainly at present requiring, few harbours,
displays, perhaps, the least inviting of all prospects; offering to the
view nothing but a shelving beach of dazzling white sand, backed with a
few small hummocks beat up by the occasional fury of the Atlantic
gales--arid, bare, and without the slightest appearance of vegetable
life. The inland prospect is shrouded over by a dense mirage, through
which here and there are to be discovered the stems of a few distant
palm-trees, so broken and disjoined by refraction that they present to
the imagination anything but the idea of foliage or shade. The water in
the bay is calm and smooth as the polished mirror; not the smallest
ripple is to be heard on the beach, to break through the silence of
nature; not a breath of air sweeps over its glassy surface, which is
heated with the intense rays of a vertical noonday sun, pouring down a
withering flood of light and heat; not a sea-bird is to be discovered
wheeling on its flight, or balancing on its wings as it pierces the deep
with its searching eye, ready to dart upon its prey. All is silence,
solitude, and desolation, save that occasionally may be seen the fin of
some huge shark, either sluggishly moving through the heated element, or
stationary in the torpor of the mid-day heat. A sight so sterile, so
stagnant, so little adapted to human life, cannot well be conceived,
unless, by flying to extremes, we were to portray the chilling blast,
the transfixing cold, and 'close-ribbed ice' at the frozen poles.
At the entrance of this bay, in about three fathoms water, heedless of
the spring cable which hung down as a rope which had fallen overboard,
there floated, motionless as death, a vessel whose proportions would
have challenged the unanimous admiration of those who could appreciate
the merits of her build, had she been anchored in the most frequented
and busy harbour of the universe. So beautiful were her lines, that you
might almost have imagined her a created being that the ocean had been
ordered to receive, as if fashioned by the Divine Architect, to add to
the beauty and variety of His works; for, from the huge leviathan to the
smallest of the finny tribe--from the towering albatross to the boding
petrel of the storm--where could be found, among the winged or finned
frequenters of the ocean, a form more appropriate, more fitting, than
this specimen of human skill, whose beautiful model and elegant tapering
spars were now all that could be discovered to break the meeting lines
of the firmament and horizon of the offing.
Alas! she was fashioned, at the will of avarice, for the aid of cruelty
and injustice, and now was even more nefariously employed. She had been
a slaver--she was now the far-famed, still more dreaded, pirate
schooner, the _Avenger_.
Not a man-of-war which scoured the deep but had her instructions
relative to this vessel, which had been so successful in her career of
crime--not a trader in any portion of the navigable globe but whose crew
shuddered at the mention of her name, and the remembrance of the
atrocities which had been practised by her reckless crew. She had been
everywhere--in the east, the west, the north, and the south, leaving a
track behind her of rapine and of murder. There she lay in motionless
beauty, her low sides were painted black, with one small, narrow riband
of red--her raking masts were clean scraped--her topmasts, her
cross-trees, caps, and even running-blocks, were painted in pure white.
Awnings were spread fore and aft to protect the crew from the powerful
rays of the sun; her ropes were hauled taut; and in every point she wore
the appearance of being under the control of seamanship and strict
discipline. Through the clear smooth water her copper shone brightly;
and as you looked over her taffrail down into the calm blue sea, you
could plainly discover the sandy bottom beneath her, and the anchor
which then lay under her counter. A small boat floated astern, the
weight of the rope which attached her appearing, in the perfect calm, to
draw her towards the schooner.
We must now go on board, and our first cause of surprise will be the
deception relative to the tonnage of the schooner, when viewed from a
distance. Instead of a small vessel of about ninety tons, we discover
that she is upwards of two hundred; that her breadth of beam is
enormous; and that those spars, which appeared so light and elegant, are
of unexpected dimensions. Her decks are of narrow fir planks, without
the least spring or rise; her ropes are of Manilla hemp, neatly secured
to copper belaying-pins, and coiled down on the deck, whose whiteness is
well contrasted with the bright green paint of her bulwarks: her
capstern and binnacles are cased in fluted mahogany, and ornamented with
brass; metal stanchions protect the skylights, and the bright muskets
are arranged in front of the mainmast, while the boarding-pikes are
lashed round the mainboom.
In the centre of the vessel, between the fore and main masts, there is a
long brass 32-pounder fixed upon a carriage revolving in a circle, and
so arranged that in bad weather it can be lowered down and _housed_;
while on each side of her decks are mounted eight brass guns of smaller
calibre and of exquisite workmanship. Her build proves the skill of the
architect; her fitting-out, a judgment in which nought has been
sacrificed to, although everything has been directed by, taste; and her
neatness and arrangement, that, in the person of her commander, to the
strictest discipline there is united the practical knowledge of a
thorough seaman. How, indeed, otherwise could she have so long continued
her lawless yet successful career? How could it have been possible to
unite a crew of miscreants, who feared not God nor man, most of whom had
perpetrated foul murders, or had been guilty of even blacker
iniquities? It was because he who commanded the vessel was so superior
as to find in her no rivalry. Superior in talent, in knowledge of his
profession, in courage, and, moreover, in physical strength--which in
him was almost herculean--unfortunately he was also superior to all in
villainy, in cruelty, and contempt of all injunctions, moral and Divine.
What had been the early life of this person was but imperfectly known.
It was undoubted that he had received an excellent education, and it was
said that he was of an ancient border family on the banks of the Tweed:
by what chances he had become a pirate--by what errors he had fallen
from his station in society, until he became an outcast, had never been
revealed; it was only known that he had been some years employed in the
slave-trade previous to his seizing this vessel and commencing his
reckless career. The name by which he was known to the crew of the
pirate vessel was 'Cain,' and well had he chosen this appellation; for,
had not his hand for more than three years been against every man's, and
every man's hand against his? In person he was about six feet high, with
a breadth of shoulders and of chest denoting the utmost of physical
force which, perhaps, has ever been allotted to man. His features would
have been handsome had they not been scarred with wounds; and, strange
to say, his eye was mild and of a soft blue. His mouth was well formed,
and his teeth of a pearly white; the hair of his head was crisp and
wavy, and his beard, which he wore, as did every person composing the
crew of the pirate, covered the lower part of his face in strong,
waving, and continued curls. The proportions of his body were perfect;
but from their vastness they became almost terrific. His costume was
elegant, and well adapted to his form; linen trousers, and untanned
yellow leather boots, such as are made at the Western Isles; a
broad-striped cotton shirt; a red Cashmere shawl round his waist as a
sash; a vest embroidered in gold tissue, with a jacket of dark velvet,
and pendent gold buttons, hanging over his left shoulder, after the
fashion of the Mediterranean seamen; a round Turkish skull-cap,
handsomely embroidered, a pair of pistols, and a long knife in his sash,
completed his attire.
The crew consisted in all of 165 men, of almost every nation, but it
was to be remarked that all those in authority were either Englishmen or
from the northern countries; the others were chiefly Spaniards and
Maltese. Still there were Portuguese, Brazilians, negroes, and others,
who made up the complement, which at the time we now speak of was
increased by twenty-five additional hands. These were Kroumen, a race of
blacks well known at present, who inhabit the coast near Cape Palmas,
and are often employed by our men-of-war stationed on the coast to
relieve the English seamen from duties which would be too severe to
those who were not inured to the climate. They are powerful, athletic
men, good sailors, of a happy, merry disposition, and, unlike other
Africans, will work hard. Fond of the English, they generally speak the
language sufficiently to be understood, and are very glad to receive a
baptism when they come on board. The name first given them they usually
adhere to as long as they live; and you will now on the coast meet with
a Blucher, a Wellington, a Nelson, etc., who will wring swabs, or do any
other of the meanest description of work, without feeling that it is
discreditable to sponsorials so grand.
It is not to be supposed that these men had voluntarily come on board of
the pirate; they had been employed in some British vessels trading on
the coast, and had been taken out of them when the vessels were burnt,
and the Europeans of the crews murdered. They had received a promise of
reward, if they did their duty; but, not expecting it, they waited for
the earliest opportunity to make their escape.
The captain of the schooner is abaft with his glass in his hand,
occasionally sweeping the offing in the expectation of a vessel heaving
in sight; the officers and crew are lying down, or lounging listlessly
about the decks, panting with the extreme heat, and impatiently waiting
for the sea-breeze to fan their parched foreheads. With their rough
beards and exposed chests, and their weather-beaten fierce countenances,
they form a group which is terrible even in repose.
We must now descend into the cabin of the schooner. The fittings-up of
this apartment are simple: on each side is a standing bed-place; against
the after bulkhead is a large buffet, originally intended for glass and
china, but now loaded with silver and gold vessels of every size and
description, collected by the pirate from the different ships which he
had plundered; the lamps are also of silver, and evidently had been
intended to ornament the shrine of some Catholic saint.
In this cabin there are two individuals, to whom we shall now direct the
reader's attention. The one is a pleasant-countenanced, good-humoured
Krouman, who had been christened 'Pompey the Great'; most probably on
account of his large proportions. He wears a pair of duck trousers; the
rest of his body is naked, and presents a sleek, glossy skin, covering
muscles which an anatomist or a sculptor would have viewed with
admiration. The other is a youth of eighteen, or thereabouts, with an
intelligent, handsome countenance, evidently of European blood. There
is, however, a habitually mournful cast upon his features; he is dressed
much in the same way as we have described the captain, but the costume
hangs more gracefully upon his slender, yet well-formed limbs. He is
seated on a sofa, fixed in the fore part of the cabin, with a book in
his hand, which occasionally he refers to, and then lifts his eyes from,
to watch the motions of the Krouman, who is busy, in the office of
steward, arranging and cleaning the costly articles in the buffet.
'Massa Francisco, dis really fine ting,' said Pompey, holding up a
splendidly embossed tankard, which he had been rubbing.
'Yes,' replied Francisco gravely; 'it is indeed, Pompey.'
'How Captain Cain come by dis?'
Francisco shook his head, and Pompey put his finger up to his mouth, his
eyes, full of meaning, fixed upon Francisco.
At this moment the personage referred to was heard descending the
companion-ladder. Pompey recommenced rubbing the silver, and Francisco
dropped his eyes upon the book.
What was the tie which appeared to bind the captain to this lad was not
known; but, as the latter had always accompanied, and lived together
with him, it was generally supposed that he was the captain's son; and
he was as often designated by the crew as young Cain as he was by his
Christian name of Francisco. Still it was observed that latterly they
had frequently been heard in altercation, and that the captain was very
suspicious of Francisco's movements.
'I beg I may not interrupt your conversation,' said Cain, on entering
the cabin; 'the information you may obtain from a Krouman must be very
important.'
Francisco made no reply, but appeared to be reading his book. Cain's
eyes passed from one to the other, as if to read their thoughts.
'Pray what were you saying, Mr. Pompey?'
'Me say, Massa Captain? me only tell young Massa dis very fine ting; ask
where you get him--Massa Francisco no tell.'
'And what might it be to you, you black scoundrel?' cried the captain,
seizing the goblet, and striking the man with it a blow on the head
which flattened the vessel, and at the same time felled the Krouman,
powerful as he was, to the deck. The blood streamed as the man slowly
rose, stupefied and trembling from the violent concussion. Without
saying a word, he staggered out of the cabin, and Cain threw himself on
one of the lockers in front of the standing bed-place, saying, with a
bitter smile, 'So much for your intimates, Francisco!'
'Rather, so much for your cruelty and injustice towards an unoffending
man,' replied Francisco, laying his book on the table. 'His question was
an innocent one--for he knew not the particulars connected with the
obtaining of that flagon.'
'And you, I presume, do not forget them? Well, be it so, young man; but
I warn you again--as I have warned you often--nothing but the
remembrance of your mother has prevented me, long before this, from
throwing your body to the sharks.'
'What influence my mother's memory may have over you, I know not; I only
regret that, in any way, she had the misfortune to be connected with
you.'
'She had the influence,' replied Cain, 'which a woman must have over a
man when they have for years swung in the same cot; but that is wearing
off fast. I tell you so candidly; I will not even allow her memory to
check me, if I find you continue your late course. You have shown
disaffection before the crew--you have disputed my orders--and I have
every reason to believe that you are now plotting against me.'
'Can I do otherwise than show my abhorrence,' replied Francisco, 'when I
witness such acts of horror, of cruelty--cold-blooded cruelty, as lately
have been perpetrated? Why do you bring me here? and why do you now
detain me? All I ask is, that you will allow me to leave the vessel. You
are not my father; you have told me so.'
'No, I am not your father; but--you are your mother's son.'
'That gives you no right to have power over me, even if you had been
married to my mother; which----'
'I was not.'
'I thank God; for marriage with you would have been even greater
disgrace.'
'What!' cried Cain, starting up, seizing the young man by the neck, and
lifting him off his seat as if he had been a puppet; 'but no--I cannot
forget your mother.' Cain released Francisco, and resumed his seat on
the locker.
'As you please,' said Francisco, as soon as he had recovered himself;
'it matters little whether I am brained by your own hand, or launched
overboard as a meal for the sharks; it will be but one more murder.'
'Mad fool! why do you tempt me thus?' replied Cain, again starting up,
and hastily quitting the cabin.
The altercation which we have just described was not unheard on deck, as
the doors of the cabin were open, and the skylight removed to admit the
air. The face of Cain was flushed as he ascended the ladder. He
perceived his chief mate standing by the hatchway, and many of the men,
who had been slumbering abaft, with their heads raised on their elbows,
as if they had been listening to the conversation below.
'It will never do, sir,' said Hawkhurst, the mate, shaking his head.
'No,' replied the captain; 'not if he were my own son. But what is to be
done?--he knows no fear.'
Hawkhurst pointed to the entering port.
'When I ask your advice, you may give it,' said the captain, turning
gloomily away.
In the meantime, Francisco paced the cabin in deep thought. Young as he
was, he was indifferent to death; for he had no tie to render life
precious. He remembered his mother, but not her demise; that had been
concealed from him. At the age of seven he had sailed with Cain in a
slaver, and had ever since continued with him. Until lately, he had been
led to suppose that the captain was his father. During the years that he
had been in the slave-trade, Cain had devoted much time to his
education; it so happened that the only book which could be found on
board of the vessel, when Cain first commenced teaching, was a Bible
belonging to Francisco's mother. Out of this book he learned to read;
and, as his education advanced, other books were procured. It may
appear strange that the very traffic in which his reputed father was
engaged did not corrupt the boy's mind; but, accustomed to it from his
infancy, he had considered these negroes as another species--an idea
fully warranted by the cruelty of the Europeans towards them.
There are some dispositions so naturally kind and ingenuous that even
example and evil contact cannot debase them: such was the disposition of
Francisco. As he gained in years and knowledge, he thought more and more
for himself, and had already become disgusted with the cruelties
practised upon the unfortunate negroes, when the slave vessel was seized
upon by Cain and converted into a pirate. At first, the enormities
committed had not been so great; vessels had been seized and plundered,
but life had been spared. In the course of crime, however, the descent
is rapid: and as, from information given by those who had been released,
the schooner was more than once in danger of being captured, latterly no
lives had been spared; and but too often the murders had been attended
with deeds even more atrocious.
Francisco had witnessed scenes of horror until his young blood curdled:
he had expostulated to save, but in vain. Disgusted with the captain and
the crew, and their deeds of cruelty, he had latterly expressed his
opinions fearlessly, and defied the captain; for, in the heat of an
altercation, Cain had acknowledged that Francisco was not his son.
Had any of the crew or officers expressed but a tithe of what had fallen
from the bold lips of Francisco, they would have long before paid the
forfeit of their temerity; but there was a feeling towards Francisco
which could not be stifled in the breast of Cain--it was the feeling of
association and habit. The boy had been his companion for years; and
from assuetude had become, as it were, a part of himself. There is a
principle in our nature which, even when that nature is most debased,
will never leave us--that of requiring something to love, something to
protect and watch over: it is shown towards a dog, or any other animal,
if it cannot be lavished upon one of our own species. Such was the
feeling which so forcibly held Cain towards Francisco; such was the
feeling which had hitherto saved his life.
After having paced up and down for some time, the youth took his seat on
the locker which the captain had quitted: his eye soon caught the head
of Pompey, who looked into the cabin and beckoned with his finger.
Francisco rose, and, taking up a flagon from the buffet, which contained
some spirits, walked to the door, and, without saying a word, handed it
to the Krouman.
'Massa Francisco,' whispered Pompey, 'Pompey say--all Kroumen
say--suppose they run away, you go too? Pompey say--all Kroumen
say--suppose they try to kill you? Nebber kill you while one Krouman
alive.'
The negro then gently pushed Francisco back with his hand, as if not
wishing to hear his answer, and hastened forward on the berth deck.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ATTACK
In the meantime, the sea-breeze had risen in the offing, and was
sweeping along the surface to where the schooner was at anchor. The
captain ordered a man to the cross-trees, directing him to keep a good
look-out, while he walked the deck in company with his first mate.
'She may not have sailed until a day or two later,' said the captain,
continuing the conversation; 'I have made allowance for that, and depend
upon it, as she makes the eastern passage, we must soon fall in with
her; if she does not heave in sight this evening by daylight, I shall
stretch out in the offing; I know the Portuguese well. The sea-breeze
has caught our craft; let them run up the inner jib, and see that she
does not foul her anchor.'
It was now late in the afternoon, and dinner had been sent into the
cabin; the captain descended, and took his seat at the table with
Francisco, who ate in silence. Once or twice the captain, whose wrath
had subsided, and whose kindly feelings towards Francisco, checked for a
time, had returned with greater force, tried, but in vain, to rally him
into conversation, when '_Sail ho!_' was shouted from the mast-head.
'There she is, by G--d!' cried the captain, jumping from, and then, as
if checking himself, immediately resuming, his seat.
Francisco put his hand to his forehead, covering his eyes as his elbow
leant upon the table.
'A large ship, sir; we can see down to the second reef of her topsails,'
said Hawkhurst, looking down the skylight.
The captain hastily swallowed some wine from a flagon, cast a look of
scorn and anger upon Francisco, and rushed on deck.
'Be smart, lads!' cried the captain, after a few seconds' survey of the
vessel through his glass; 'that's her: furl the awnings, and run the
anchor up to the bows: there's more silver in that vessel, my lads, than
your chests will hold; and the good saints of the churches at Goa will
have to wait a little longer for their gold candlesticks.'
The crew were immediately on the alert; the awnings were furled, and all
the men, stretching aft the spring cable, walked the anchor up to the
bows. In two minutes more the _Avenger_ was standing out on the
starboard tack, shaping her course so as to cut off the ill-fated
vessel. The breeze freshened, and the schooner darted through the smooth
water with the impetuosity of a dolphin after its prey. In an hour the
hull of the ship was plainly to be distinguished; but the sun was near
to the horizon, and before they could ascertain what their force might
be, daylight had disappeared. Whether the schooner had been perceived or
not, it was impossible to say; at all events, the course of the ship had
not been altered, and if she had seen the schooner, she evidently
treated her with contempt. On board the _Avenger_, they were not idle;
the long gun in the centre had been cleared from the incumbrances which
surrounded it, the other guns had been cast loose, shot handed up, and
everything prepared for action, with all the energy and discipline of a
man-of-war. The chase had not been lost sight of, and the eyes of the
pirate captain were fixed upon her through a night-glass. In about an
hour more the schooner was within a mile of the ship, and now altered
her course so as to range up within a cable's length of her to leeward.
Cain stood upon the gunwale and hailed. The answer was in Portuguese.
'Heave to, or I'll sink you!' replied he in the same language.
A general discharge from a broadside of carronades, and a heavy volley
of muskets from the Portuguese, was the decided answer. The broadside,
too much elevated to hit the low hull of the schooner, was still not
without effect--the foretopmast fell, the jaws of the main-gaff were
severed, and a large proportion of the standing as well as the running
rigging came rattling down on her decks. The volley of musketry was more
fatal: thirteen of the pirates were wounded, some of them severely.
[Illustration: _A general discharge from a broadside of carronades, and
a heavy volley of muskets, was the decided answer._]
'Well done, John Portuguese!' cried Hawkhurst; 'by the holy poker! I
never gave you credit for so much pluck.'
'Which they shall pay dearly for,' was the cool reply of Cain, as he
still remained in his exposed situation.
'Blood for blood! if I drink it,' observed the second mate, as he looked
at the crimson rivulet trickling down the fingers of his left hand from
a wound in his arm--'just tie my handkerchief round this, Bill.'
In the interim, Cain had desired his crew to elevate their guns, and the
broadside was returned.
'That will do, my lads: starboard; ease off the boomsheet; let her go
right round, Hawkhurst--we cannot afford to lose our men.'
The schooner wore round, and ran astern of her opponent.
The Portuguese on board the ship, imagining that the schooner, finding
she had met with unexpected resistance, had sheered off, gave a loud
cheer.
'The last you will ever give, my fine fellows!' observed Cain, with a
sneer.
In a few moments the schooner had run a mile astern of the ship.
'Now then, Hawkhurst, let her come to and about; man the long gun, and
see that every shot is pitched into her, while the rest of them get up a
new foretopmast, and knot and splice the rigging.'
The schooner's head was again turned towards the ship; her position was
right astern, about a mile distant or rather more; the long 32-pounder
gun amidships was now regularly served, every shot passing through the
cabin windows, or some other part of the ship's stern, raking her fore
and aft. In vain did the ship alter her course, and present her
broadside to the schooner; the latter was immediately checked in her
speed, so as to keep the prescribed distance at which the carronades of
the ship were useless, and the execution from the long gun decisive. The
ship was at the mercy of the pirate; and, as may be expected, no mercy
was shown. For three hours did this murderous attack continue, when the
gun, which, as before observed, was of brass, became so heated that the
pirate captain desired his men to discontinue. Whether the ship had
surrendered or not it was impossible to say, as it was too dark to
distinguish: while the long gun was served, the foretopmast and
main-gaff had been shifted, and all the standing and running rigging
made good; the schooner keeping her distance, and following in the wake
of the ship until daylight.
We must now repair on board of the ship: she was an Indiaman; one of the
very few that occasionally are sent out by the Portuguese government to
a country which once owned their undivided sway, but in which, at
present, they hold but a few miles of territory. She was bound to Goa,
and had on board a small detachment of troops, a new governor and his
two sons, a bishop and his niece, with her attendant. The sailing of a
vessel with such a freight was a circumstance of rare occurrence, and
was, of course, generally bruited about long before her departure. Cain
had, for some months, received all the necessary intelligence relative
to her cargo and destination; but, as usual with the Portuguese of the
present day, delay upon delay had followed, and it was not until about
three weeks previous that he had been assured of her immediate
departure. He then ran down the coast to the bay we have mentioned that
he might intercept her; and, as the event had proved, showed his usual
judgment and decision. The fire of the schooner had been most
destructive; many of the Indiaman's crew, as well as of the troops, had
been mowed down one after another; until at last, finding that all their
efforts to defend themselves were useless, most of those who were still
unhurt had consulted their safety, and hastened down to the lowest
recesses of the hold to avoid the raking and destructive shot. At the
time that the schooner had discontinued her fire to allow the gun to
cool, there was no one on deck but the Portuguese captain and one old
weather-beaten seaman who stood at the helm. Below, in the orlop-deck,
the remainder of the crew and the passengers were huddled together in a
small space: some were attending to the wounded, who were numerous;
others were invoking the saints to their assistance; the bishop, a tall,
dignified person, apparently nearly sixty years of age, was kneeling in
the centre of the group, which was dimly lighted by two or three
lanterns, at one time in fervent prayer, at another, interrupted, that
he might give absolution to those wounded men whose spirits were
departing, and who were brought down and laid before him by their
comrades. On one side of him knelt his orphan niece, a young girl of
about seventeen years of age, watching his countenance as he prayed, or
bending down with a look of pity and tearful eyes on her expiring
countrymen, whose last moments were gladdened by his holy offices. On
the other side of the bishop stood the governor, Don Philip de Ribiera,
and his two sons, youths in their prime, and holding commissions in the
king's service. There was melancholy on the brow of Don Ribiera; he was
prepared for, and he anticipated, the worst. The eldest son had his eyes
fixed upon the sweet countenance of Teresa de Silva--that very evening,
as they walked together on the deck, had they exchanged their vows--that
very evening they had luxuriated in the present, and had dwelt with
delightful anticipation on the future. But we must leave them and return
on deck.
The captain of the Portuguese ship had walked aft, and now went up to
Antonio, the old seaman, who was standing at the wheel.
'I still see her with the glass, Antonio, and yet she has not fired for
nearly two hours; do you think any accident has happened to her long
gun? if so, we may have some chance.'
Antonio shook his head. 'We have but little chance, I am afraid, my
captain; I knew by the ring of the gun, when she fired it, that it was
brass; indeed, no schooner could carry a long iron gun of that calibre.
Depend upon it, she only waits for the metal to cool and daylight to
return: a long gun or two might have saved us; but now, as she has the
advantage of us in heels, we are at her mercy.'
'What can she be--a French privateer?'
'I trust it may be so; and I have promised a silver candlestick to St.
Antonio that it may prove no worse: we then may have some chance of
seeing our homes again; but I fear not.'
'What, then, do you imagine her to be, Antonio?'
'The pirate which we have heard so much of.'
'Jesu protect us! we must then sell our lives as dearly as we can.'
'So I intend to do, my captain,' replied Antonio, shifting the helm a
spoke.
The day broke, and showed the schooner continuing her pursuit at the
same distance astern, without any apparent movement on board. It was not
until the sun was some degrees above the horizon that the smoke was
again seen to envelop her bows, and the shot crashed through the timbers
of the Portuguese ship. The reason for this delay was, that the pirate
waited till the sun was up to ascertain if there were any other vessels
to be seen, previous to his pouncing on his quarry. The Portuguese
captain went aft and hoisted his ensign, but no flag was shown by the
schooner. Again whistled the ball, and again did it tear up the decks of
the unfortunate ship: many of those who had re-ascended to ascertain
what was going on, now hastily sought their former retreat.
'Mind the helm, Antonio,' said the Portuguese captain; 'I must go down
and consult with the governor.'
'Never fear, my captain; as long as these limbs hold together, I will do
my duty,' replied the old man, exhausted as he was by long watching and
fatigue.
The captain descended to the orlop-deck, where he found the major part
of the crew and passengers assembled.
'My lords,' said he, addressing the governor and bishop, 'the schooner
has not shown any colours, although our own are hoisted. I am come down
to know your pleasure. Defence we can make none; and I fear that we are
at the mercy of a pirate.'
'A pirate!' ejaculated several, beating their breasts, and calling upon
their saints.
'Silence, my good people, silence,' quietly observed the bishop; 'as to
what it may be best to do,' continued he, turning to the captain, 'I
cannot advise; I am a man of peace, and unfit to hold a place in a
council of war. Don Ribiera, I must refer the point to you and your
sons. Tremble not, my dear Teresa; are we not under the protection of
the Almighty.'
'Holy Virgin, pity us!' exclaimed Teresa.
'Come, my sons,' said Don Ribiera, 'we will go on deck and consult: let
not any of the men follow us; it is useless risking lives which may yet
be valuable.'
Don Ribiera and his sons followed the captain to the quarter-deck, and
with him and Antonio they held a consultation.
'We have but one chance,' observed the old man, after a time; 'let us
haul down our colours as if in submission; they will then range up
alongside, and either board us from the schooner, or from their boats;
at all events, we shall find out what she is, and, if a pirate, we must
sell our lives as dearly as we can. If, when we haul down the colours,
she ranges up alongside, as I expect she will, let all the men be
prepared for a desperate struggle.'
'You are right, Antonio,' replied the governor; 'go aft, captain, and
haul down the colours!--let us see what she does now. Down, my boys! and
prepare the men to do their duty.'
As Antonio had predicted, so soon as the colours were hauled down, the
schooner ceased firing and made sail. She ranged up on the quarter of
the ship, and up to her main peak soared the terrific black flag; her
broadside was poured into the Indiaman, and before the smoke had cleared
away there was a concussion from the meeting sides, and the bearded
pirates poured upon her decks.
The crew of the Portuguese, with the detachment of troops, still formed
a considerable body of men. The sight of the black flag had struck ice
into every heart, but the feeling was resolved into one of desperation.
'Knives, men, knives!' roared Antonio, rushing on to the attack,
followed by the most brave.
'Blood for blood!' cried the second mate, aiming a blow at the old man.
'You have it,' replied Antonio, as his knife entered the pirate's heart,
while, at the same moment, he fell and was himself a corpse.
The struggle was deadly, but the numbers and ferocity of the pirates
prevailed. Cain rushed forward followed by Hawkhurst, bearing down all
who opposed them. With one blow from the pirate-captain, the head of Don
Ribiera was severed to the shoulder; a second struck down the eldest
son, while the sword of Hawkhurst passed through the body of the other.
The Portuguese captain had already fallen, and the men no longer stood
their ground. A general massacre ensued, and the bodies were thrown
overboard as fast as the men were slaughtered. In less than five minutes
there was not a living Portuguese on the bloody decks of the ill-fated
ship.
CHAPTER IX
THE CAPTURE
'Pass the word for not a man to go below, Hawkhurst!' said the
pirate-captain.
'I have, sir; and sentries are stationed at the hatchways. Shall we haul
the schooner off?'
'No, let her remain; the breeze is faint already: we shall have a calm
in half an hour. Have we lost many men?'
'Only seven, that I can reckon; but we have lost Wallace' (the second
mate).
'A little promotion will do no harm,' replied Cain; 'take a dozen of our
best men and search the ship, there are others alive yet. By the bye,
send a watch on board of the schooner; she is left to the mercy of the
Kroumen, and----'
'One who is better out of her,' replied Hawkhurst.
'And those we find below----' continued the mate.
'Alive!'
'True; we may else be puzzled where to find that portion of her cargo
which suits us,' said Hawkhurst, going down the hatchway to collect the
men who were plundering on the main deck and in the captain's cabin.
'Here, you Maltese! up, there! and look well round if there is anything
in sight,' said the captain, walking aft.
Before Hawkhurst had collected the men and ordered them on board of the
schooner, as usual in those latitudes, it had fallen a perfect calm.
Where was Francisco during this scene of blood? He had remained in the
cabin of the schooner. Cain had more than once gone down to him, to
persuade him to come on deck and assist at the boarding of the
Portuguese, but in vain--his sole reply to the threats and solicitations
of the pirate was--
'Do with me as you please--I have made up my mind--you know I do not
fear death--as long as I remain on board of this vessel, I will take no
part in your atrocities. If you do respect my mother's memory, suffer
her son to seek an honest and honourable livelihood.'
The words of Francisco were ringing in the ears of Cain as he walked up
and down on the quarter-deck of the Portuguese vessel, and, debased as
he was, he could not help thinking that the youth was his equal in
animal and his superior in mental courage. He was arguing in his own
mind upon the course he should pursue with respect to Francisco, when
Hawkhurst made his appearance on deck, followed by his men, who dragged
up six individuals who had escaped the massacre. These were the bishop;
his niece; a Portuguese girl, her attendant; the supercargo of the
vessel; a sacristan; and a servant of the ecclesiastic: they were hauled
along the deck and placed in a row before the captain, who cast his eyes
upon them in severe scrutiny. The bishop and his niece looked round, the
one proudly meeting the eye of Cain, although he felt that his hour was
come; the other carefully avoiding his gaze, and glancing round to
ascertain whether there were any other prisoners, and if so, if her
betrothed was amongst them; but her eye discovered not what she
sought--it was met only by the bearded faces of the pirate crew, and the
blood which bespattered the deck.
She covered her face with her hands.
'Bring that man forward,' said Cain, pointing to the servant. 'Who are
you?'
'A servant of my lord the bishop.'
'And you?' continued the captain.
'A poor sacristan attending upon my lord the bishop.'
'And you?' cried he to a third.
'The supercargo of this vessel.'
'Put him aside, Hawkhurst!'
'Do you want the others?' inquired Hawkhurst significantly.
'No.'
Hawkhurst gave a signal to some of the pirates, who led away the
sacristan and the servant. A stifled shriek and a heavy plunge in the
water were heard a few seconds after. During this time the pirate had
been questioning the supercargo as to the contents of the vessel and
her stowage, when he was suddenly interrupted by one of the pirates,
who, in a hurried voice, stated that the ship had received several shot
between wind and water and was sinking fast. Cain, who was standing on
the slide of the carronade with his sword in his hand, raised his arm
and struck the pirate a blow on the head with the hilt, which, whether
intended or not, fractured his skull, and the man fell upon the deck.
'Take that, babbler, for your intelligence; if these men are obstinate,
we may have worked for nothing.'
The crew, who felt the truth of their captain's remark, did not appear
to object to the punishment inflicted, and the body of the man was
dragged away.
'What mercy can we expect from those who show no mercy even to each
other?' observed the bishop, lifting his eyes to heaven.
'Silence!' cried Cain, who now interrogated the supercargo as to the
contents of the hold--the poor man answered as well as he could--'the
plate! the money for the troops--where are they?'
'The money for the troops is in the spirit-room, but of the plate I know
nothing; it is in some of the cases belonging to my lord the bishop.'
'Hawkhurst! down at once to the spirit-room and see to the money; in the
meantime I will ask a few questions of this reverend father.'
'And the supercargo--do you want him any more?'
'No; he may go.'
The poor man fell down on his knees in thankfulness at what he
considered his escape: he was dragged away by the pirates, and it is
scarcely necessary to add that in a minute his body was torn to pieces
by the sharks, who, scenting their prey from a distance, were now
playing in shoals around the two vessels.
The party on the quarter-deck were now (unperceived by the captain)
joined by Francisco, who, hearing from the Krouman, Pompey, that there
were prisoners still on board, and amongst them two females, had come
over to plead the cause of mercy.
'Most reverend father,' observed Cain, after a short pause, 'you have
many articles of value in this vessel?'
[Illustration: '_Take that, babbler, for your intelligence; if these men
are obstinate, we may have worked for nothing._']
'None,' replied the bishop, 'except this poor girl; she is, indeed,
beyond price, and will, I trust, soon be an angel in heaven.'
'Yet is this world, if what you preach be true, a purgatory which must
be passed through previous to arriving there, and that girl may think
death a blessing compared to what she may expect if you refuse to tell
me what I would know. You have good store of gold and silver ornaments
for your churches--where are they?'
'They are among the packages entrusted to my care.'
'How many may you have in all?'
'A hundred, if not more.'
'Will you deign to inform me where I may find what I require?'
'The gold and silver are not mine, but are the property of that God to
whom they have been dedicated,' replied the bishop.
'Answer quickly; no more subterfuge, good sir. Where is it to be found?'
'I will not tell, thou blood-stained man; at least, in this instance,
there shall be disappointment, and the sea shall swallow up those
earthly treasures to obtain which thou hast so deeply imbrued thy hands.
Pirate! I repeat it, I will not tell.'
'Seize that girl, my lads!' cried Cain; 'she is yours, do with her as
you please.'
'Save me! oh, save me!' shrieked Teresa, clinging to the bishop's robe.
The pirates advanced and laid hold of Teresa. Francisco bounded from
where he stood behind the captain, and dashed away the foremost.
'Are you men?' cried he, as the pirates retreated. 'Holy sir, I honour
you. Alas! I cannot save you,' continued Francisco mournfully. 'Yet will
I try. On my knees--by the love you bore my mother--by the affection you
once bore me--do not commit this horrid deed. My lads!' continued
Francisco, appealing to the pirates, 'join with me and entreat your
captain; ye are too brave, too manly, to injure the helpless and the
innocent--above all, to shed the blood of a holy man, and of this poor
trembling maiden.'
There was a pause--even the pirates appeared to side with Francisco,
though none of them dared to speak. The muscles of the captain's face
quivered with emotion, but from what source could not be ascertained.
At this moment the interest of the scene was heightened. The girl who
attended upon Teresa, crouched on her knees with terror, had been
casting her fearful eyes upon the men which composed the pirate crew;
suddenly she uttered a scream of delight as she discovered among them
one that she well knew. He was a young man, about twenty-five years of
age, with little or no beard. He had been her lover in his more innocent
days; and she, for more than a year, had mourned him as dead, for the
vessel in which he sailed had never been heard of. It had been taken by
the pirate, and, to save his life, he had joined the crew.
'Filippo! Filippo!' screamed the girl, rushing into his arms. 'Mistress!
it is Filippo; and we are safe.'
Filippo instantly recognised her; the sight of her brought back to his
memory his days of happiness and of innocence; and the lovers were
clasped in each other's arms.
'Save them! spare them!--by the spirit of my mother! I charge you,'
repeated Francisco, again appealing to the captain.
'May God bless thee, thou good young man!' said the bishop, advancing
and placing his hand upon Francisco's head.
Cain answered not; but his broad expanded chest heaved with
emotion--when Hawkhurst burst into the group.
'We are too late for the money, captain; the water is already six feet
above it. We must now try for the treasure.'
This intelligence appeared to check the current of the captain's
feelings.
Now, in one word, sir,' said he to the bishop, 'where is the treasure?
Trifle not, or, by Heaven----'
'Name not Heaven,' replied the bishop; 'you have had my answer.'
The captain turned away, and gave some directions to Hawkhurst, who
hastened below.
'Remove that boy,' said Cain to the pirates, pointing to Francisco.
'Separate those two fools,' continued he, looking towards Filippo and
the girl, who were sobbing in each other's arms.
'Never!' cried Filippo.
'Throw the girl to the sharks! Do you hear? Am I to be obeyed?' cried
Cain, raising his cutlass.
Filippo started up, disengaged himself from the girl, and drawing his
knife, rushed towards the captain to plunge it in his bosom.
With the quickness of lightning the captain caught his uplifted hand,
and, breaking his wrist, hurled him to the deck.
'Indeed!' cried he, with a sneer.
'You shall not separate us,' said Filippo, attempting to rise.
'I do not intend it, my good lad,' replied Cain. 'Lash them both
together and launch them overboard.'
This order was now obeyed; for the pirates not only quailed before the
captain's cool courage, but were indignant that his life had been
attempted. There was little occasion to tie the unhappy pair together;
they were locked so fast in each other's arms that it would have been
impossible almost to separate them. In this state they were carried to
the entering port, and cast into the sea.
'Monster!' cried the bishop, as he heard the splash, 'thou wilt have a
heavy reckoning for this.'
'Now bring these forward,' said Cain, with a savage voice.
The bishop and his niece were led to the gangway.
'What dost thou see, good bishop?' said Cain, pointing to the
discoloured water, and the rapid motion of the fins of the sharks, eager
in the anticipation of a further supply.
'I see ravenous creatures after their kind,' replied the bishop, 'who
will, in all probability, soon tear asunder these poor limbs; but I see
no monster like thyself. Teresa, dearest, fear not; there is a God, an
avenging God, as well as a rewarding one.'
But Teresa's eyes were closed--she could not look upon the scene.
'You have your choice; first torture, and then your body to those sharks
for your own portion; and as for the girl, this moment I hand her over
to my crew.'
'Never!' shrieked Teresa, springing from the deck and plunging into the
wave.
There was a splash of contention, the lashing of tails, until the water
was in a foam, and then the dark colour gradually cleared away, and
nought was to be seen but the pure blue wave and the still unsatiated
monsters of the deep.
'The screws--the screws! quick! we'll have the secret from him,' cried
the pirate captain, turning to his crew, who, villains as they were, had
been shocked at this last catastrophe. 'Seize him!'
'Touch him not!' cried Francisco, standing on the hammock nettings;
'touch him not! if you are men.'
Boiling with rage, Cain let go the arm of the bishop, drew his pistol,
and levelled it at Francisco. The bishop threw up the arm of Cain as he
fired; saw that he had missed his aim, and clasping his hands, raised
his eyes to heaven in thankfulness at Francisco's escape. In this
position he was collared by Hawkhurst, whose anger overcame his
discretion, and who hurled him through the entering port into the sea.
'Officious fool!' muttered Cain, when he perceived what the mate had
done. Then, recollecting himself, he cried, 'Seize that boy and bring
him here.'
One or two of the crew advanced to obey his orders; but Pompey and the
Kroumen, who had been attentive to what was going on, had collected
round Francisco, and a scuffle ensued. The pirates, not being very
determined, nor very anxious to take Francisco, allowed him to be
hurried away in the centre of the Kroumen, who bore him safely to the
schooner.
In the meantime Hawkhurst, and the major part of the men on board of the
ship, had been tearing up the hold to obtain the valuables, but without
success. The water had now reached above the orlop-deck, and all further
attempts were unavailing. The ship was settling fast, and it became
necessary to quit her, and haul off the schooner, that she might not be
endangered by the vortex of the sinking vessel. Cain and Hawkhurst, with
their disappointed crew, returned on board the schooner, and before they
had succeeded in detaching the two vessels a cable's length, the ship
went down with all the treasure so coveted. The indignation and rage
which were expressed by the captain as he rapidly walked the deck in
company with his first mate--his violent gesticulations--proved to the
crew that there was mischief brewing. Francisco did not return to the
cabin; he remained forward with the Kroumen, who, although but a small
portion of the ship's company, were known to be resolute and not to be
despised. It was also observed that all of them had supplied themselves
with arms, and were collected forward, huddled together, watching every
motion and manoeuvre, and talking rapidly in their own language. The
schooner was now steered to the north-westward under all press of sail.
The sun again disappeared, but Francisco returned not to the cabin--he
went below, surrounded by the Kroumen, who appeared to have devoted
themselves to his protection. Once during the night Hawkhurst summoned
them on deck, but they obeyed not the order; and to the expostulation of
the boatswain's mate, who came down, they made no reply. But there were
many of the pirates in the schooner who appeared to coincide with the
Kroumen in their regard for Francisco. There are shades of villainy in
the most profligate of societies; and among the pirate's crew some were
not yet wholly debased. The foul murder of a holy man--the cruel fate of
the beautiful Teresa--and the barbarous conduct of the captain towards
Filippo and his mistress, were deeds of an atrocity to which even the
most hardened were unaccustomed. Francisco's pleadings in behalf of
mercy were at least no crime; and yet they considered that Francisco was
doomed. He was a general favourite; the worst-disposed of the pirates,
with the exception of Hawkhurst, if they did not love, could not forbear
respecting him; although, at the same time, they felt that if Francisco
remained on board the power even of Cain himself would soon be
destroyed. For many months Hawkhurst, who detested the youth, had been
most earnest that he should be sent out of the schooner. Now he pressed
the captain for his removal in any way, as necessary for their mutual
safety, pointing out to Cain the conduct of the Kroumen, and his fears
that a large proportion of the ship's company were equally disaffected.
Cain felt the truth of Hawkhurst's representation, and he went down to
his cabin to consider upon what should be done.
It was past midnight when Cain, worn out with the conflicting passions
of the day, fell into an uneasy slumber. His dreams were of Francisco's
mother--she appeared to him pleading for her son, and Cain 'babbled in
his sleep.' At this time Francisco, with Pompey, had softly crawled aft,
that they might obtain, if they found the captain asleep, the pistols of
Francisco, with some ammunition. Pompey slipped in first, and started
back when he heard the captain's voice. They remained at the cabin door
listening, 'No--no,' muttered Cain, 'he must die--unless--plead not,
woman!--I know I murdered thee--plead not, he dies!'
In one of the sockets of the silver lamp there was a lighted wick, the
rays of which were sufficient to afford a dim view of the cabin.
Francisco, overhearing the words of Cain, stepped in, and walked up to
the side of the bed. 'Boy! plead not,' continued Cain, lying on his back
and breathing heavily--'plead not--woman!--to-morrow he dies.' A pause
ensued, as if the sleeping man was listening to a reply. 'Yes; as I
murdered thee, so will I murder him.'
'Wretch!' said Francisco, in a low, solemn voice, 'didst thou kill my
mother?'
'I did--I did!' responded Cain, still sleeping.
'And why?' continued Francisco, who, at this acknowledgment on the part
of the sleeping captain, was careless of discovery.
'In my mood she vexed me,' answered Cain.
'Fiend; thou hast then confessed it!' cried Francisco in a loud voice,
which awoke the captain, who started up; but before his senses were well
recovered, or his eyes open so as to distinguish their forms, Pompey
struck out the light, and all was darkness: he then put his hand to
Francisco's mouth, and led him out of the cabin.
'Who's there?--who's there?' cried Cain.
The officer in charge of the deck hastened down. 'Did you call, sir?'
'Call!' repeated the captain. 'I thought there was some one in the
cabin. I want a light--that's all,' continued he, recovering himself, as
he wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead.
In the meantime Francisco, with Pompey, had gained his former place of
refuge with the Kroumen. The feelings of the young man changed from
agony to revenge; his object in returning to the cabin to recover his
weapons had been frustrated, but his determination now was to take the
life of the captain if he possibly could. The following morning the
Kroumen again refused to work or go on deck; and the state of affairs
was reported by Hawkhurst to his chief. The mate now assumed another
tone; for he had sounded not the majority but the most steady and
influential men on board, who, like himself, were veterans in crime.
'It must be, sir; or you will no longer command this vessel. I am
desired to say so.'
'Indeed!' replied Cain, with a sneer. 'Perhaps you have already chosen
my successor?'
Hawkhurst perceived that he had lost ground, and he changed his manner.
'I speak but for yourself: if you do not command this vessel I shall not
remain in her; if you quit her, I quit also; and we must find another.'
Cain was pacified, and the subject was not renewed.
'Turn the hands up,' at last said the captain. The pirate crew assembled
aft.
'My lads, I am sorry that our laws oblige me to make an example; but
mutiny and disaffection must be punished. I am equally bound as
yourselves by the laws which we have laid down for our guidance while we
sail together; and you may believe that in doing my duty in this
instance I am guided by a sense of justice, and wish to prove to you
that I am worthy to command. Francisco has been with me since he was a
child; he has lived with me, and it is painful to part with him; but I
am here to see that our laws are put in force. He has been guilty of
repeated mutiny and contempt, and--he must die.'
'Death! death!' cried several of the pirates in advance; 'death and
justice!'
'No more murder!' said several voices from behind.
'Who's that that speaks?'
'Too much murder yesterday--no more murder!' shouted several voices at
once.
'Let the men come forward who speak,' cried Cain, with a withering look.
No one obeyed this order. 'Down, then, my men! and bring up Francisco.'
The whole of the pirate crew hastened below, but with different
intentions; some were determined to seize Francisco, and hand him over
to death--others to protect him. A confused noise was heard--the shouts
of '_Down and seize him!_' opposed to those of '_No murder! No murder!_'
Both parties had snatched up their arms; those who sided with Francisco
joined the Kroumen, whilst the others also hastened below to bring him
on deck. A slight scuffle ensued before they separated, and ascertained
by the separation the strength of the contending parties. Francisco,
perceiving that he was joined by a large body, desired his men to follow
him, went up the fore-ladder, and took possession of the forecastle. The
pirates on his side supplied him with arms, and Francisco stood forward
in advance. Hawkhurst, and those of the crew who sided with him, had
retreated to the quarter-deck, and rallied round the captain, who leaned
against the capstern. They were then able to estimate their comparative
strength. The number, on the whole, preponderated in favour of
Francisco; but on the captain's side were the older and more athletic of
the crew, and, we may add, the more determined. Still, the captain and
Hawkhurst perceived the danger of their situation, and it was thought
advisable to parley for the present, and wreak their vengeance
hereafter. For a few minutes there was a low consultation between both
parties; at last Cain advanced.
'My lads,' said he, addressing those who had rallied round Francisco, 'I
little thought that a firebrand would have been cast in this vessel to
set us all at variance. It was my duty, as your captain, to propose that
our laws should be enforced. Tell me, now, what is it that you wish. I
am only here as your captain, and to take the sense of the whole crew. I
have no animosity against that lad; I have loved him--I have cherished
him; but like a viper, he has stung me in return. Instead of being in
arms against each other, ought we not to be united? I have, therefore,
one proposal to make to you, which is this: let the sentence go by vote,
or ballot, if you please; and whatever the sentence may be, I shall be
guided by it. Can I say more?'
'My lads,' replied Francisco, when the captain had done speaking, 'I
think it better that you should accept this proposal rather than that
blood should be shed. My life is of little consequence; say, then, will
you agree to the vote, and submit to those laws, which, as the captain
says, have been laid down to regulate the discipline of the vessel?'
The pirates on Francisco's side looked round among their party, and,
perceiving that they were the most numerous, consented to the proposal;
but Hawkhurst stepped forward and observed: 'Of course the Kroumen can
have no votes, as they do not belong to the vessel.'
This objection was important, as they amounted to twenty-five, and,
after that number was deducted, in all probability Francisco's adherents
would have been in the minority. The pirates with Francisco objected,
and again assumed the attitude of defence.
'One moment,' said Francisco, stepping in advance; 'before this point is
settled, I wish to take the sense of all of you as to another of your
laws. I ask you, Hawkhurst, and all who are now opposed to me, whether
you have not one law, which is _Blood for blood?_'
'Yes--yes,' shouted all the pirates.
'Then let your captain stand forward, and answer to my charge, if he
dares.'
Cain curled his lip in derision, and walked within two yards of
Francisco.
'Well, boy, I'm here; and what is your charge?'
'First--I ask you, Captain Cain, who are so anxious that the laws should
be enforced, whether you acknowledge that "Blood for blood" is a just
law?'
'Most just: and, when shed, the party who revenges is not amenable.'
''Tis well: then, villain that thou art, answer--Didst thou not murder
my mother?'
Cain, at this accusation, started.
'Answer the truth, or lie like a recreant!' repeated Francisco. 'Did you
not murder my mother?'
The captain's lips and the muscles of his face quivered, but he did not
reply.
'_Blood for blood!_' cried Francisco, as he fired his pistol at Cain,
who staggered, and fell on the deck.
Hawkhurst and several of the pirates hastened to the captain, and raised
him.
'She must have told him last night,' said Cain, speaking with
difficulty, as the blood flowed from the wound.
'He told me so himself,' said Francisco, turning round to those who
stood by him.
Cain was taken down into the cabin. On examination, his wound was not
mortal, although the loss of blood had been rapid and very great. In a
few minutes Hawkhurst joined the party on the quarter-deck. He found
that the tide had turned more in Francisco's favour than he had
expected; the law of 'Blood for blood' was held most sacred: indeed,
it was but the knowledge that it was solemnly recognised, and that, if
one pirate wounded another, the other was at liberty to take his life,
without punishment, which prevented constant affrays between parties,
whose knives would otherwise have been the answer to every affront. It
was a more debased law of duelling, which kept such profligate
associates on good terms. Finding, therefore, that this feeling
predominated, even among those who were opposed to Francisco on the
other question, Hawkhurst thought it advisable to parley.
[Illustration: 'Blood for blood!' _cried Francisco, as he fired his
pistol at Cain, who staggered, and fell on the deck._]
'Hawkhurst,' said Francisco, 'I have but one request to make, which, if
complied with, will put an end to this contention; it is, that you will
put me on shore at the first land that we make. If you and your party
engage to do this, I will desire those who support me to return to their
obedience.'
'I grant it,' replied Hawkhurst; 'and so will the others. Will you not,
my men?'
'Agreed--agreed upon all sides,' cried the pirates, throwing away their
weapons, and mingling with each other as if they had never been opposed.
There is an old saying that there is honour amongst thieves; and so it
often proves. Every man in the vessel knew that this agreement would be
strictly adhered to; and Francisco now walked the deck with as much
composure as if nothing had occurred.
Hawkhurst, who was aware that he must fulfil his promise, carefully
examined the charts when he went down below, came up and altered the
course of the schooner two points more to the northward. The next
morning he was up at the mast-head nearly half an hour, when he
descended and again altered the course. By nine o'clock a low sandy
island appeared on the lee bow; when within half a mile of it he ordered
the schooner to be hove-to, and lowered down the small boat from the
stern. He then turned the hands up. 'My lads, we must keep our promise
to put Francisco on shore at the first land which we made. There it is!'
And a malicious smile played on the miscreant's features as he pointed
out to them the barren sand-bank, which promised nothing but starvation
and a lingering death. Several of the crew murmured; but Hawkhurst was
supported by his own party, and had, moreover, taken the precaution
quietly to remove all the arms, with the exception of those with which
his adherents were provided.
'An agreement is an agreement; it is what he requested himself, and we
promised to perform. Send for Francisco.'
'I am here, Hawkhurst; and I tell you candidly, that, desolate as is
that barren spot, I prefer it to remaining in your company. I will bring
my chest up immediately.'
'No--no; that was not a part of the agreement,' cried Hawkhurst.
'Every man here has a right to his own property. I appeal to the whole
of the crew.'
'True--true,' replied the pirates; and Hawkhurst found himself again in
the minority.
'Be it so.'
The chest of Francisco was handed into the boat.
'Is that all?' cried Hawkhurst.
'My lads, am I to have no provisions or water?' inquired Francisco.
'No,' replied Hawkhurst.
'Yes--yes,' cried most of the pirates.
Hawkhurst did not dare put it to the vote; he turned sulkily away. The
Kroumen brought up two breakers of water, and some pieces of pork.
'Here, massa,' said Pompey, putting into Francisco's hand a fishing-line
with hooks.
'Thank you, Pompey; but I had forgot--that book in the cabin--you know
which I mean.'
Pompey nodded his head, and went below; but it was some time before he
returned, during which Hawkhurst became impatient. It was a very small
boat which had been lowered down; it had a lug-sail and two pair of
sculls in it, and was quite full when Francisco's chest and the other
articles had been put in.
'Come! I have no time to wait,' said Hawkhurst; 'in the boat!'
Francisco shook hands with many of the crew, and wished all of them
farewell. Indeed, now that they beheld the poor lad about to be cast on
a desolate island, even those most opposed to him felt some emotions of
pity. Although they acknowledged that his absence was necessary, yet
they knew his determined courage; and with them that quality was
always a strong appeal.
[Illustration: _Before Francisco had gained the sand-bank she was
hull-down to the northward._]
'Who will row this lad ashore, and bring the boat off?'
'Not I,' replied one; 'it would haunt me ever afterwards.'
So they all appeared to think, for no one volunteered. Francisco jumped
into the boat.
'There is no room for any one but me; and I will row myself on shore,'
cried he. 'Farewell, my lads! farewell!'
'Stop! not so; he must not have the boat--he may escape from the
island,' cried Hawkhurst.
'And why shouldn't he, poor fellow?' replied the men. 'Let him have the
boat.'
'Yes--yes, let him have the boat;' and Hawkhurst was again overruled.
'Here, Massa Francisco--here de book.'
'What's that, sir?' cried Hawkhurst, snatching the book out of Pompey's
hand.
'Him, massa, Bible.' Francisco waited for the book.
'Shove off!' cried Hawkhurst.
'Give me my book, Mr. Hawkhurst!'
'No!' replied the malignant rascal, tossing the Bible over the taffrail;
'he shall not have that. I've heard say that _there is consolation in it
for the afflicted_.'
Francisco shoved off his boat, and seizing his sculls, pushed astern,
picked up the book, which still floated, and laid it to dry on the
after-thwart of the boat. He then pulled in for the shore. In the
meantime the schooner had let draw her foresheet, and had already left
him a quarter of a mile astern. Before Francisco had gained the
sand-bank she was hull-down to the northward.
CHAPTER X
THE SAND-BANK
The first half-hour that Francisco was on this desolate spot he watched
the receding schooner; his thoughts were unconnected and vague.
Wandering through the various scenes which had passed on the decks of
that vessel, and recalling to his memory the different characters of
those on board of her, much as he had longed to quit her--disgusted as
he had been with those with whom he had been forced to associate--still,
as her sails grew fainter and fainter to his view, as she increased her
distance, he more than once felt that even remaining on board of her
would have been preferable to his present deserted lot. 'No, no!'
exclaimed he, after a little further reflection, 'I had rather perish
here, than continue to witness the scenes which I have been forced to
behold.'
He once more fixed his eyes upon her white sails, and then sat down on
the loose sands, and remained in deep and melancholy reverie until the
scorching heat reminded him of his situation; he afterwards rose and
turned his thoughts upon his present situation, and to what would be the
measures most advisable to take. He hauled his little boat still farther
on the beach, and attached the painter to one of the oars, which he
fixed deep in the sand; he then proceeded to survey the bank, and found
that but a small portion was uncovered at high water; for, trifling as
was the rise of the tide, the bank was so low that the water flowed
almost over it. The most elevated part was not more than fifteen feet
above high-water mark, and that was a small knoll of about fifty feet in
circumference.
To this part he resolved to remove his effects; he returned to the
boat, and having lifted out his chest, the water, the provisions, with
the other articles which he had obtained, he dragged them up, one by
one, until they were all collected at the spot he had chosen. He then
took out of the boat the oars and little sail, which, fortunately, had
remained in her. His last object, to haul the little boat up to the same
spot, was one which demanded all his exertion; but, after considerable
fatigue, he contrived, by first lifting round her bow, and then her
stern, to effect his object.
Tired and exhausted, he then repaired to one of the breakers of water
and refreshed himself. The heat, as the day advanced, had become
intolerable; but it stimulated him to fresh exertion. He turned over the
boat, and contrived that the bow and stern should rest upon two little
hillocks, so as to raise it above the level of the sand beneath it two
or three feet; he spread out the sail from the keel above, with the
thole-pins as pegs, so as to keep off the rays of the sun. Dragging the
breakers of water and the provisions underneath the boat, he left his
chest outside; and having thus formed for himself a sort of covering
which would protect him from the heat of the day and the damp of the
night, he crept in to shelter himself until the evening.
Although Francisco had not been on deck, he knew pretty well whereabouts
he then was. Taking out a chart from his chest, he examined the coast to
ascertain the probable distance which he might be from any prospect of
succour. He calculated that he was on one of a patch of sand-banks off
the coast of Loango, and about seven hundred miles from the Isle of St.
Thomas--the nearest place where he might expect to fall in with a
European face. From the coast he felt certain that he could not be more
than forty or fifty miles at the most; but could he trust himself among
the savage natives who inhabited it? He knew how ill they had been
treated by Europeans; for, at that period, it was quite as common for
the slave-trader to land and take away the inhabitants as slaves by
force, as to purchase them in the more northern territories: still, he
might be fortunate enough to fall in with some trader on the coast, as
there were a few who still carried on a barter for gold-dust and ivory.
We do not know--we cannot conceive a situation much more deplorable than
the one we have just described to have been that of Francisco.
Alone--without a chance of assistance--with only a sufficiency of food
for a few days, and cut off from the rest of his fellow-creatures, with
only so much _terra firma_ as would prevent his being swallowed up by
the vast, unfathomable ocean, into which the horizon fell on every side
around him! And his chance of escape how small! Hundreds of miles from
any from whom he might expect assistance, and the only means of reaching
them a small boat--a mere cockle-shell, which the first rough gale would
inevitably destroy.
Such, indeed, were the first thoughts of Francisco; but he soon
recovered from his despondency. He was young, courageous, and buoyant
with hope; and there is a feeling of pride--of trust in our own
resources and exertions, which increases and stimulates us in proportion
to our danger and difficulty; it is the daring of the soul proving its
celestial origin and eternal duration.
So intense was the heat that Francisco almost panted for sufficient air
to support life, as he lay under the shade of the boat during the whole
of that day; not a breath of wind disturbed the glassy wave--all nature
appeared hushed into one horrible calm. It was not until the shades of
night were covering the solitude that Francisco ventured forth from his
retreat; but he found little relief; there was an unnatural closeness in
the air--a suffocation unusual even in those climes. Francisco cast his
eyes up to the vault of heaven, and was astonished to find that there
were no stars visible--a gray mist covered the whole firmament. He
directed his view downwards to the horizon, and that, too, was not to be
defined; there was a dark bank all around it. He walked to the edge of
the sand-bank; there was not even a ripple--the wide ocean appeared to
be in a trance, in a state of lethargy or stupor.
He parted the hair from his feverish brow, and once more surveying the
horrible, lifeless, stagnant waste, his soul sickened, and he cast
himself upon the sand. There he lay for many hours in a state bordering
upon wild despair. At last he recovered himself, and, rising to his
knees, he prayed for strength and submission to the will of Heaven.
When he was once more upon his feet, and had again scanned the ocean, he
perceived that there was a change rapidly approaching. The dark bank on
the horizon had now risen higher up; the opaqueness was everywhere more
dense; and low murmurs were heard as if there was wind stirring aloft,
although the sea was still glassy as a lake. Signs of some movement
about to take place were evident, and the solitary youth watched and
watched. And now the sounds increased, and here and there a wild
thread of air--whence coming, who could tell? and as rapidly
disappearing--would ruffle, for a second, a portion of the stagnant sea.
Then came whizzing sounds and moans, and then the rumbling noise of
distant thunder--loud and louder yet--still louder--a broad black line
is seen sweeping along the expanse of water--fearful in its rapidity it
comes!--and the hurricane burst, at once and with all its force, and all
its terrific sounds, upon the isolated Francisco.
The first blast was so powerful and so unexpected that it threw him
down, and prudence dictated to him to remain in that position, for the
loose sand was swept off and whirled in such force as to blind and
prevent his seeing a foot from him; he would have crawled to the boat
for security, but he knew not in which direction to proceed. But this
did not last; for now the water was borne up upon the strong wings of
the hurricane, and the sand was rendered firm by its saturation with the
element.
Francisco felt that he was drenched, and he raised his head. All he
could discover was that the firmament was mantled with darkness,
horrible from its intensity, and that the sea was in one extended
foam--boiling everywhere, and white as milk--but still smooth, as if the
power of the wind had compelled it to be so; but the water had
encroached, and one half the sand-bank was covered with it, while over
the other the foam whirled, each portion chasing the other with wild
rapidity.
And now the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain, mingled with
the spray caught up by the hurricane, was dashed and hurled upon the
forlorn youth, who still lay where he had been first thrown down. But of
a sudden, a wash of water told him that he could there remain no longer:
the sea was rising--rising fast; and before he could gain a few paces on
his hands and knees, another wave, as if it chased him in its wrath,
repeated the warning of his extreme danger, and he was obliged to rise
on his feet and hasten to the high part of the sand-bank, where he had
drawn up his boat and his provisions.
Blinded as he was by the rain and spray, he could distinguish nothing.
Of a sudden he fell violently; he had stumbled over one of the breakers
of water, and his head struck against his sea-chest. Where, then, was
the boat? It was gone!--it must have been swept away by the fury of the
wind. Alas, then all chance was over! and if not washed away by the
angry waters, he had but to prolong his existence but a few days, and
then to die. The effect of the blow he had received on his forehead,
with the shock of mind occasioned by the disappearance of the boat,
overpowered him, and he remained for some time in a state of
insensibility.
When Francisco recovered, the scene was again changed: the wide expanse
was now in a state of wild and fearful commotion, and the waters roared
as loud as did the hurricane. The whole sand-bank, with the exception of
that part on which he stood, was now covered with tumultuous foam, and
his place of refuge was occasionally invaded, when some vast mass,
o'erlording the other waves, expended all its fury even to his feet.
Francisco prepared to die!
But gradually the darkness of the heavens disappeared, and there was no
longer a bank upon the horizon, and Francisco hoped--alas! hoped
what?--that he might be saved from the present impending death to be
reserved for one still more horrible; to be saved from the fury of the
waves, which would swallow him up, and in a few seconds remove him from
all pain and suffering, to perish for want of sustenance under a burning
sun; to be withered--to be parched to death--calling in his agony for
water; and as Francisco thought of this he covered his face with his
hands, and prayed, 'O God, Thy will be done! but in Thy mercy, raise,
still higher raise the waters!'
But the waters did not rise higher. The howling of the wind gradually
decreased, and the foaming seas had obeyed the Divine injunction--they
had gone so far, but no farther! And the day dawned, and the sky
cleared; and the first red tints, announcing the return of light and
heat, had appeared on the broken horizon, when the eyes of the
despairing youth were directed to a black mass on the tumultuous
waters. It was a vessel, with but one mast standing, rolling heavily,
and running before the gale right on for the sand-bank where he stood;
her hull, one moment borne aloft and the next disappearing from his view
in the hollow of the agitated waters. 'She will be dashed to pieces!'
thought Francisco; 'she will be lost!--they cannot see the bank!' And he
would have made a signal to her, if he had been able, to warn her of her
danger, forgetting at the time his own desolate situation.
As Francisco watched, the sun rose bright and joyous over this scene of
anxiety and pain. On came the vessel flying before the gale, while the
seas chased her as if they would fain overwhelm her. It was fearful to
see her scud--agonising to know that she was rushing to destruction.
At last he could distinguish those on board. He waved his hand, but they
perceived him not; he shouted, but his voice was borne away by the gale.
On came the vessel, as if doomed. She was within two cables' length of
the bank when those on board perceived their danger. It was too
late!--they had rounded her to--another, and another wave hurled her
towards the sand. She struck!--her only remaining mast fell over the
side, and the roaring waves hastened to complete their work of
destruction and of death!
CHAPTER XI
THE ESCAPE
Francisco's eyes were fixed upon the vessel, over which the sea now
broke with terrific violence. There appeared to be about eight or nine
men on her deck, who sheltered themselves under the weather bulwarks.
Each wave, as it broke against her side and then dashed in foam over
her, threw her, with a convulsive jerk, still further on the sand-bank.
At last she was so high up that their fury was partly spent before they
dashed against her frame. Had the vessel been strong and well-built--had
she been a collier coasting the English shores--there was a fair chance
that she might have withstood the fury of the storm until it had
subsided, and that by remaining on board the crew might have survived;
but she was of a very different mould, and, as Francisco justly
surmised, an American brig, built for swift sailing, very sharp, and,
moreover, very slightly put together.
Francisco's eyes, as may easily be supposed, were never removed from the
only object which could now interest him--the unexpected appearance and
imminent danger of his fellow-creatures at this desolate spot. He
perceived that two of the men went to the hatches and slid them over to
leeward; they then descended, and although the seas broke over the
vessel, and a large quantity of water must have poured into her, the
hatches were not put on again by those who remained on deck. But in a
few minutes this mystery was solved; one after another, at first, and
then by dozens, poured forth, out of the hold, the kidnapped Africans
who composed her cargo. In a short time the decks were covered with
them: the poor creatures had been released by the humanity of two
English sailors, that they might have the same chance with themselves
of saving their lives. Still, no attempt was made to quit the vessel.
Huddled together, like a flock of sheep, with the wild waves breaking
over them, there they all remained, both European and African; and as
the heavy blows of the seas upon the sides of the vessel careened and
shook her, they were seen to cling, in every direction, with no
distinction between the captured and their oppressors.
But this scene was soon changed; the frame of the vessel could no longer
withstand the violence of the waves, and as Francisco watched, of a
sudden it was seen to divide amidships, and each portion to turn over.
Then was the struggle for life; hundreds were floating on the raging
element and wrestling for existence, and the white foam of the ocean was
dotted by the black heads of the negroes who attempted to gain the bank.
It was an awful, terrible scene, to witness so many at one moment tossed
and dashed about by the waves--so many fellow-beings threatened with
eternity. At one moment they were close to the beach, forced on to it by
some tremendous wave; at the next, the receding water and the undertow
swept them all back; and of the many who had been swimming one half had
disappeared to rise no more. Francisco watched with agony as he
perceived that the number decreased, and that none had yet gained the
shore. At last he snatched up the haulyards of his boat's sail which
were near him, and hastened down to the spot to afford such succour as
might be possible; nor were his efforts in vain. As the seas washed the
apparently inanimate bodies on shore, and would then have again swept
them away to return them in mockery, he caught hold of them and dragged
them safe on the bank, and thus did he continue his exertions until
fifteen of the bodies of the negroes were spread upon the beach.
Although exhausted and senseless they were not dead, and long before he
had dragged up the last of the number, many of those previously saved
had, without any other assistance than the heat of the sun, recovered
from their insensibility.
Francisco would have continued his task of humanity, but the parted
vessel had now been riven into fragments by the force of the waves, and
the whole beach was strewed with her timbers and her stores, which were
dashed on shore by the waters, and then swept back again by the return.
In a short time the severe blows he received from these fragments
disabled him from further exertion, and he sank exhausted on the sand;
indeed, all further attempts were useless. All on board the vessel had
been launched into the sea at the same moment, and those who were not
now on shore were past all succour. Francisco walked up to those who had
been saved: he found twelve of them were recovered and sitting on their
hams; the rest were still in a state of insensibility. He then went up
to the knoll where his chest and provisions had been placed, and,
throwing himself down by them, surveyed the scene.
[Illustration: _At last he snatched up the haulyards of his boat's sail,
and hastened down to the spot to afford such succour as might be
possible._]
The wind had lulled, the sun shone brightly, and the sea was much less
violent. The waves had subsided, and, no longer hurried on by the force
of the hurricane, broke majestically and solemnly, but not with the
wildness and force which, but a few hours before, they had displayed.
The whole of the beach was strewed with the fragments of the vessel,
with spars and water-casks; and at every moment was to be observed the
corpse of a negro turning round and round in the froth of the wave, and
then disappearing.
For an hour did he watch and reflect, and then he walked again to where
the men who had been rescued were sitting, not more than thirty yards
from him; they were sickly, emaciated forms, but belonging to a tribe
who inhabited the coast, and who, having been accustomed from their
infancy to be all the day in the water, had supported themselves better
than the other slaves, who had been procured from the interior, or the
European crew of the vessel, all of whom had perished.
The Africans appeared to recover fast by the heat of the sun, so
oppressive to Francisco, and were now exchanging a few words with each
other. The whole of them had revived, but those who were most in need of
aid were neglected by the others. Francisco made signs to them, but they
understood him not. He returned to the knoll, and pouring out water into
a tin pan from the breaker, brought it down to them. He offered it to
one, who seized it eagerly; water was a luxury seldom obtained in the
hold of a slave-vessel. The man drank deeply, and would have drained the
cup, but Francisco prevented him, and held it to the lips of another. He
was obliged to refill it three times before they had all been supplied:
he then brought them a handful of biscuit and left them, for he
reflected that, without some precautions, the whole sustenance would be
seized by them and devoured. He buried half a foot deep, and covered
over with sand, the breakers of water and the provisions, and by the
time he had finished this task, unperceived by the negroes, who still
squatted together, the sun had sunk below the horizon. Francisco had
already matured his plans, which were, to form a raft out of the
fragments of the vessel, and with the assistance of the negroes attempt
to gain the mainland. He lay down, for the second night, on this
eventful spot of desolation, and commending himself to the Almighty
protection, was soon in a deep slumber.
It was not until the powerful rays of the sun blazed on the eyes of the
youth that he awoke, so tired had he been with the anxiety and fatigue
of the preceding day, and the sleepless harrowing night which had
introduced it. He rose and seated himself upon his sea-chest: how
different was the scene from that of yesterday! Again the ocean slept,
the sky was serene, and not a cloud to be distinguished throughout the
whole firmament; the horizontal line was clear, even, and well defined:
a soft breeze just rippled over the dark blue sea, which now had retired
to its former boundary, and left the sand-bank as extended as when first
Francisco had been put on shore. But here the beauty of the landscape
terminated: the foreground was horrible to look upon; the whole of the
beach was covered with the timbers of the wreck, with water-casks and
other articles, in some parts heaped and thrown up one upon another; and
among them lay jammed and mangled the bodies of the many who had
perished. In other parts there were corpses thrown up high and dry, or
still rolling and turning to the rippling wave; it was a scene of
desolation and of death.
The negroes who had been saved were all huddled up together, apparently
in deep sleep, and Francisco quitted his elevated position and walked
down to the low beach, to survey the means which the disaster of others
afforded him for his own escape. To his great joy he found not only
plenty of casks, but many of them full of fresh water, provisions also
in sufficiency, and, indeed, everything that could be required to form a
raft, as well as the means of support for a considerable time for
himself and the negroes who had survived. He then walked up to them and
called to them, but they answered not, nor even moved. He pushed them,
but in vain; and his heart beat quick, for he was fearful that they were
dead from previous exhaustion. He applied his foot to one of them, and
it was not until he had used force, which in any other case he would
have dispensed with, that the negro awoke from his state of lethargy and
looked vacantly about him. Francisco had some little knowledge of the
language of the Kroumen, and he addressed the negro in that tongue. To
his great joy he was answered in a language which, if not the same, had
so great an affinity to it that communication became easy. With the
assistance of the negro, who used still less ceremony with his comrades,
the remainder of them were awakened, and a palaver ensued.
Francisco soon made them understand that they were to make a raft and go
back to their own country; explaining to them that if they remained
there, the water and provisions would soon be exhausted, and they would
all perish. The poor creatures hardly knew whether to consider him a
supernatural being or not; they talked among themselves; they remarked
at his having brought them fresh water the day before; they knew that he
did not belong to the vessel in which they had been wrecked, and they
were puzzled.
Whatever might be their speculations they had one good effect, which
was, that they looked upon the youth as a superior and a friend, and
most willingly obeyed him. He led them up to the knoll, and, desiring
them to scrape away the sand, supplied them again with fresh water and
biscuit. Perhaps the very supply, and the way in which it was given to
them, excited their astonishment as much as anything. Francisco ate with
them, and, selecting from his sea-chest the few tools in his possession,
desired them to follow him. The casks were collected and rolled up; the
empty ones arranged for the raft; the spars were hauled up and cleared
of the rigging, which was carefully separated for lashings; the one or
two sails which had been found rolled up on the spars were spread out to
dry; and the provisions and articles of clothing, which might be useful,
laid together on one side. The negroes worked willingly and showed much
intelligence; before the evening closed everything which might be
available was secured, and the waves now only tossed about lifeless
forms, and the small fragments of timber which could not be serviceable.
It would occupy too much time were we to detail all the proceedings of
Francisco and the negroes for the space of four days, during which they
laboured hard. Necessity is truly the mother of invention, and many were
the ingenious resources of the party before they could succeed in
forming a raft large enough to carry them and their provisions, with a
mast and sail well secured. At length it was accomplished; and on the
fifth day Francisco and his men embarked, and, having pushed clear of
the bank with poles, they were at last able to hoist their sail to a
fine breeze, and steer for the coast before the wind at the rate of
about three miles an hour. But it was not until they had gained half a
mile from the bank that they were no longer annoyed by the dreadful
smell arising from the putrefaction of so many bodies, for to bury them
all would have been a work of too great time. The last two days of their
remaining on the island, the effluvia had become so powerful as to be a
source of the greatest horror and disgust even to the negroes.
But before night, when the raft was about eight leagues from the
sand-bank, it fell calm, and continued so for the next day, when a
breeze sprang up from the south-east, to which they trimmed their sail
with their head to the northward.
This wind, and the course steered, sent them off from the land, but
there was no help for it; and Francisco felt grateful that they had such
an ample supply of provisions and water as to enable them to yield to a
few days' contrary wind without danger of want. But the breeze continued
steady and fresh, and they were now crossing the Bight of Benin; the
weather was fine and the sea smooth; the flying-fish rose in shoals and
dropped down into the raft, which still forced its way through the water
to the northward.
Thus did Francisco and his negro crew remain for a fortnight floating on
the wide ocean, without any object meeting their view. Day after day it
was the same dreary 'sky and water,' and by the reckoning of Francisco
they could not be far from the land, when, on the fifteenth day, they
perceived two sails to the northward.
Francisco's heart bounded with joy and gratitude to Heaven; he had no
telescope to examine them, but he steered directly for them, and, about
dark, he made them out to be a ship and a schooner hove-to.
As Francisco scanned them, surmising what they might be, the sun set
behind the two vessels, and after it had sunk below the horizon their
forms were, for a few minutes, delineated with remarkable precision and
clearness. There could be no mistake. Francisco felt convinced that the
schooner was the _Avenger_; and his first impulse was to run to the
sweep with which they were steered, and put the head of the raft again
to the northward. A moment's reflection determined him to act otherwise;
he lowered down his sail that he might escape observation, and watched
the motions of the vessels during the few minutes of light which
remained. That the ship bad been captured, and that her capture had been
attended with the usual scene of outrage and violence, he had no doubt.
He was now about four miles' from them, and just as they were vanishing
from his straining eyes he perceived that the schooner had made all sail
to the westward. Francisco, feeling that he was then secure from being
picked up by her, again hoisted his sail with the hope of reaching the
ship, which, if not scuttled, he intended to remove on board of, and
then make sail for the first port on the coast. But hardly had the raft
regained her way when the horizon was lighted up, and he perceived that
the pirates had set fire to the vessel. Then it was useless to proceed
towards her; and Francisco again thought of putting the head of the raft
to the northward, when the idea struck him, knowing the character and
cruelty of the pirates, that there might be some unfortunate people left
on board to perish in the flames. He therefore continued his course,
watching the burning vessel; the flames increased in violence, mounting
up to the masts and catching the sails one after another. The wind blew
fresh, and the vessel was kept before the wind--a circumstance that
assured Francisco that there were people on board. At first she appeared
to leave the raft, but as her sails, one after another, were consumed by
the element, so did she decrease her speed, and Francisco, in about an
hour, was close to her and under her counter.
[Illustration: _The flames increased in violence, mounting up to the
masts and catching the sails one after another._]
The ship was now one mass of fire from her bows to her mainmast; a
volume of flame poured from her main hold, rising higher than her lower
masts, and ending in a huge mass of smoke carried by the wind ahead of
her; the quarter-deck was still free from fire, but the heat on it was
so intense that those on board were all collected at the taffrail; and
there they remained, some violent, others in mute despair; for the
_Avenger's_ people, in their barbarity, had cut away and destroyed all
the boats to prevent their escape. From the light thrown round the
vessel those on board had perceived the approach of Francisco to their
rescue, and immediately that it was under the counter, and the sail
lowered, almost all of them had descended by ropes, or the stern ladder,
and gained a place in her. In a few minutes, without scarcely an
exchange of a word, they were all out of the brig, and Francisco pushed
off just as the flames burst from the cabin windows, darting out in a
horizontal line like the tongues of fiery serpents. The raft, no
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