IV
IV
Mr. Greenfield lived in a fine brick house just outside of the town, on the Mona Road. His family consisted of a wife and two daughters— handsome, lively young ladies with very fine, bright teeth that shone whenever they laughed, and with a-plenty to say for themselves. To this pleasant house Barnaby True was often asked to a family dinner, after which he and his good kind host would maybe sit upon the veranda, looking out towards the mountain, smoking their cigarros while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon the guitar and sang.
A day or two before theBelle Helensailed from Kingston, upon her return voyage to New York, Mr. Greenfield stopped Barnaby True as he was passing through the office, and begged him to come to dinner that night. (For within the tropics, you are to know, they breakfast at eleven o'clock and take dinner in the cool of the evening, because of the heat, and not at mid-day, as we do in more temperate latitudes). "I would," says Mr. Greenfield, "have you meet Sir John Malyoe and Miss Marjorie, who are to be your chief passengers for New York, and for whom the state cabin and the two state-rooms are to be fitted as here ordered"—showing a letter—"for Sir John hath arranged," says Mr. Greenfield, "for the Captain's own state-room."
Then, not being aware of Barnaby True's history, nor that Captain Brand was his grandfather, the good gentleman—calling Sir John "Jack" Malyoe—goes on to tell our hero what a famous pirate he had been, and how it was he who had shot Captain Brand over t'other side of the harbor twenty years before. "Yes," says he, "'tis the same Jack Malyoe, though grown into repute and importance now, as who would not who hath had the good-fortune to fall heir to a baronetcy and a landed estate?"
And so it befell that same night that Barnaby True once again beheld the man who had murdered his own grandfather, meeting him this time face to face.
That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and in the darkness; now that he beheld him closer, it seemed to him that he had never seen a countenance more distasteful to him in all his life. Not that the man was altogether ugly, for he had a good enough nose and a fine double chin; but his eyes stood out from his face and were red and watery, and he winked them continually, as though they were always a-smarting. His lips were thick and purple-red, and his cheeks mottled here and there with little clots of veins.
When he spoke, his voice rattled in his throat to such a degree that it made one wish to clear one's own throat to listen to him. So, what with a pair of fat, white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his thick lips a-sticking out, it appeared to Barnaby True he had never beheld a countenance that pleased him so little.
But if Sir John Malyoe suited our hero's taste so ill, the granddaughter was in the same degree pleasing to him. She had a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair—though it was then powdered pretty white for the occasion—and the bluest eyes that ever he beheld in all of his life. A sweet, timid creature, who appeared not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to that great beast, her grandfather, for leave to do so, for she would shrink and shudder whenever he would speak of a sudden to her or direct a glance upon her. When she did pluck up sufficient courage to say anything, it was in so low a voice that Barnaby was obliged to bend his head to hear her; and when she smiled she would as like as not catch herself short and look up as though to see if she did amiss to be cheerful.
As for Sir John, he sat at dinner and gobbled and ate and drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word of civility either to Mr. Greenfield or to Mrs. Greenfield or to Barnaby True; but wearing all the while a dull, sullen air, as though he would say, "Your damned victuals and drink are no better than they should be, but, such as they are, I must eat 'em or eat nothing."
It was only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses off in a corner together that Barnaby heard her talk with any degree of ease. Then, to be sure, her tongue became loose enough, and she prattled away at a great rate; though hardly above her breath. Then of a sudden her grand-father called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was time to go, upon which she stopped short in what she was saying and jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though he were going to strike her with that gold-headed cane of his that he always carried with him.
Barnaby True and Mr. Greenfield both went out to see the two into their coach, where Sir John's man stood holding the lantern. And who should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head who had offered to shoot the Captain of Barnaby's expedition out on the harbor that night! For one of the circles of light shining up into his face, Barnaby True knew him the moment he clapped eyes upon him. Though he could not have recognized our hero, he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so much as touched his hat either to him or to Mr. Greenfield; but as soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach, banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver, and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time favoring both Barnaby and the old gentleman.
Such were Sir John Malyoe and his man, and the ill opinion our hero conceived of them was only confirmed by further observation.
The next day Sir John Malyoe's travelling-cases began to come aboard theBelle Helen, and in the afternoon that same lean, villanous man-servant comes skipping across the gangplank as nimble as a goat, with two black men behind him lugging a great sea-chest. "What!" he cries out, "and so you is the supercargo, is you? Why, to be sure, I thought you was more account when I saw you last night a-sitting talking with his honor like his equal. Well, no matter," says he, "'tis something to have a brisk, genteel young fellow for a supercargo. So come, my hearty, lend a hand and help me set his honor's cabin to rights."
What a speech was this to endure from such a fellow! What with our hero's distaste for the villain, and what with such odious familiarity, you may guess into what temper so impudent an address must have cast him. Says he, "You'll find the steward in yonder, and he'll show you the cabin Sir John is to occupy." Therewith he turned and walked away with prodigious dignity, leaving the other standing where he was.
As he went below to his own state-room he could not but see, out of the tail of his eye, that the fellow was still standing where he had left him, regarding him with a most evil, malevolent countenance, so that he had the satisfaction of knowing that he had an enemy aboard for that voyage who was not very likely to forgive or forget what he must regard as so mortifying a slight as that which Barnaby had put upon him.
The next day Sir John Malyoe himself came aboard, accompanied by his granddaughter, and followed by his man, and he followed again by four black men, who carried among them two trunks, not large in size, but vastly heavy in weight. Towards these two trunks Sir John and his follower devoted the utmost solicitude and care to see that they were properly carried into the cabin he was to occupy. Barnaby True was standing in the saloon as they passed close by him; but though Sir John looked hard at him and straight in the face, he never so much as spoke a single word to our hero, or showed by a look or a sign that he had ever met him before. At this the serving-man, who saw it all with eyes as quick as a cat's, fell to grinning and chuckling to see Barnaby in his turn so slighted.
The young lady, who also saw it, blushed as red as fire, and thereupon delivered a courtesy to poor Barnaby, with a most sweet and gracious affability.
There were, besides Sir John and the young lady, but two other passengers who upon this occasion took the voyage to New York: the Reverend Simon Styles, master of a flourishing academy at Spanish Town, and his wife. This was a good, worthy couple of an extremely quiet disposition, saying little or nothing, but contented to sit in the great cabin by the hour together reading in some book or other. So, what with the retiring humor of the worthy pair, and what with Sir John Malyoe's fancy for staying all the time shut up in his own cabin with those two trunks he held so precious, it fell upon Barnaby True in great part to show that attention to the young lady that the circumstances demanded. This he did with a great deal of satisfaction to himself—as any one may suppose who considers a spirited young man of one-and-twenty years of age and a sweet and beautiful young miss of seventeen or eighteen thrown thus together day after day for above two weeks.
Accordingly, the weather being very fair and the ship driving freely along before a fine breeze, and they having no other occupation than to sit talking together all day, gazing at the blue sea and the bright sky overhead, it is not difficult to conceive of what was to befall.
But oh, those days when a man is young and, whether wisely or no, fallen into such a transport of passion as poor Barnaby True suffered at that time! How often during that voyage did our hero lie awake in his berth at night, tossing this way and that without finding any refreshment of sleep—perhaps all because her hand had touched his, or because she had spoken some word to him that had possessed him with a ravishing disquietude?
All this might not have befallen him had Sir John Malyoe looked after his granddaughter instead of locking himself up day and night in his own cabin, scarce venturing out except to devour his food or maybe to take two or three turns across the deck before returning again to the care of those chests he appeared to hold so much more precious than his own flesh and blood.
Nor was it to be supposed that Barnaby would take the pains to consider what was to become of it all, for what young man so situated as he but would be perfectly content to live so agreeably in a fool's paradise, satisfying himself by assigning the whole affair to the future to take care of itself. Accordingly, our hero endeavored, and with pretty good success, to put away from him whatever doubts might arise in his own mind concerning what he was about, satisfying himself with making his conversation as agreeable to his companion as it lay in his power to do.
So the affair continued until the end of the whole business came with a suddenness that promised for a time to cast our hero into the utmost depths of humiliation and despair.
At that time theBelle Helenwas, according to Captain Manly's reckoning, computed that day at noon, bearing about five-and-fifty leagues northeast-by-east off the harbor of Charleston, in South Carolina.
Nor was our hero likely to forget for many years afterwards even the smallest circumstance of that occasion. He may remember that it was a mightily sweet, balmy evening, the sun not having set above half an hour before, and the sky still suffused with a good deal of brightness, the air being extremely soft and mild. He may remember with the utmost nicety how they were leaning over the rail of the vessel looking out towards the westward, she fallen mightily quiet as though occupied with very serious thoughts.
Of a sudden she began, without any preface whatever, to speak to Barnaby about herself and her affairs, in a most confidential manner, such as she had never used to him before. She told him that she and her grandfather were going to New York that they might take passage thence to Boston, in Massachusetts, where they were to meet her cousin Captain Malyoe, who was stationed in garrison at that place. Continuing, she said that Captain Malyoe was the next heir to the Devonshire estate, and that she and he were to be married in the fall.
You may conceive into what a confusion of distress such a confession as this, delivered so suddenly, must have cast poor Barnaby. He could answer her not a single word, but stood staring in another direction than hers, endeavoring to compose himself into some equanimity of spirit. For indeed it was a sudden, terrible blow, and his breath came as hot and dry as ashes in his throat. Meanwhile the young lady went on to say, though in a mightily constrained voice, that she had liked him from the very first moment she had seen him, and had been very happy for these days she had passed in his society, and that she would always think of him as a dear friend who had been very kind to her, who had so little pleasure in her life.
At last Barnaby made shift to say, though in a hoarse and croaking voice, that Captain Malyoe must be a very happy man, and that if he were in Captain Malyoe's place he would be the happiest man in the world. Thereupon, having so found his voice, he went on to tell her, though in a prodigious confusion and perturbation of spirit, that he too loved her, and that what she had told him struck him to the heart, and made him the most miserable, unhappy wretch in the whole world.
She exhibited no anger at what he said, nor did she turn to look at him, but only replied, in a low voice, that he should not talk so, for that it could only be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that whether she would or no, she must do everything her grandfather bade her, he being indeed a terrible man.
To this poor Barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now the most miserable man in the world.
It was at this moment, so momentous to our hero, that some one who had been hiding unseen nigh them for all the while suddenly moved away, and Barnaby, in spite of the gathering darkness, could perceive that it was that villain man-servant of Sir John Malyoe's. Nor could he but know that the wretch must have overheard all that had been said.
As he looked he beheld this fellow go straight to the great cabin, where he disappeared with a cunning leer upon his face, so that our hero could not but be aware that the purpose of the eavesdropper must be to communicate all that he had overheard to his master. At this thought the last drop of bitterness was added to his trouble, for what could be more distressing to any man of honor than to possess the consciousness that such a wretch should have overheard so sacred a conversation as that which he had enjoyed with the young lady. She, upon her part, could not have been aware that the man had listened to what she had been saying, for she still continued leaning over the rail, and Barnaby remained standing by her side, without moving, but so distracted by a tumult of many passions that he knew not how or where to look.
After a pretty long time of this silence, the young lady looked up to see why her companion had not spoken for so great a while, and at that very moment Sir John Malyoe comes flinging out of the cabin without his hat, but carrying his gold-headed cane. He ran straight across the deck towards where Barnaby and the young lady stood, swinging his cane this way and that with a most furious and threatening countenance, while the informer, grinning like an ape, followed close at his heels. As Sir John approached them, he cried out in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard him, "You hussy!" (And all the time, you are to remember, he was swinging his cane as though he would have struck the young lady, who, upon her part, shrank back from him almost upon the deck as though to escape such a blow.) "You hussy! What do you do here, talking with a misbred Yankee supercargo not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe her feet upon, and you stand there and listen to his fool talk! Go to your room, you hussy"—only 'twas something worse he called her this time—"before I lay this cane across you!"
You may suppose into what fury such words as these, spoken in Barnaby's hearing, not to mention that vile slur set upon himself, must have cast our hero. To be sure he scarcely knew what he did, but he put his hand against Sir John Malyoe's breast and thrust him back most violently, crying out upon him at the same time for daring so to threaten a young lady, and that for a farthing he would wrench the stick out of his hand and throw it overboard.
A little farther and Sir John would have fallen flat upon the deck with the push Barnaby gave him. But he contrived, by catching hold of the rail, to save his balance. Whereupon, having recovered himself, he came running at our hero like a wild beast, whirling his cane about, and I do believe would have struck him (and God knows then what might have happened) had not his man-servant caught him and held him back.
"Keep back!" cried out our hero, still mighty hoarse. "Keep back! If you strike me with that stick I'll fling you overboard!"
By this time, what with the sound of loud voices and the stamping of feet, some of the crew and others aboard were hurrying up to the scene of action. At the same time Captain Manly and the first mate, Mr. Freesden, came running out of the cabin. As for our hero, having got set agoing, he was not to be stopped so easily.
"And who are you, anyhow," he cries, his voice mightily hoarse even in his own ears, "to threaten to strike me! You may be a bloody pirate, and you may shoot a man from behind, as you shot poor Captain Brand on the Cobra River, but you won't dare strike me face to face. I know who you are and what you are!"
As for Sir John Malyoe, had he been struck of a sudden by palsy, he could not have stopped more dead short in his attack upon our hero. There he stood, his great, bulging eyes staring like those of a fish, his face as purple as a cherry. As for Master Informer, Barnaby had the satisfaction of seeing that he had stopped his grinning by now and was holding his master's arm as though to restrain him from any further act of violence.
By this time Captain Manly had come bustling up and demanded to know what all the disturbance meant. Whereupon our hero cried out, still in the extremity of passion:
"The villain insulted me and insulted the young lady; he threatened to strike me with his cane. But he sha'n't strike me. I know who he is and what he is. I know what he's got in his cabin in those two trunks, and I know where he found it, and whom it belongs to."
At this Captain Manly clapped his hand upon our hero's shoulder and fell to shaking him so that he could hardly stand, crying out to him the while to be silent. Says he: "How do you dare, an officer of this ship, to quarrel with a passenger of mine! Go straight to your cabin, and stay there till I give you leave to come out again."
At this Master Barnaby came somewhat back to himself. "But he threatened to strike me with his cane," he says, "and that I won't stand from any man!"
"No matter for that," says Captain Manly, very sternly. "Go to your cabin, as I bid you, and stay there till I tell you to come out again, and when we get to New York I'll take pains to inform your step-father of how you have behaved. I'll have no such rioting as this aboard my ship."
By this time, as you may suppose, the young lady was gone. As for Sir John Malyoe, he stood in the light of a lantern, his face that had been so red now gone as white as ashes, and if a look could kill, to be sure he would have destroyed Barnaby True where he stood.
It was thus that the events of that memorable day came to a conclusion. How little did any of the actors of the scene suspect that a portentous Fate was overhanging them, and was so soon to transform all their present circumstances into others that were to be perfectly different!
And how little did our hero suspect what was in store for him upon the morrow, as with hanging head he went to his cabin, and shutting the door upon himself, and flinging himself down upon his berth, there yielded himself over to the profoundest depths of humiliation and despair.
V
V
From his melancholy meditations Barnaby, by-and-by and in spite of himself, began dropping off into a loose slumber, disturbed by extravagant dreams of all sorts, in which Sir John Malyoe played some important and malignant part.
From one of these dreams he was aroused to meet a new and startling fate, by hearing the sudden and violent explosion of a pistol-shot ring out as though in his ears. This was followed immediately by the sound of several other shots exchanged in rapid succession as coming from the deck above. At the same instant a blow of such excessive violence shook theBelle Helenthat the vessel heeled over before it, and Barnaby was at once aware that another craft—whether by accident or with intention he did not know—must have run afoul of them.
Upon this point, and as to whether or not the collision was designed, he was, however, not left a moment in doubt, for even as theBelle Helenrighted to her true keel, there was the sound of many footsteps running across the deck and down into the great cabin. Then proceeded a prodigious uproar of voices, together with the struggling of men's bodies being tossed about, striking violently against the partitions and bulkheads. At the same instant arose a screaming of women's voices, and one voice, that of Sir John Malyoe, crying out as in the greatest extremity: "You villains! You damned villains!" and with that the sudden detonation of a pistol fired into the close space of the great cabin.
Long before this time Barnaby was out in the middle of his own cabin. Taking only sufficient time to snatch down one of the pistols that hung at the head of his berth, he flung out into the great cabin, to find it as black as night, the lantern slung there having been either blown out or dashed out into darkness. All was as black as coal, and the gloom was filled with a hubbub of uproar and confusion, above which sounded continually the shrieking of women's voices. Nor had our hero taken above a couple of steps before he pitched headlong over two or three men struggling together upon the deck, falling with a great clatter and the loss of his pistol, which, however, he regained almost immediately.
What all the uproar portended he could only guess, but presently hearing Captain Manly's voice calling out, "You bloody pirate, would you choke me to death?" he became immediately aware of what had befallen theBelle Helen, and that they had been attacked by some of those buccaneers who at that time infested the waters of America in prodigious numbers.
It was with this thought in his mind that, looking towards the companionway, he beheld, outlined against the darkness of the night without, the form of a man's figure, standing still and motionless as a statue in the midst of all this tumult, and thereupon, as by some instinct, knew that that must be the master-maker of all this devil's brew. Therewith, still kneeling upon the deck, he covered the bosom of that figure point-blank, as he supposed, with his pistol, and instantly pulled the trigger.
In the light of the pistol fire, Barnaby had only sufficient opportunity to distinguish a flat face wearing a large pair of mustachios, a cocked hat trimmed with gold lace, a red scarf, and brass buttons. Then the darkness, very thick and black, again swallowed everything.
But if our hero failed to clearly perceive the countenance towards which he had discharged his weapon, there was one who appeared to have recognized some likeness in it, for Sir John Malyoe's voice, almost at Barnaby's elbow, cried out thrice in loud and violent tones, "William Brand! William Brand! William Brand!" and thereat came the sound of some heavy body falling down upon the deck.
This was the last that our hero may remember of that notable attack, for the next moment whether by accident or design he never knew, he felt himself struck so terrible a blow upon the side of the head, that he instantly swooned dead away and knew no more.
VI
VI
When Barnaby True came back to his senses again, it was to become aware that he was being cared for with great skill and nicety, that his head had been bathed with cold water, and that a bandage was being bound about it as carefully as though a chirurgeon was attending to him.
He had been half conscious of people about him, but could not immediately recall what had happened to him, nor until he had opened his eyes to find himself in a perfectly strange cabin of narrow dimensions but extremely well fitted and painted with white and gold. By the light of a lantern shining in his eyes, together with the gray of the early day through the deadlight, he could perceive that two men were bending over him—one, a negro in a striped shirt, with a yellow handkerchief around his head and silver ear-rings in his ears; the other, a white man, clad in a strange, outlandish dress of a foreign make, with great mustachios hanging down below his chin, and with gold ear-rings in his ears.
It was this last who was attending to Barnaby's hurt with such extreme care and gentleness.
All this Barnaby saw with his first clear consciousness after his swoon. Then remembering what had befallen him, and his head beating as though it would split asunder, he shut his eyes again, contriving with great effort to keep himself from groaning aloud, and wondering as to what sort of pirates these could be, who would first knock a man in the head so terrible a blow as that which he had suffered, and then take such care to fetch him back to life again, and to make him easy and comfortable.
Nor did he open his eyes again, but lay there marvelling thus until the bandage was properly tied about his head and sewed together. Then once more he opened his eyes and looked up to ask where he was.
Upon hearing him speak, his attendants showed excessive signs of joy, nodding their heads and smiling at him as though to reassure him. But either because they did not choose to reply, or else because they could not speak English, they made no answer, excepting by those signs and gestures. The white man, however, made several motions that our hero was to arise, and, still grinning and nodding his head, pointed as though towards a saloon beyond. At the same time the negro held up our hero's coat and beckoned for him to put it on. Accordingly Barnaby, seeing that it was required of him to quit the place in which he then lay, arose, though with a good deal of effort, and permitted the negro to help him on with his coat, though feeling mightily dizzy and much put about to keep upon his legs—his head beating fit to split asunder and the vessel rolling and pitching at a great rate, as though upon a heavy cross-sea.
So, still sick and dizzy, he went out into what he found was, indeed, a fine saloon beyond, painted in white and gilt like the cabin he had just quitted. This saloon was fitted in the most excellent taste imaginable. A table extended the length of the room, and a quantity of bottles, and glasses clear as crystal, were arranged in rows in a hanging rack above.
But what most attracted our hero's attention was a man sitting with his back to him, his figure clad in a rough pea-jacket, and with a red handkerchief tied around his throat. His feet were stretched under the table out before him, and he was smoking a pipe of tobacco with all the ease and comfort imaginable. As Barnaby came in he turned round, and, to the profound astonishment of our hero, presented to him in the light of the lantern, the dawn shining pretty strong through the skylight, the face of that very man who had conducted the mysterious expedition that night across Kingston Harbor to the Cobra River.
VII
VII
This man looked steadily at Barnaby True for above half a minute and then burst out a-laughing. And, indeed, Barnaby, standing there with the bandage about his head, must have looked a very droll picture of that astonishment he felt so profoundly at finding who was this pirate into whose hands he had fallen. "Well," says the other, "and so you be up at last, and no great harm done, I'll be bound. And how does your head feel by now, my young master?"
To this Barnaby made no reply, but, what with wonder and the dizziness of his head, seated himself at the table over against his interlocutor, who pushed a bottle of rum towards him, together with a glass from the hanging rack. He watched Barnaby fill his glass, and so soon as he had done so began immediately by saying: "I do suppose you think you were treated mightily ill to be so handled last night. Well, so you were treated ill enough, though who hit you that crack upon the head I know no more than a child unborn. Well, I am sorry for the way you were handled, but there is this much to say, and of that you may feel well assured, that nothing was meant to you but kindness, and before you are through with us all you will believe that without my having to tell you so."
Here he helped himself to a taste of grog, and sucking in his lips went on again with what he had to say. "Do you remember," says he, "that expedition of ours in Kingston Harbor, and how we were all of us balked that night?" then, without waiting for Barnaby's reply: "And do you remember what I said to that villain Jack Malyoe that night as his boat went by us? I says to him, 'Jack Malyoe,' says I, 'you've got the better of us once again, but next time it will be our turn, even if William Brand himself has to come back from the grave to settle with you.'"
"I remember something of the sort," said Barnaby, "but I profess I am all in the dark as to what you are driving at."
At this the other burst out in a great fit of laughing. "Very well, then," said he, "this night's work is only the ending of what was so ill begun there. Look yonder"—pointing to a corner of the cabin—"and then maybe you will be in the dark no longer." Barnaby turned his head and there beheld in the corner of the saloon those very two travelling-cases that Sir John Malyoe had been so particular to keep in his cabin and under his own eyes through all the voyage from Jamaica.
"I'll show you what is in 'em," says the other, and thereupon arose, and Barnaby with him, and so went over to where the two travelling-cases stood.
Our hero had a strong enough suspicion as to what the cases contained. But, Lord! what were suspicions to what his two eyes beheld when that man lifted the lid of one of them—the locks thereof having already been forced—and, flinging it back, displayed to Barnaby's astonished and bedazzled sight a great treasure of gold and silver, some of it tied up in leathern bags, to be sure, but so many of the coins, big and little, yellow and white, lying loose in the cases as to make our hero think that a great part of the treasures of the Indies lay there before him.
"Well, and what do you think of that?" said the other. "Is it not enough for a man to turn pirate for?" and thereupon burst out a-laughing and clapped down the lid again. Then suddenly turning serious: "Come Master Barnaby," says he. "I am to have some very sober talk with you, so fill up your glass again and then we will heave at it."
Nor even in after years, nor in the light of that which afterwards occurred, could Barnaby repeat all that was said to him upon that occasion, for what with the pounding and beating of his aching head, and what with the wonder of what he had seen, he was altogether in the dark as to the greater part of what the other told him. That other began by saying that Barnaby, instead of being sorry that he was William Brand's grandson, might thank God for it; that he (Barnaby) had been watched and cared for for twenty years in more ways than he would ever know; that Sir John Malyoe had been watched also for all that while, and that it was a vastly strange thing that Sir John Malyoe's debts in England and Barnaby's coming of age should have brought them so together in Jamaica—though, after all, it was all for the best, as Barnaby himself should presently see, and thank God for that also. For now all the debts against that villain Jack Malyoe were settled in full, principal and interest, to the last penny, and Barnaby was to enjoy it the most of all. Here the fellow took a very comfortable sip of his grog, and then went on to say with a very cunning and knowing wink of the eye that Barnaby was not the only passenger aboard, but that there was another in whose company he would be glad enough, no doubt, to finish the balance of the voyage he was now upon. So now, if Barnaby was sufficiently composed, he should be introduced to that other passenger. Thereupon, without waiting for a reply, he incontinently arose and, putting away the bottle of rum and the glasses, went across the saloon—Barnaby watching him all the while like a man in a dream—and opened the door of a cabin like that which Barnaby had occupied a little while before. He was gone only for a moment, for almost immediately he came out again ushering a lady before him.
By now the daylight in the cabin was grown strong and clear, so that the light shining full upon her face, Barnaby True knew her the instant she appeared.
It was Miss Marjorie Malyoe, very white, but strangely composed, showing no terror, either in her countenance or in her expression.
It would not be possible for the writer to give any clear idea of the circumstances of the days that immediately followed, and which, within a week, brought Barnaby True and the enchanting object of his affections at once to the ending of their voyage, and of all these marvellous adventures. For when, in after times, our hero would endeavor to revive a memory of the several occurrences that then transpired, they all appeared as though in a dream or a bewitching phantasm.
All that he could recall were long days of delicious enjoyment followed by nights of dreaming. But how enchanting those days! How exquisite the distraction of those nights!
Upon occasions he and his charmer might sit together under the shade of the sail for an hour at a stretch, he holding her hand in his and neither saying a single word, though at times the transports of poor Barnaby's emotions would go far to suffocate him with their rapture. As for her face at such moments, it appeared sometimes to assume a transparency as though of a light shining from behind her countenance.
The vessel in which they found themselves was a brigantine of good size and build, but manned by a considerable crew, the most strange and outlandish in their appearance that Barnaby had ever beheld. For some were white, some were yellow, and some were black, and all were tricked out with gay colors, and gold ear-rings in their ears, and some with long mustachios, and others with handkerchiefs tied around their heads. And all these spoke together a jargon of which Barnaby True could not understand a single word, but which might have been Portuguese from one or two phrases he afterwards remembered. Nor did this outlandish crew, of God knows what sort of men, address any of their conversation either to Barnaby or to the young lady. They might now and then have looked at him and her out of the corners of their yellow eyes, but that was all; otherwise they were, indeed, like the creatures of a dream. Only he who was commander of this strange craft, when he would come down into the saloon to mix a glass of grog or to light a pipe of tobacco, would maybe favor Barnaby with a few words concerning the weather or something of the sort, and then to go on deck again about his business.
Indeed, it may be affirmed with pretty easy security that no such adventure as this ever happened before; for here were these two innocent young creatures upon board of a craft that no one, under such circumstances as those recounted above, could doubt was a pirate or buccaneer, the crew whereof had seen no one knows what wicked deeds; yet they two as remote from all that and as profoundly occupied with the transports of their passion and as innocent in their satisfaction thereof as were Corydon and Phyllis beside their purling streams and flowery meads, with nymphs and satyrs caracoling about them.
VIII
VIII
It is probable that the polite reader of this veracious narrative, instead of considering it as the effort of the author to set before him a sober and well-digested history, has been all this while amusing himself by regarding it only as a fanciful tale designed for his entertainment. If this be so, the writer may hardly hope to convince him that what is to follow is a serious narrative of that which, though never so ingenuous in its recapitulation, is an altogether inexplicable phenomenon. Accordingly, it is with extraordinary hesitation that the scribe now invites the confidence of his reader in the succinct truth of that which he has to relate. It is in brief as follows:
That upon the last night of this part of his voyage, Barnaby True was awakened from slumber by flashes of lightning shining into his cabin, and by the loud pealing of approaching thunder. At the same time observing the sound of footsteps moving back and forth as in great agitation overhead, and the loud shouting of orders, he became aware that a violent squall of wind must be approaching the vessel. Being convinced of this he arose from his berth, dressed quickly, and hurried upon deck, where he found a great confusion of men running hither and thither and scrambling up and down the rigging like monkeys, while the Captain, and one whom he had come to know as the Captain's mate, were shouting out orders in a strange foreign jargon.
A storm was indeed approaching with great rapidity, a prodigious circle of rain and clouds whirling overhead like smoke, while the lightning, every now and then, flashed with intense brightness, followed by loud peals of thunder.
By these flashes of lightning Barnaby observed that they had made land during the night, for in the sudden glare of bright light he beheld a mountainous headland and a long strip of sandy beach standing out against the blackness of the night beyond. So much he was able to distinguish, though what coast it might be he could not tell, for presently another flash falling from the sky, he saw that the shore was shut out by the approaching downfall of rain.
This rain came presently streaming down upon them with a great gust of wind and a deal of white foam across the water. This violent gale of wind suddenly striking the vessel, careened it to one side so that for a moment it was with much ado that he was able to keep his feet at all. Indeed, what with the noise of the tempest through the rigging and the flashes of lightning and the pealing of the thunder and the clapping of an unfurled sail in the darkness, and the shouting of orders in a strange language by the Captain of the craft, who was running up and down like a bedlamite, it was like pandemonium with all the devils of the pit broke loose into the night.
It was at this moment, and Barnaby True was holding to the back-stays, when a sudden, prolonged flash of lightning came after a continued space of darkness. So sharp and heavy was this shaft that for a moment the night was as bright as day, and in that instant occurred that which was so remarkable that it hath afforded the title of this story itself. For there, standing plain upon the deck and not far from the companionway, as though he had just come up from below, our hero beheld a figure the face of which he had seen so imperfectly once before by the flash of his own pistol in the darkness. Upon this occasion, however, the whole figure was stamped out with intense sharpness against the darkness, and Barnaby beheld, as clear as day, a great burly man, clad in a tawdry tinsel coat, with a cocked hat with gold braid upon his head. His legs, with petticoat breeches and cased in great leathern sea-boots pulled up to his knees, stood planted wide apart as though to brace against the slant of the deck. The face our hero beheld to be as white as dough, with fishy eyes and a bony forehead, on the side of which was a great smear as of blood.
All this, as was said, stood out as sharp and clear as daylight in that one flash of lightning, and then upon the instant was gone again, as though swallowed up into the darkness, while a terrible clap of thunder seemed to split the very heavens overhead and a strong smell as of brimstone filled the air around about.
At the same moment some voice cried out from the darkness, "William Brand, by God!"
Then, the rain clapping down in a deluge, Barnaby leaped into the saloon, pursued by he knew not what thoughts. For if that was indeed the image of old William Brand that he had seen once before and now again, then the grave must indeed have gaped and vomited out its dead into the storm of wind and lightning; for what he beheld that moment, he hath ever averred, he saw as clear as ever he saw his hand before his face.
This is the last account of which there is any record when the figure of Captain William Brand was beheld by the eyes of a living man. It must have occurred just off the Highlands below the Sandy Hook, for the next morning when Barnaby True came upon deck it was to find the sun shining brightly and the brigantine riding upon an even keel, at anchor off Staten Island, three or four cable-lengths distance from a small village on the shore, and the town of New York in plain sight across the water.
'Twas the last place in the world he had expected to see.
IX
IX
And, indeed, it did seem vastly strange to lie there alongside Staten Island all that day, with New York town in plain sight across the water and yet so impossible to reach. For whether he desired to escape or no, Barnaby True could not but observe that both he and the young lady were so closely watched that they might as well have been prisoners, tied hand and foot and laid in the hold, so far as any hope of getting away was concerned.
Throughout that day there was a vast deal of mysterious coming and going aboard the brigantine, and in the afternoon a sail-boat went up to the town, carrying the Captain of the brigantine and a great load in the stern covered over with a tarpaulin. What was so taken up to the town Barnaby did not then guess, nor did he for a moment suspect of what vast importance it was to be for him.
About sundown the small boat returned, fetching the pirate Captain of the brigantine back again. Coming aboard and finding Barnaby on deck, the other requested him to come down into the saloon for he had a few serious words to say to him. In the saloon they found the young lady sitting, the broad light of the evening shining in through the skylight, and making it all pretty bright within.
The Captain commanded Barnaby to be seated, whereupon he chose a place alongside the young lady. So soon as he had composed himself the Captain began very seriously, with a preface somewhat thus: "Though you may think me the Captain of this brigantine, Master Barnaby True, I am not really so, but am under orders of a superior whom I have obeyed in all these things that I have done." Having said so much as this, he continued his address to say that there was one thing yet remaining for him to do, and that the greatest thing of all.
He said that this was something that both Barnaby and the young lady were to be called upon to perform, and he hoped that they would do their part willingly; but that whether they did it willingly or no, do it they must, for those also were the orders he had received.
You may guess how our hero was disturbed by this prologue. He had found the young lady's hand beneath the table and he now held it very closely in his own; but whatever might have been his expectations as to the final purport of the communications the other was about to favor him with, his most extreme expectations could not have equalled that which was demanded of him.
"My orders are these," said his interlocutor, continuing: "I am to take you and the young lady ashore, and to see that you are married before I quit you, and to that end a very good, decent, honest minister who lives ashore yonder in the village was chosen and hath been spoken to, and is now, no doubt, waiting for you to come. That is the last thing I am set to do; so now I will leave you and her young ladyship alone together for five minutes to talk it over, but be quick about it, for whether willing or not, this thing must be done."
Thereupon he incontinently went away, as he had promised, leaving those two alone together, our hero like one turned into stone, and the young lady, her face turned away, as red as fire, as Barnaby could easily distinguish by the fading light.
Nor can I tell what Barnaby said to her, nor what words or arguments he used, for so great was the distraction of his mind and the tumult of his emotions that he presently discovered that he was repeating to her over and over again that God knew he loved her, and that with all his heart and soul, and that there was nothing in all the world for him but her. After which, containing himself sufficiently to continue his address, he told her that if she would not have it as the man had said, and if she were not willing to marry him as she was bidden to do, he would rather die a thousand, aye, ten thousand, deaths than lend himself to forcing her to do such a thing as this. Nevertheless, he told her she must speak up and tell him yes or no, and that God knew he would give all the world if she would say "yes."
All this and much more he said in such a tumult that he was hardly aware of what he was speaking, and she sitting there, as though her breath stifled her. Nor did he know what she replied to him, only that she would marry him. Therewith he took her into his arms and for the first time set his lips to hers, in such a transport of ecstasy that everything seemed to his sight as though he were about to swoon.
So when the Captain returned to the saloon he found Barnaby sitting there holding her hand, she with her face turned away, and he so full of joy that the promise of heaven could not have made him happier.
The yawl-boat belonging to the brigantine was ready and waiting alongside when they came upon deck, and immediately they descended to it and took their seats. Reaching the shore, they landed, and walked up the village street in the twilight, she clinging to our hero's arm as though she would faint away. The Captain of the brigantine and two other men aboard accompanied them to the minister's house, where they found the good man waiting for them, smoking his pipe in the warm evening, and walking up and down in front of his own door. He immediately conducted them into the house, where, his wife having fetched a candle, and two others from the village being present, the good, pious man having asked several questions as to their names and their age and where they were from, and having added his blessing, the ceremony was performed, and the certificate duly signed by those present from the village—the men who had come ashore from the brigantine alone refusing to set their hands to any paper.
The same sail-boat that had taken the Captain up to the town was waiting for Barnaby and the young lady as they came down to the landing-place. There the Captain of the brigantine having wished them godspeed, and having shaken Barnaby very heartily by the hand, he helped to push off the boat, which with the slant of the wind presently sailed swiftly away, dropping the shore and those strange beings, and the brigantine in which they sailed, alike behind them into the night.
They could hear through the darkness the creaking of the sails being hoisted aboard of the pirate vessel; nor did Barnaby True ever set eyes upon it or the crew again, nor, so far as the writer is informed, did anybody else.