Chapter Five.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 thedeaths, 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 theCircassianwas 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?”“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 theEurydice, 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 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 cetera, 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.“PS. 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 lookforeignto 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.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—“Oh, 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 hisprotégéother 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.
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 thedeaths, 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 theCircassianwas 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?”
“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 theEurydice, 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 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 cetera, 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.“PS. 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 lookforeignto the neighbours, and we can keep our own secrets.“M.W.”
“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.
“PS. 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 lookforeignto 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.
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—
“Oh, 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 hisprotégéother 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 Six.The Midshipman.The weather side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigateUnicornwas 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 beenrolled 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.“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 am 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, ifyousent 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 a 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.
The weather side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigateUnicornwas 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 beenrolled 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.
“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 am 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, ifyousent 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 a 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 Seven.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 pre-eminence; 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 site 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, theAvenger.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 andhoused; 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 crisped 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 pendant 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, etcetera, 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 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 muscle, 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, an 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 came 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 even 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.
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 pre-eminence; 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 site 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, theAvenger.
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 andhoused; 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 crisped 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 pendant 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, etcetera, 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 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 muscle, 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, an 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 came 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 even 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 Eight.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 to conversation, when “Sail ho!” was shouted from the mast-head.“There she is, by God!” 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 theAvengerwas 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 theAvenger, 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, 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.“Well done! John Portuguese,” cried Hawkhurst: “by the holy poker! I never gave you credit for so much pluck.”“Which they shall dearly pay 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 boom-sheet; 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 too 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 82-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 foretop-mast 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 weatherbeaten 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 the 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!”“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.
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 to conversation, when “Sail ho!” was shouted from the mast-head.
“There she is, by God!” 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 theAvengerwas 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 theAvenger, 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, 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.
“Well done! John Portuguese,” cried Hawkhurst: “by the holy poker! I never gave you credit for so much pluck.”
“Which they shall dearly pay 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 boom-sheet; 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 too 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 82-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 foretop-mast 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 weatherbeaten 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 the 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!”
“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.