 | CHAPTER IV. Captain Kyd, or, The wizard of the sea |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
And dared to love—nay, more, she dared to brave
The world's dread frown, to follow him afar
Amid the danger of the stormy wave.”
“He bore a charmed life. O'er earth and sea
No fiend so feared, no spirit dread as he.”
An hour after sunrise the pirate vessel had gained
an offing, and, under all her light canvass, wafted
by a fresh wind from the northwest, was running
the coast down, leaving the Highlands of Neversink
on her starboard quarter. On her deck stood
Kyd, with his glass in his hands, with which every
few minutes he would sweep the horizon, and
then turn and walk the deck. It was a bright,
sunny morning; the crested waves leaped merrily
about the prow and glanced in the sun as if tipped
with gold.
The vessel was a low-built brigantine, with a
flush deck, on either side of which was ranged
a battery of six carronades—in all twelve guns.
Eighty men, half of whom were blacks, that composed
her crew, were variously occupied forward
listlessly between the guns. They were a desperate
band, with hard looks, and the aspects of men accustomed
to crime and inured to danger. Every man
was armed with pistols and cutlass, while racks of
these weapons, with the addition of boarding pikes
and harquebusses, were ranged about the masts and
bulwarks. Order and discipline prevailed throughout
the wild company, and, save the bucanier-like
character and build of the vessel, it differed not materially
in its internal arrangements from a king's
ship. The bold spirit that kept these inferior and
scarcely less fierce beings in subjection walked
the deck with a determined tread, now bending his
eyes in thought, now lifting them, flashing with
excitement, towards the sea, and rapidly scanning
its wide circle. He was dressed in the same picturesque
costume that he wore when he first appeared
in the presence of Kate Bellamont at the
White Hall, though his sword lay upon the companion-way
instead of being sheathed at his belt.
After taking a longer survey than usual of the horizon,
and turning away with an exclamation of
disappointment, he was addressed by a short,
square-built, swarthy man, with large mustaches
and long, matted hair that hung low over his eyes
and descended to his broad shoulders, who had
hitherto been silently pacing the leeward side of the
deck.
“What's in the wind, captain? You seem to
steer as if in chase! You gave your orders so
briefly to get under weigh, and have loved your
own thoughts since so well as to forget to speak.
I have not even asked our course.”
“We are full three leagues from our anchorage,
and, if you have no objections, suppose we open
our sailing orders.”
“You are right, Loff,” said Kyd, smiling at the
blunt address of his first mate. “Listen,” he said,
walking aft, followed by the mate, where they could
speak without being overheard by the helmsman.
“Now learn my plans!”
“I have half guessed them.”
“What?”
“Some Indiaman, ballasted with guilders, you
have heard of in shore.”
“Far better than a Spanish argosy. I pursue a
rival. Thou art no stranger to an amour pursued
by me some years ago with a fair and noble maid
of Erin. Before I took the seas I was her only
and accepted lover. She is now in the port we left
this morning.”
“And so you are running away from her.”
“No. As some fiend would have it, rumours
of my deeds, blown far and wide, at last reached
her ears. She lends them to the tale. And when
last eve I hastened to her arms, she meets me cold
as an icicle; but soon gets warm, charges me with
my misdeeds, and at length, taking fire with her
own heat, breaks out in full blaze, dips her tongue
inch deep in gall, and paints me blacker than the
devil.”
“Just like these sort o' craft,” remarked Loff,
dryly.
“This is not all. I found she had plugged the
hole in her broken heart with another lover sound
and hale.”
“And who was this interloper?”
“No less a cavalier than that Fitzroy of the
British navy whom we took by stratagem in the
Mediterranean, slaying his crew; and who afterward
escaped us by swimming a league to the shore.”
“I remember him. A proper youth for a woman's
eye.”
“It shall ne'er look on him again,” said Kyd, with
that which before was rumour—”
“And so she put you out her heart and took him
in.”
“Even so.”
“That's what I couldn't stand, captain.”
“I'll have revenge. Besides, I think I have an
old quarrel to settle with him, if he be the same
Fitzroy who escaped from us. Did I not tell thee
then he reminded me of one whom I had known
under peculiar circumstances in my boyish days?”
“You did,” said the mate, after a moment's
thought; “and that you said you would, in the morning,
see if your suspicions were true.”
“And in the morning the bird had flown. It is
this suspicion that, from the first mention of his
name last night, added to a new object I have in
view (which, if he be the one I suspect he is, cannot
be accomplished without his death), that sends
me in pursuit of him. 'Tis rumoured that he whom
I mean was lost at sea; but, if he escaped us by
swimming a league, he may have escaped also at
that time.”
“Where does he hail from now?”
“He is master of the brig of war that brought
the new governor to the province; and, hearing of
us, with laudable ambition set sail, directly after his
arrival, in pursuit of us. He is now on his return,
as his leave of absence has expired. I learn by a
skipper of a Carolina schooner I hailed in the harbour
as I passed him in my boat, that a vessel
answering his description was seen three days ago
becalmed off the Capes of Delaware.”
“Shiver my mizzen! we will soon fall in with
him if he is steering back to port.”
“If the `Silver Arrow' hang not like a sleuthhound
on his track, there is no virtue in wind or
canvass.”
“What is the name of the chase?” demanded
Loff, taking a deliberate survey of the horizon with
a weather-beaten spyglass he held in his hand.
“The `Ger-Falcon,' I am told; and this name, for
certain reasons, increases my suspicions that this
Fitzroy is he I suspect. If so, I have an old score
to balance with him. It is this that adds point to
my revenge, and which has led me to seek aid of
earth and hell to accomplish my desires.”
The “Silver Arrow,” bound on its mission of vengeance
and crime, continued for the remainder of
the day steadily to sail on its southerly course,
keeping sufficiently far from land to command a
scope of vision on either side nearly forty miles in
breadth, so that any vessel following the shore
northwardly, if within ten or twelve leagues of the
land, could not escape observation.
Two hours before sunset of the same day, in
the entrance of one of the numerous inlets that,
like a chain of marine lakes, line the eastern shore
of Jersey, lay a brig of war at anchor, her upper
sails clewed down and her topsails furled. She
was lying so close to the wooded shore, that the
branches of the trees that grew on the verge of its
high banks hung over and mingled with the rigging,
while from the main yard it was easy to step on the
rocks that towered above the water. On her decks
lay several deer recently killed, while sailors were
engaged in bringing on board, across a staging that
extended from the ship to the shore, a noble stag,
with antlers like a young tree. On the summit of
a rock that overlooked the scene stood two young
men habited as hunters, one leaning on a rifle, the
other with a hunting-spear in his hand. Two noble
stag-hounds lay panting at their feet. The scene
that lay outspread around them was picturesque as
it was boundless.
On the east, rolling its waves towards a silvery
beach of sand that stretched north and south many
leagues, spread the ocean, without a sail to relieve
its majestic bosom, which, save here and there a
gull with snowy wing skimming its breast, was as
lonely and silent as on the day it was created.
North, extended a vast forest of foliage, the surface
of which, as the winds swept over it wave after
wave, was not less restless than the sea. West,
lay interminable woods; and nearer slept the lagoon,
running northwardly and southwardly in a line with
the coast on the outside, broken into many little
lakes by green islands, on the sides of which
browsed numerous deer. Immediately at their feet
was the vessel of war, which, with its busy decks,
gave life and variety to the scene.
The two who were enjoying the prospect strikingly
contrasted in appearance. One of them was
dark and strikingly handsome, with black, penetrating
eyes, and a fine mouth characterized by much
energy of expression. His hair was jetty black;
and, parted on his forehead, fell in natural ringlets
about his neck, descending even to his shapely
shoulders. His figure was noble and commanding,
and his air strikingly dignified. His age could
not have been above twenty-three. There was a
hue on his cheek, and a certain negligent ease in
his air and manner, that showed that his profession
was that of the sea. Yet his costume was by no
means nautical. He leaned on a short rifle, with
a black velvet hunter's bonnet in his hand, shaded
by a sable plume. He wore a green embroidered
frock, with buff leggins of dressed deerskin richly
worked by some Indian maid, and on his feet were
buskins of dressed doeskin. Around his waist was
a black leathern belt containing a hunting-knife,
with a drop or two of fresh blood still upon its
richly mounted.
His companion was less in height and of lighter
make. His face was less browned, nay, scarcely
tinged by the suns that had left their shadows upon
the other's cheek. His forehead, though partly
concealed beneath a hunting-cap of green cloth
from which drooped a snow-white feather, was so
fair and beautiful, that through the transparent skin
of the temples were seen the azure veins tinting the
surface with the most delicate lights of blue. The
eyes were of a dark hazel, with a merry light dancing
in them, which gave promise both of ready wit
and good nature, and his cheeks had a bright, glowing
colour, doubtless caused by the recent exercise
of the chase. His mouth was extremely beautiful,
with a winning smile playing about it like sunlight
of the heart. The chin beneath was exquisitely
rounded, neither too full nor too square, but of that
faultless symmetry of which a sculptor would have
made a model. About his neck and shoulders
flowed glossy waves of auburn hair, while his upper
lip was graced by a luxuriant mustache of the
same, or, perhaps, of a little darker hue. He wore
no cravat, and the collar of his green hunting-coat
was turned back, displaying a throat and neck
of dazzling whiteness and beauty. Through the
bosom of the frock, which was folded back,
appeared linen of the finest cambric, richly tamboured,
as if done by the fair fingers of some
tasteful maiden. The wristbands over his finely
shaped and gloved hands were tamboured in the
same beautiful manner, and fringed with lace of
the most costly texture. Around his waist was
bound a crimson sash for a hunting-belt, in which
was stuck a couteau du chasse, with a hilt sparkling
with jewels. Oriental trousers, ample in width
tassels depending from a hem of network, descended
just below the calf of the leg, between which and
the ankle appeared flesh-coloured silken hose of the
finest texture and material. Boots of dressed doeskin,
soft and smooth as a glove, nicely fitted the
feet and ankles, and, divided at the top in two parts,
were turned over like the buskins of his companion,
but, unlike his, fringed with gold and ornamented
with tassels. In his hand he carried a light
hunting-spear, which he held with a spirited air,
braced against the rock, his attitude being at the
same time graceful and gallant. His age appeared
to be less than seventeen. The two had gazed
upon the noble and extended prospect spread out
before them for some time in silence, when the elder,
turning to his companion with a condescending
yet courteous air, spoke.
“A fair scene, Edwin! I scarcely know which
impresses me most, the majesty of the ocean or that
of these boundless forests of the New World. Both
are alike illimitable. Perhaps the sea has more of
the sublime, for it is associated with the tempest in
its terrible power, and its ever-heaving bosom seems
to me the pulse of the earth.”
“You give language to the thoughts which were
passing in my own mind. The world seems to me
a vast being ever—its flowing rivers like veins and
arteries in the human system—its subterranean
fires like the passions slumbering in our hearts—
its ocean heaving like a bosom lifted by a heart beneath
it. See! the stag has leaped the bulwarks
into the water!”
His companion turned and beheld the noble monarch
of the wood, who had broke away from his
captors at a bound, parting the flood with his broad
breast, and swimming across the lagoon towards
in the air as if in defiance, and rejoicing at obtaining
his wild freedom. A dozen pistols and handguns
were instantly levelled at him, when the taller of
the two cried out from the cliff,
“Hold! Fire not, on your lives! He has nobly
won his freedom!”
Every weapon was lowered obedient to his voice,
and proudly the enfranchised animal breasted his
way towards a wooded isle a few hundred yards
off.
“We have venison enough, and the princely
creature shall escape,” he added, turning to the
other. “By the bow of Diana! we have well
done for a four hours' hunt with but a brace of
dogs—though ye are noble brutes, both Chasseur
and Di!” The dogs seemed to comprehend instinctively
his words of praise, and, with a glad
whine sliding along to his feet, at a sign of encouragement
bounded upon him with joyful barks.
“Hist! be still! Ye are over rude because I give
ye a word and a nod.”
“They must come in for a portion of our thanks
from the earl when he gets his game.”
“And a feast they shall have, for they have
shown their true Irish blood.”
“You speak of Ireland often, sir. You must
love it.”
“I do.” He then said quickly, “You alone must
he thank, Edwin, that he gets even a haunch instead
of nearly a score of fat bucks such as strew our
decks yonder. It was well thought of, as this
bucanier had escaped us on this cruise, to put in
at this famous deer island, and, by supplying the
governor's table for the month to come, make him
forget our failure. I would the stag had not escaped,
nevertheless, for I would gladly have made
Edwin!”
“Did I?”
“By the bow of Dan Cupid, did you! You are
full young to think of maiden's love.”
“Am I?” said the youth, absently, and with an
abstracted air.
“Truly thou must be in love, Edwin,” said the
other, with a kindly laugh, that became his manly
and open features. “I marvel who it may be.
You shake your head! Well,” he added, laughing,
“so long as it is not my noble Kate, I care not
who it be. I knew a maiden once whom I would
have loved—so gentle, fair, and good, besides noble-born
and generous was she—if I had not loved anoth—”
“Who—who this maiden?” he said, abruptly
interrupting him, and laying his hand upon the arm
of the speaker with surprising energy.
“Thou art over quick in thy speech,” said the
other, turning and speaking coldly.
“Nay, pardon me, sir, I did forget my station,”
said the other, bending his head and crossing his
hands upon his bosom.
“Nay, Edwin, you go too far! I do not like
this manner, and this, I know not what to call it,
way you have of assuming an attitude, when reproved,
becoming a bashful girl rather than the
manhood thy mustache, if not thy years, challenges
thee to assert. I will answer thy question. It was
a fair and gentle creature, whom in my boyhood I
knew only as the humble sailor knows the stars
that burn nightly above him. I gazed on her afar
off, and dared not approach her nearer, for she was
noble, and, as thou knowest, I was lowly born.
She was gentle, kind, and good; gratitude fills my
heart when I speak of her, for I owe her much;
the way to make myself noble. Her eloquence I
shall never forget. Its effect upon me is indelible.
I will some day tell thee how first I met her, and
the interest she took in me.”
“Did you see her often?”
“No. But once we spoke together! But that
once produced the seeds of the fruit of happiness
I since have gathered.”
“Strange that seeing her but once should have
had such an effect upon thee.”
“It was like sunlight first let in upon the man's
vision who is born blind.”
“If such the influence she held over you—if thus
you speak of her now, why did not her image take
a deeper hold in your heart—nay, why did you not
love her, sir?”
“Because I loved another.”
The youth sighed, and then said, “What motive
induced her to take this interest in you?”
“Save that it was prompted by her own gentle
and good spirit, I know not,” he said with frankness.
“May it not have been love?” said the other, with
hesitation.
The elder started, and turned and gazed on the
speaker an instant with surprise before he replied:
“Love! How could she love a lowborn boy like
me? 'Twas pity, rather.”
“Nay, 'twas love.”
“Nay, I will not have the vanity to think so, nor
will I do her motives so much wrong.”
“Said you she was fair?”
“As maiden ever was.”
“Gentle?”
“As a seraph, if it should come to earth to habit
in woman's form.”
“Good?”
“As an angel.”
“Fair, gentle, and good?”
“All three.”
“And yet you loved her not?”
“I loved another! therefore, if she had been indeed
an angel, I could not have loved, though I
might have worshipped her.”
The young man bent his head low till the snowy
plume hid his face, and a deep sigh escaped his
bosom. “Her thou wouldst have me love, then?”
he asked, after a moment's silence, during which
the eyes of the other were habitually scanning the
horizon.
“I would.”
“Wherefore?'
“Because I love thee!”
“Love me!” he cried, starting.
“As a brother do I. In truth this chase has fevered
you, and you are not yourself, Edwin. Let
us aboard!”
They were about to descend to the ship, when
the elder, glancing once more around the horizon,
suddenly fixed his eyes in a northwardly direction,
and, after a moment's steady look, exclaimed,
“A sail!”
The younger arrested his descending footstep,
and also turned his eyes in the same direction, and
discerned a white dot on the extreme verge of
water and sky, the stationary appearance of which,
though neither form nor outline was distinguishable
at the distance it was from them, indicated it
to be a vessel.
“It may be a merchantman!” he said.
“It may be the bucanier! Craft of any sort are
so scarce in these colonial seas at this season, that
the chances are full three to one for the pirate.
We must on board and make sail.”
As he spoke they descended, followed by their
dogs, the precipitous rock, and the next moment
stood on the vessel's deck. A few brief orders
were given by the elder of the two, who, it was
apparent, was the commander of the brig; the anchor
was weighed, the topsails loosened and set,
and, catching a light breeze that blew through the
mouth of the lagoon seaward, she soon left the
wooded shores, and rode gallantly over the billows
of the open sea in the direction of the sail they had
seen from the cliff. What had first appeared a
white speck on the rim of the sea now grew into
shape and form, and, with the glass, the upper sails
of a brigantine could be seen down to her courses,
her hull still being beneath the horizon.
Swiftly the brig of war cut the blue waves, all
her light and drawing sails set. Her armed deck,
on each side of which bristled seven eighteen
pounders, with their armament, presented an appearance
of that order and propriety which, even
on the eve of battle, characterizes the interior of a
British ship of war. The weather-beaten tars, who
had all been called to quarters, leaned over the forward
bulwarks, and watched with interest the distant
sail, but made their remarks in a subdued tone
to each other. All was ready for action in case
the stranger should prove to be an enemy. The
helmsman, with his eyes now dropped on the compass,
now directed ahead towards the sail, stood
cool and collected at his post; the officer of the
deck paced with a thoughtful brow fore and aft in
the waist, every few seconds stopping to survey the
chase, while the junior officers, each at his station, silently
regarded the object, their eyes sparkling with
excitement as each moment brought them nearer
to it. In a magnificent upper cabin or poop, constructed
on the quarter-deck, and gorgeous with
rugs laid over the floor with latticed windows
opening on every side to the water, were the two
hunters. They had now changed their costume
for one more appropriate to the sea and the quarter-deck
of an armed vessel. The youthful captain
wore the undress uniform of his rank and profession,
his hunting-knife replaced by a small sword,
and his bugle by a brace of pistols. He was standing
by the window with his eyes upon the vessel
ahead. The other had substituted a plain suit of
black velvet for his former rich costume, and an
elegant rapier hung at one side and a silver inkhorn
at the other. He was seated at an ebony escritoir
writing, and, from his pursuit and apparel, evidently
held the rank of private secretary.
“He is standing south by east, Edwin,” said the
youthful captain, turning from the lattice and addressing
the youth with animation; “we shall intercept
him by sunset if this wind holds. But methinks,”
he added with interest, fixing his eyes
upon him as, with his rich hair drooping about his
cheeks, he leaned, forgetful of his occupation, over
the sheet, “that of late you are getting sad and absent.
This station does not suit your ambition,
perhaps. You would be an officer instead of a
clerk.”
“Nay, sir, I would be as I am; I am not discontent
so that I can be near—” here he checked
himself, bent his head to his writing, and did not
look up until he felt a hand gently laid upon his
shoulder. He started, while the colour came and
went in his cheek with confusion, and he shrunk
instinctively away.
“Beshrew me, fair youth! I know not what to
make of thee,” said the young captain, taking a
seat beside him, and resting one arm familiarly
grief at thy heart. If it be a love secret—a tale of
love unrequited—of cruel maids and broken promises,”
he said, gayly, “why, then, out with it; make
me your confidant; I will tell you how to make
her heart ache, and to wish thee back again. Come,
Edwin, unburden thy thoughts. Unspoken, they
will feed upon the cheek and eye, and the grave
have thee ere thou hast attained manhood.”
The youthful secretary was silent a few moments,
and then said, with an attempt to smile,
“I have a tale of love, but not of mine.”
“I will hear it, and then tell thee if I think it
thine or no.”
“There was once a noble maiden, the heiress of
an earldom, who loved a peasant youth, handsome
and brave, and the nobility he gat not by birth nature
endowed him with. The maiden was proud
and independent of spirit, and loved him for himself—for
title, wealth, and rank she thought not!”
“A generous creature. And this humble youth
loved her in return?”
“No.”
“No! then, by Heaven, he was ignoble indeed,
and her love was ill placed, poor lady!”
“Nay—he loved another!”
“Ha, was it so?” he said, with a peculiar smile;
“then I must pardon him! But did she tell him
of her love?”
“Never!”
“Who was this village maiden that supplanted
her?”
“She was no lowly maid! but noble as herself.”
“He was full ambitious! Did she love him in
return?”
“Nay, not then,” said he, hesitatingly.
“Edwin, you are giving my very history! You
speak?” he exclaimed, with animated interest.
“I gave no name.”
“Nay,” he said, blushing, “I will not think,
though the tale tallies in some parts so well with
my own, that a noble maiden e'er could have regarded
me with sentiments beneath her station.
Go on.”
“Time went on, and her love grew. Unseen,
unknown, she exerted her influence, and had him
(for he took to the seas) elevated from rank to rank,
though his own prowess won for him each grade
ere he rose to it; at length he became a captain.
Many years had elapsed in the interval, and she
had not seen him; but, every few months, rumour
trumpeted to her his gallant deeds, and in her secret
heart she rejoiced with all the pride of love.”
“And still she loved him?”
“Better and better. Absence only increased the
intensity of her passion. At length she resolved
to see him, and, unknown to him, see if she could
not win his love; for she believed, silly girl,
that time had caused him to forget his first passion
for the noble maid who had disdained him for his
low birth. At length an opportunity presented itself
that held out to her the prospect of accomplishing
her wish. A nobleman related to her was appointed
governor of a distant province, and this
youth was appointed to the command of the vessel
that should convey him to his government
The noble was the father of the highborn maiden
he loved. Love roused her fears. She resolved
to go in the same ship, and be a check upon the
renewal of his love.”
“Your story interests me. Do not pause. Go
on!”
“So she disguised herself as a page, and, under
the pretence of going to Ireland, to spend a few
and offered herself as his secretary!”
“Edwin, this is a wondrous tale!” he exclaimed,
starting to his feet with surprise. “Yet no, it cannot
be,” he said, half aloud, after steadily looking
at him a moment. “Proceed!”
“She was received and sailed with him. Love
excuses much. Yet her friends were on board with
her, and it was not as if she had thrown herself on
this rash adventure alone. The maiden that he had
loved in youth he wooed and won. She knew him
not as the humble youth. He had taken another
name with his better fortunes. In the noble-looking
officer that commanded the ship, and whose
gallant name had filled the world, she did not recognise
the humble lad whom she had known in
earlier years. The disguised girl witnessed the
progress of their love with a breaking heart.”
“Poor maiden! She should have made known
her love, and it might have met return.”
“No, no, she could not. Yet she could not leave
him, even when she knew he cared not for her—
knew not of her existence, or that he was loved by
her with such enduring attachment.”
“Had it been my case, I would have loved her,
had she made herself known, for her very devotion.
Love begets love, and so does gratitude. I could
not but have loved her.”
“Nay—if you loved another?”
“Not while I loved that other. But if that love
had met no return, or afterward were crushed and
blighted by adverse circumstances, then my heart
would have turned to this gentle, devoted, heroic
maiden, whose love had been so strong as to lead
her to idolize me, and follow me in disguise even
over the sea.”
“Wouldst thou have done this?”
“By my troth! would I. I half love the maiden
now, of whose devotedness you speak so eloquently.
If it were my case, Kate would have a dangerous
rival. I never could resist so much womanly
devotion. Not I, Edwin.”
“Would you not rather despise her?”
“No. True love is sacred and honourable ever.”
“When it o'ersteps the bounds of maidenly propriety?”
“Yes, Edwin, in a case like this of which you
speak.”
At this instant the officer of the deck reported
that the strange sail had suddenly changed her
course from the southeast, and was standing towards
them.
The captain seized his glass, and, examining her,
said with animation,
“Her hull has lifted, and she shows a tier of ports.
A red riband running around her bends! polacca
rigged, and courses up, with a bow as sharp as a canoe!
It is `the Kyd,”' he cried, with joyful surprise.
Instantly all was animation and intense excitement
on board. The guns were double-shotted,
the hammock nettings were stowed closer and
firmer than usual, hand-grenades lined the decks,
and every missile and weapon of offence or defence
that could be pressed into service on so desperate
an encounter as that anticipated, was brought forth
and placed ready for use. All that skill and determination
to conquer could devise was done; and,
under a steady but light wind on her larboard quarter,
she fast neared the stranger, who also was observed
to shorten sail and make other demonstrations
of a hostile character. They continued to approach
each other until less space than a mile
separated them, when the youthful captain, who,
with his trumpet in his hand, had taken his place
in the main rigging, shouted,
“Hoist the ensign, and pitch a shot from the
weather-bow gun across his fore-foot.”
The broad flag of England instantly ascended to
the peak, and unfolded its united crosses displayed
on its blood-red field. At the same time a column
of flame shot from her sides, and the vessel shook
with the loud report of the gun.
“It has dashed the spray into their faces,” said
the captain, who had followed the path of the ball
with the glass at his eye. “Ha! by Heaven, there
goes the black flag, with its silver arrow emblazoned
on it. It is Kyd. He has fired!”
A puff of smoke at the instant curled up from
the side of the pirate vessel, as it now proved to
be beyond question, and the next moment a twelve
pound shot, with a roaring noise, buried itself deep
in the mainmast, twenty feet above the deck. The
spar trembled from the shock, and even the vessel
reeled to one side from the force of the iron projectile.
“This is an unlucky hit. It has weakened our
best spar! We must have the weather-gauge of
him, and run down and lay him by the board if he
is so good a marksman at a long shot,” said the
captain.
No more shots were fired, and the vessels were
now within hailing distance, when, cheering his
crew by animated words as well as by his example,
and irresistibly communicating to them a portion
of his own spirit, the young captain stood by the
helmsman, and directed him to steer so as to strike
the advancing pirate with the larboard bow just
forward of the fore-chains. He ordered the hand-grenades
to be in readiness to be thrown on board
as soon as they should come near enough, and the
grappling-irons to be kept clear and cast at an instant's
notice, while in two dense parties, commanded
up, prepared to leap on board cutlass in hand.
Swiftly and with appalling stillness the two hostile
barks approached each other, both close hauled
on the wind, and moving at nearly equal speed. It
was within half an hour of sunset, and the level
rays of the sun suffused the sea with a flush of
gold and crimson. The wooded shores, which
were two miles distant, were touched with a brighter
green, and the western sky was as bright and
varied with gorgeous colours as if a rainbow had
been dissipated over it. The hostile companies in
the two vessels saw none of its beauties and thought
only of the sun that gave glory to the scene, as a
light that was to lend its aid to the approaching
conflict. Nearer and nearer they came together, yet
unable, from their direct advance upon each other,
to bring their guns to bear. To fire their bow guns
would have checked their speed: both, therefore,
advanced in silence until each could see the features
of his foe. Conspicuous on their decks stood the
commanders of each brig, directing their several
courses, and giving commands that were distinctly
heard from one vessel to the other: Kyd, with his
light flowing locks, his fair, noble brow and commanding
figure, on the quarter-deck near the helmsman
with a stern and hostile expression in his eyes
and the attitude of one impatient to mingle in the
conflict, which he seemed to anticipate with vengeful
triumph: the young captain, calm, cool, and commanding,
his features glowing with the excitement
of the occasion, and animated, as it seemed, with
an honest ambition to punish a lawless bucanier
who had so long filled sea and land with the terror
of his name.
“Stand by, hand-grenades!” he shouted, as the
vessels were within a few feet of each other.
“All ready!”
“Cast!” he cried, with a voice of thunder.
Instantly a score of these missiles were flying
through the air in the direction of the crowded
decks of the pirate. But, ere they had left the hand,
quicker than thought the pirate's helm had been put
hard up, and every sheet and brace being at the
same time let go, she fell off suddenly from the
wind, and presented her broadside to the bows of
the brig; all but one or two of the grenades fell
short and plunged into the water, and those that
struck her were thrown overboard ere they could do
injury. At the same instant the bows of the brig
struck her starboard side nearly midships, and such
was the tremendous force of the shock that her
slight timbers were stove in, four out of six of the
guns that composed the battery dismounted, while,
vibrating with the shock beyond its tensity, the
foremast, with its chain of connected yards, snapped
off even with the deck, and fell with a terrible
crash and dire confusion and ruin into the sea.
Loud was the shout of success that rose from the
crew of the brig, and, rushing forward, they prepared
to leap upon the deck of the bucanier.
“Back, men! she is filling!” cried the young
captain, who had gained the bowsprit of his vessel,
where he stood sword in hand, and, like his crew,
in the act of springing on board.
“We are going down!” was the universal cry
that rose from the pirate's decks, and the rush of
the waters into her hold was distinctly heard
above the noise and confusion of the scene.
“Let her sink!” shouted Kyd, bounding amidships
among his men. “Here is a- king's ship
worth three of it!”
His appeal was answered by a demoniac yell
from his pirate crew; and, inspired by their imminent
sprung, as one man, upon the bows of the brig,
and, by mere force of numbers and desperation,
in an instant took possession of the forecastle,
and drove its defenders aft. The last man had
scarcely gained a footing upon it, when, with a
plunge like the dying struggle of a wounded animal,
the “Silver Arrow,” so long the besom of the
ocean, shot down into its unfathomable depths,
finding a grave in the element upon which it had so
long rode in triumph. The brig pitched and rolled
from side to side fearfully as she was received into
the vortex the sinking vessel had left, while she so
far sunk down that the waves rolled a foot deep
over her bows, and flowed in an irresistible torrent
aft to the quarter-deck.
For a few seconds after the disappearance of
the brigantine there was a deep hush over the
human throng. Every soul was touched with
the sublimity of the spectacle, and an impression,
not unlike that with which a child looks on death,
rested for an instant on all. But it was only for
an instant: the situation in which the two parties
were so suddenly and so singularly placed, in such
relative positions to each other, flashed upon their
minds, and every eye lighted up with the fire of
conflict.
“Farewell to the brave galley!” said Kyd, as he
saw the flag at her peak trail on the water as she
went down. “Now, my boys, we have no vessel
save this! Five minutes will show whether it belongs
to his majesty or `the Kyd.' Let us sweep
yonder honest folk from her, boys,” he cried,
pointing aft, where the brig's crew were resolutely
drawn up before the quarter-deck under their captain,
by whose side stood, with a resolute eye and
fearless attitude, his youthful secretary. “But, on
your lives, spare the captain! Also harm not that
to one I once knew. Now at them,
and fight like devils, for either you or they must be
driven overboard!”
“Receive them steadily and with firm front, my
men,” cried the captain of the brig; “remember,
your lives depend on retaining your ship. Do not
forget you are British seamen, fighting for your
king and country, your wives and sweethearts! and
that your foes are a set of bloodthirsty bucaniers,
who fight from desperation, and show neither mercy
nor favour. Edwin, my young friend, your station
is not here.”
“I will not leave your side,” he said, firmly.
“Nay, then, here they come like mad devils.
God and our country! Meet them half way! St.
George and at them!”
He was the first to set the example, and met the
desperate charge almost single handed. The number
of pirates was more than seventy, while the
crew and officers of the brig did not exceed sixty.
Nearly the whole of these were now engaged;
those at a distance, who were unable to mingle in
the mêlée and use their swords, briskly discharging
their firearms, while those of either party on the
skirts of the fight cheered their comrades on with
loud cries. For a few moments the brig's crew
had the advantage, and pressed their assailants back
on every hand, while from side to side flowed the
heady current of battle, and the human masses
swayed this way and that like an agitated sea; and,
with a roar still more terrible than the ocean in its
wildest fury ever sent up, shouts of onset, cries of
rage or pain, yells, and execrations filled the air,
mingled with the reports of pistols, the clash of
steel, and the strange thunder of a hundred feet
upon the hollow decks. At length the seamen gave
way before their desperate antagonists, whom the
courage and ferocity.
“At them. Leave not a man alive! One good
blow and the brig is ours. Bear them down! Give
no quarter! Ha, Fitzroy! Ha! do we meet again!
I have sought thee to enjoy this moment. Back,
hounds,” he shouted to his men; “will ye press
me? there is meaner game for you! I alone deal
with him.”
“The same moment, then, crowns my wish and
thine,” said Fitzroy, crossing his weapon.
They had exchanged a few fierce passes without
effect, when they were separated by the tide of the
conflict, and borne to opposite sides of the deck.
At this moment Edwin the secretary, who had been
animating the crew by his cheering cries, said
quickly in the ear of Fitzroy,
“Make a sudden charge with all your force, save
six men to man the two after guns; drive them back
to the forecastle, if possible, and then retreat, and I
will, at the same moment, turn upon them the pieces
which I have already had loaded with grape.”
This was spoken with rapidity and clearness.
“It shall be done,” was the stern reply. “Ho,
my brave tars! one blow for merry England! one
good blow for the king. Charge them all at once.
Follow me. Hurrah for the king!”
“Hurrah for King Billy, hurrah!” shouted the
seamen, with one voice, catching the spirit of their
young captain.
So sudden and well directed was the charge, that
the pirates gave back in a body till they reached
the windlass, when, in a voice like a trumpet, Fitzroy
shouted,
“Every Englishman throw himself upon his
face! Fire!”
“Down!” re-echoed Kyd, instinctively, at the
same moment.
Disciplined to obey the lightest order, every sailor
cast himself upon the deck; but most of the
pirates heard too late the warning command of their
chief, and the same instant, from both of the quarter-deck
guns, a shower of grape whistled like a
whirlwind over the heads of the crew, while with
the roar of cannon mingled the groans and shrieks
of half a score of bucaniers.
“Vengeance! vengeance! Will ye be slaughtered
like dogs! Upon them! Cut them down!
Leave not one alive! Vengeance!”
Loud and terrific was the cry of vengeance,
followed by a rush of the pirates aft that was irresistible.
The crew were cut down scarcely ere
they had risen to their feet, and sabred with hellish
ferocity wherever they could be grappled with.
In a moment's space two thirds of the seamen, who
had been seized with a sudden panic at the demoniac
rush of the pirates, whom they expected to
have seen discomfited by the wholesale slaughter
of their comrades, fell a prey to their savage ferocity,
and the decks were deluged with their blood.
Many leaped overboard, and others sprang into the
rigging to fall dead into the sea.
“On, on! the brig is ours!” shouted the pirate
chief, waving his reeking sabre. “Charge the
quarter-deck!”
Thither Fitzroy, with Edwin, had retreated with
the remnant of his crew, which were scarcely
twenty in number.
“Surrender!” demanded Kyd.
“With our lives only!” was the firm reply.
“Dash at them, ye devils! But see ye touch
not the two I have marked as my own game! Let
your blades drink deep; we shall soon be masters
here. Now on!”
They were received by a discharge of pistols,
the fire, and, cutlass in hand, the quarter-deck
was carried after a desperate resistance.
Fitzroy was taken prisoner with much difficulty,
and at the cost of several lives of his assailants,
while Kyd himself disarmed the secretary. To a
man the brave crew were slain, either in fair fight
while defending their station, or massacred in cold
blood at the termination of the sanguinary conflict.
The pirates were now masters of the brig, though
its conquest had cost them full half of their number.
“Clear the decks of both dead and wounded!”
said the victor, leaning on his bloody sabre and
gazing over the decks, which wore the aspect of a
slaughter-house.
“Of our own men?” said he who has before been
named as Lawrence.
“Ay! every man that cannot rise on his feet
and walk. We want no hospital of the brig!”
At this order one or two of the wounded pirates
attempted to get to their legs; but finding, after several
ineffectual struggles, that it was out of their
power, fell back powerless, with execrations on
their lips, which had hardly ceased before their
living bodies parted the crimson flood alike with
the dead. The sun still shone upon the scene of
carnage, and, ere he set, the brig was cleared of the
bodies of both pirate and seaman; the decks were
washed; sail was made; the new crew were posted
at their different stations as they had been, though
in fewer numbers, on board their former vessel;
and, half an hour after the conflict, as the disk of
the sun sunk behind the Highlands of Monmouth,
scarcely a vestige of the terrific contest was apparent
in the orderly exterior and accurate nautical
appointments of the captured vessel.
The moon rose like a shield of pearl, and flung
her pale, snowy light along the dark waves, and
silvered the sails of the brig as she went bowling
along over the sparkling surges. On the quarter-deck
sat Captain Fitzroy and his youthful secretary.
They were unarmed, and the elder manacled
with heavy irons; but the younger was unbound.
Not far from them, at times stopping to survey
them, walked moodily their captor, his brow knit
with thought, and his lips compressed with fierce
resolution. At length he stopped, and said to an
inferior officer who stood in the waste leaning over
the bulwarks and watching the swift and steady
progress of the vessel through the water,
“Griffin, prepare the plank!”
“You do not mean—”
“It matters not to you what I mean. Obey me!
You are given of late to question my orders too
boldly. Bring the brig to and get out the plank,”
he reiterated, in a firm manner.
“There has been blood enough shed,” said the
man, with dogged determination, folding his arms
and looking his commander in the face. “I will
do no more of it.”
“Ha! by the living spirit! Mutiny?”
“I will be a butcher no longer, be it mutiny or
not. I am sick of it.”
“Will you to your duty, sir?”
“To work the ship, but not to take more life,”
said the officer, steadily.
“You are mad, Griffin! My authority must not
be questioned, even by you. I would not take
your life,” he added, placing his hand on the butt of
a pistol and half drawing it from his belt. “You
cannot be alone in this mutiny—you wear too bold
a front.”
“Nor am I. Ho! lads—a Griffin! a Griffin!”
The loud cry of the mutineer was responded to
by the shout of eight or ten pirates, who instantly
placed themselves, with drawn cutlasses, around
him.
“By the cross! it is well matured!” muttered
Kyd, with terrible calmness. “Back, fellows! To
your posts! You, Griffin—for the last time—to
your station, sir, and bring the brig to!”
“Never, sir! Draw and charge. Now is our
time!” he cried to his party.
A cry between a yell and the sound made by the
gnashing of teeth escaped the infuriated bucanier
chief. Like a tiger, he sprung upon them singlehanded,
and struck back half a score of blades with
a single broad sweep of his cutlass, while those
who wielded them stood appalled.
“Back, dogs! Do ye fear me singly? Oh, ho,
cowards! Stand where ye are! and you, traitor,”
he cried, breaking the cutlass of their leader short
to its hilt, “go to your duty! I spare your life!”
“Never!”
“Then go to the devil with my compliments.”
With the words he placed a pistol at his breast
and fired: the man leaped high into the air and fell
backward dead.
“Now, fellows, return to your stations,” he said,
returning his smoking pistol to his belt. “The first
who hesitates or falters lies beside this carcass,” he
added, touching, with a contemptuous gesture, the
body with his foot.
The mutineers dropped their weapons and returned
to their posts without hesitation or a murmur.
“Lawrence, you are no longer coxswain,”
said Kyd. “Take this mutineer's rank. See that
my orders are obeyed! Lay the main topsail to
the mast!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” replied the new lieutenant, with
alacrity.
The helm was put hard down, the vessel came
up into the wind, the heavy sail was reversed
against the topmast, and the vessel became stationary.
A plank was then run out over the gangway
bulwarks with the largest end inboard.
“Now, Rupert Fitzroy, prepare to die!” said
the bucanier, approaching his prisoner, who stood
with folded arms and calm brow gazing upon the
moon walking in her brightness, and looking as if
he anticipated the speedy flight of his spirit through
the starry world. He evidently expected death,
and was prepared to meet it. His companion stood
by him leaning upon his shoulder; his hands were
clasped together, and he was pale and deadly in
aspect, but not less resigned: nevertheless, he involuntarily
shuddered as the footsteps of the pirate
approached them, and addressed the former.
“I will give you a free leap into the other world,
as your blood is gentle, sir, and will set aside the
cravat of hemp; though in a swing at the yard-arm
many a better man has gone to his account than
Mark Meredith.”
“Ha! do you know me?” demanded the other,
starting from his revery, and fixing his gaze upon
him with surprise and curiosity.
“Thou hast heard whether I do or not, and what
was but suspicion is now proved by thy manner.”
“Who, then, art thou?”
“It matters not. You must die. The last link
that binds you to life is broken. You will soon
learn if the proverb be true that saith there is but
a step between this world and the next, for you
will speedily measure it. The step is rather a wet
one, but there is a fire priests prate about that will
soon dry you.” This irony and sarcasm was spoken
with the most unfeeling manner, while hatred
and malice seemed to dictate each word.
“Surely you cannot, you will not be so inhuman
as to do such foul murder!” cried the youthful
secretary, placing himself between Kyd and Fitzroy,
and stretching forth his hands deprecatingly.
“Who is the blacker murderer, sir—this man
who robs of me my good name, or I, who merely
take his life?” inquired Kyd, haughtily.
“I robbed you not of it,” said Fitzroy. “'Tis
true, I have talked to many of thy deeds. But your
good name! 'twas already gone—thrown away by
your lawless acts of piracy.”
“'Tis false! I had never pirated when I took thee
prisoner. Smuggling a few silks and laces, or
costly wines; defending my ship against officious
gentlemen under king's colours, who fain would
board me, seeking contraband wares—this have
I done, and will do again on like occasion; but pirated
I had not then.”
“A distinction without a difference; a mere quibble
upon words, to cheat thy rankling conscience
into security.”
“Have it thy own way,” said the pirate, with
haughty carelessness. “I will not quarrel with a
man who has but five brief minutes to use his
tongue in. Is all ready there at the gangway?
We're losing time here idly. Ho! lead him to his
death!”
“Impossible,” exclaimed Fitzroy, indignantly;
“you will not carry out a suggestion so infernal.”
“Nay, sir, you will not do such cold-blooded
murder,” cried the secretary, catching the hand of
Kyd, and kneeling at his feet. “Spare! oh, spare
his life, and I will be thy slave!”
“Silence, boy! and you, sir, if you would use
your speech, husband it in words of prayer. Thy
time has come as surely as the moon now shines
in the east.”
“All ready, sir!” said Lawrence, coming aft a
step or two and addressing his captain.
“Will you walk to the gangway, sir, or shall
my men conduct you?”
“Farewell, my faithful Edwin,” he said, with
manly dignity, tenderly embracing the youth. “We
shall in a few minutes meet beyond the skies!”
The youth cast himself into his arms, and the
next moment Fitzroy unclasped his hold and laid
him upon the deck insensible.
“I am ready!” he said, calmly.
“Perhaps you have a last request to make,” said
the pirate chief, sarcastically; “doubtless some
wish is lurking in your breast, which, unexpressed,
will add bitterness to death! If so, intrust it to
me. I'll be its executor. Perhaps,” he continued,
in the same tone, “you have a ring, a lock of hair,
some tender love-token to be returned to the giver.
Perchance some maiden will ask how Fitzroy died.
I'll bear to her a message! Ere to-morrow night
I shall see the peerless Kate of Bellamont; she'll
love me for bringing it, and perhaps yield the pressure
of her haughty lips. I've had love favours on
my own account of the willing maid ere now.”
“Villain! thou liest!” cried the young man,
goaded to phrensy by his words, and only restrained
from springing upon him by the weight of the
irons which shackled him.
“Ask her when you meet hereafter in the other
world, for you meet no more in this!”
“Monster! the cup of death hath its own bitterness,
and needs not thy impious words to drug it.”
“Thou hast nothing, then, to ask?” said the bucanier,
in the same tone of irony he had hitherto
used. “I fain would do thee a kindness.”
“I have one request!”
“Name it.”
“Take off my irons, and let me freely spring into
the grave you have designed for me!”
“Knock off his chains! The devil'll have him
bound in double irons ere the waves that gape to
take him in flow smooth again above his head.”
The manacles were unlocked and removed,
when Kyd, turning to him, asked with bitter malice,
“What else?”
“This broadsword!”
Quicker than thought, he snatched a cutlass from
one of the pirates, and attacked Kyd with a sudden
vigour and skill that was irresistible. The bucanier
retreated on the defensive several paces before
he could rally or return a single blow for the shower
that rained fiercely and unceasingly upon him.
At length he caught the blade of his prisoner on the
guard of his own, and arrested it. An instant they
stood with their crossed weapons in the air, eying
each other, and then simultaneously stepped back
and resumed the fight. The pirates closed round
and would have struck Fitzroy in the back, but the
voice of Kyd restrained them.
“Not a blow, men! He is mine! I will tame
him down ere long!”
For a few seconds longer they battled with terrible
fury, neither having the advantage; now on
one side of the deck, now on the other; now striding
the body of the insensible Edwin, now fighting
together in the waste, retreating and advancing
alternately. At length the bucanier began to gain
an advantage over his less athletic antagonist; he
pushed him hard, and, step by step, compelled him
to retreat towards the stern. Finally, by a strong
and sudden stroke, he shivered his sword to his
hand and left him defenceless. The blow with
which he was about to follow up his advantage
a gesture of triumph, he said, as the other, with
his arms folded, stood passive to receive the blow,
“'Tis enough for me that I have worsted thee!
I have struck my game, so now let the pack worry
him! Set upon him, men, and cut him down; he
is yours!” he cried, with savage ferocity, pointing
to the young officer.
The pirates, with a yell of joy, rushed aft like a
pack of wolves and leaped upon him. With the
strength and skill of desperation, he wrested the
cutlass from the first who reached him, and, springing
backward upon the taffrail, defended himself
a few seconds against the fearful odds. But at
length, yielding to superior numbers, he cast his
sword into the air, and, leaping over the stern, amid
the yells of the pirates and the firing of pistols,
sunk from their sight.
Kyd cast a glance into the dark wave, and, after
a few seconds' survey, said half aloud,
“He is no more! Henceforward I am sole Lord
of Lester!”
These last words gave the clew to his strange
and vindictive thirst for the death of his victim,
and was a key to his otherwise unaccountable
bloodthirstiness. Ho! there, villains! why do
you gaze upon the water? Make sail on the brig!
Man the braces all! Helm hard up! There she
yields! Now she falls off. Steady! belay all!”
The after sails swung back to their original position
as the vessel obeyed her helm; and at first with
scarcely perceptible motion, but gathering momentum
as she moved, she parted the moonlit waves
before her, and went careering over the sparkling
seas in the direction of New-York.
| CHAPTER IV. Captain Kyd, or, The wizard of the sea | |