 | CHAPTER XIII. The water-witch, or, The skimmer of the seas |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
“Now; the business!”
Othello.
Three hours later, and every noise was hushed
on board the royal cruiser. The toil of repairing
damages had ceased, and most of the living, with
the dead, lay alike in common silence. The watchfulness
necessary to the situation of the fatigued
mariners, however, was not forgotten, and though so
many slept, a few eyes were still open, and affecting
to be alert. Here and there, some drowsy seaman
paced the deck, or a solitary young officer endeavored
to keep himself awake, by humming a low
air, in his narrow bounds. The mass of the crew
slept heavily, with pistols in their belts and cutlasses
at their sides, between the guns. There was one
figure extended upon the quarter-deck, with the head
resting on a shot-box. The deep breathing of this
frame, in which weariness contended with suffering.
It was the wounded and feverish master, who had
placed himself in that position to catch an hour of
the repose that was necessary to his situation. On
an arm-chest, which had been emptied of its contents,
lay another but a motionless human form, with
the limbs composed in decent order, and with the
face turned towards the melancholy stars. This was
the body of the young Dumont, which had been
kept, with the intention of consigning it to consecrated
earth, when the ship should return to port.
Ludlow, with the delicacy of a generous and chivalrous
enemy, had with his own hands spread the
stainless ensign of his country over the remains of
the inexperienced but gallant young Frenchman.
There was one little group on the raised deck in
the stern of the vessel, in which the ordinary interests
of life still seemed to exercise their influence.
Hither Ludlow had led Alida and her companions,
after the duties of the day were over, in order that
they might breathe an air fresher than that of the
interior of the vessel. The negress nodded near her
young mistress; the tired Alderman sate with his
back supported against the mizen-mast, giving audible
evidence of his situation; and Ludlow stood
erect, occasionally throwing an earnest look on the
surrounding and unruffled waters, and then lending
his attention to the discourse of his companions.
Alida and Seadrift were seated near each other, on
chairs. The conversation was low, while the melancholy
and the tremor in the voice of la belle Barbérie
denoted how much the events of the day had
shaken her usually firm and spirited mind.
“There is a mingling of the terrific and the beautiful,
of the grand and the seducing, in this unquiet
profession of yours!” observed, or rather continued
Alida, replying to a previous remark of the young
surf on the shore—and this soft canopy above us,
form objects on which even a girl might dwell in
admiration, were not her ears still ringing with the
roar and cries of the combat. Did you say the commander
of the Frenchman was but a youth?”
“A mere boy in appearance, and one who doubtless
owed his rank to the advantages of birth and
family. We know it to be the captain, by his dress,
no less than by the desperate effort he made to recover
the false step taken in the earlier part of the
action.”
“Perhaps he has a mother, Ludlow!—a sister—a
wife—or—”
Alida paused, for, with maiden diffidence, she
hesitated to pronounce the tie which was uppermost
in her thoughts.
“He may have had one, or all! Such are the sailor's
hazards, and—”
“Such the hazards of those who feel an interest
in their safety!” uttered the low but expressive
voice of Seadrift.
A deep and eloquent silence succeeded. Then the
voice of Myndert was heard muttering indistinctly,
“twenty of beaver, and three of marten—as per
invoice.” The smile which, spite of the train of his
thoughts, rose on the lips of Ludlow, had scarcely
passed away, when the hoarse tones of Trysail, rendered
still hoarser by his sleep, were plainly heard
in a stifled cry, saying, “Bear a hand, there, with
your stoppers!—the Frenchman is coming round
upon us, again.”
“That is prophetic!” said one, aloud, behind the
listening group. Ludlow turned, quick as the flag
fluttering on its vane, and through the darkness he
recognized, in the motionless but manly form that
stood near him on the poop, the fine person of the
`Skimmer of the Seas.'
“Call away—!”
“Call none!”—interrupted Tiller, stopping the
hurried order which involuntarily broke from the
lips of Ludlow. “Let thy ship feign the silence of a
wreck, but, in truth, let there be watchfulness and
preparation even to her store-rooms! You have done
well, Captain Ludlow, to be on the alert, though I
have known sharper eyes than those of some of your
look-outs.”
“Whence come you, audacious man, and what
mad errand has brought you again on the deck of
my ship?”
“I come from my habitation on the sea. My business
here is warning!”
“The sea!” echoed Ludlow, gazing about him at
the narrow and empty view. “The hour for mockery
is past, and you would do well to trifle no more
with those who have serious duties to discharge.”
“The hour is indeed one for serious duties—duties
more serious than any you apprehend. But before
I enter on explanation, there must be conditions
between us. You have one of the sea-green lady's
servitors, here; I claim his liberty, for my secret.”
“The error into which I had fallen exists no
longer;” returned Ludlow, looking for an instant towards
the shrinking form of Seadrift. “My conquest
is worthless, unless you come to supply his
place.”
“I come for other purposes—here is one who
knows I do not trifle when urgent affairs are on
hand. Let thy companions retire, that I may speak
openly.”
Ludlow hesitated, for he had not yet recovered
from the surprise of finding the redoubtable free-trader
so unexpectedly on the deck of his ship. But
Alida and her companion arose, like those who had
more confidence in their visiter, and, arousing the
negress from her sleep, they descended the ladder
alone with Tiller, he demanded an explanation.
“It shall not be withheld, for time presses, and
that which is to be done must be done with a seaman's
care and coolness;” returned the other.—
“You have had a close brush with one of Louis's rovers,
Captain Ludlow, and prettily was the ship of
Queen Anne handled! Have your people suffered,
and are you still strong enough to make good a defence
worthy of your conduct this morning?”
“These are facts you would have me utter to the
ear of one who may be false;—even a spy!”
“Captain Ludlow—but circumstances warrant thy
suspicions!”
“One whose vessel and life I have threatened—
an outlaw!”
“This is too true,” returned the `Skimmer of the
Seas,' suppressing a sudden impulse of pride and resentment.
“I am threatened and pursued—I am a
smuggler and an outlaw: still am I human! You see
that dusky object, which borders the sea to the
northward!”
“It is too plainly land, to be mistaken.”
“Land, and the land of my birth!—the earliest,
perhaps I may say the happiest of my days, were
passed on that long and narrow island.”
“Had I known it earlier, there would have been
a closer look among its bays and inlets.”
“The search might have been rewarded. A cannon
would easily throw its shot from this deck to the
spot where my brigantine now lies, snug at a single
anchor.”
“Unless you have swept her near since the setting
of the sun, that is impossible! When the night drew
on, nothing was in view but the frigate and corvette
of the enemy.”
“We have not stirred a fathom; and yet, true as
the word of a fearless man, there lies the vessel of
beach falls—here, at the nearest point of the land—
the island is nearly severed by the water at that
spot, and the Water-Witch is safe in the depths of
the bay which enters from the northward. There
is not a mile between us. From the eastern hill, I
witnessed your spirit this day, Captain Ludlow, and
though condemned in person, I felt that the heart
could never be outlawed. There is a fealty here,
that can survive even the persecutions of the custom-houses!”
“You are happy in your terms, Sir. I will not
conceal that I think seaman, even as skilful as
yourself, must allow that the Coquette was kept
prettily in command!”
“No pilot-boat could have been more sure, or
more lively. I knew your weakness, for the absence
of all your boats was no secret to me; and I confess
I could have spared some of the profits of the voyage,
to have been on your decks this day with a dozen of
my truest fellows!”
“A man who can feel this loyalty to the flag,
should find a more honorable occupation for his usual
life.”
“A country that can inspire it, should be cautious
not to estrange the affections of its children, by monopolies
and injustice. But these are discussions unsuited
to the moment. I am doubly your countryman
in this strait, and all the past is no more than
the rough liberties which friends take with each
other. Captain Ludlow, there is danger brooding
in that dark void which lies to seaward!”
“On what authority do you speak thus?”
“Sight.—I have been among your enemies, and
have seen their deadly preparations. I know the
caution is given to a brave man, and nothing shall be
extenuated. You have need of all your resolution,
overwhelming numbers!”
“True or false, thy warning shall not be neglected.”
“Hold!” said the Skimmer, arresting a forward
movement of his companion, with his hand. “Let
them sleep to the last moment. You have yet an
hour, and rest will renew their strength. You may
trust the experience of a seaman who has passed
half of the life of man on the ocean, and who has
witnessed all its most stirring scenes, from the conflict
of the elements to every variety of strife that
man has invented to destroy his fellows. For another
hour, you will be secure.—After that hour, God protect
the unprepared! and God be merciful to him
whose minutes are numbered!”
“Thy language and manner are those of one who
deals honestly;” returned Ludlow, struck by the apparent
sincerity of the free-trader's communication.
“In every event, we shall be ready, though the manner
of your having gained this knowledge is as great
a mystery as your appearance on the deck of my
ship.”
“Both can be explained,” returned the Skimmer,
motioning to his companion to follow to the taffrail.
Here he pointed to a small and nearly imperceptible
skiff, which floated at the bottom of a stern-ladder,
and continued—“One who so often pays secret visits
to the land, can never be in want of the means. This
nut-shell was easily transported across the narrow
slip of land that separates the bay from the ocean,
and though the surf moans so hoarsely, it is easily
passed by a steady and dexterous oarsman. I have
been under the martingale of the Frenchman, and
you see that I am here. If your look-outs are less
alert than usual, you will remember that a low gunwale,
a dusky side, and a muffled oar, are not readily
detected, when the eye is heavy and the body wearied.
prudent to send those who can be of no service, out
of the ship, before the trial shall come?”
Ludlow hesitated. A strong desire to put Alida in
a place of safety, was met by his distrust of the
smuggler's faith. He reflected a moment, ere he answered.
“Your cockle-shell is not sufficiently secure for
more than its owner.—Go, and as you prove loyal,
may you prosper!”
“Abide the blow!” said the Skimmer, grasping his
hand. He then stepped carelessly on the dangling
ropes, and descended into the boat beneath. Ludlow
watched his movements, with an intense and possibly
with a distrustful curiosity. When seated at the
sculls, the person of the free-trader was nearly indistinct;
and as the boat glided noiselessly away, the
young commander no longer felt disposed to censure
those who had permitted its approach without a warning.
In less than a minute, the dusky object was confounded
with the surface of the sea.
Left to himself, the young commander of the Coquette
seriously reflected on what had passed. The
manner of the Skimmer, the voluntary character of
his communication, its probability, and the means by
which his knowledge had been obtained, united to
confirm his truth. Instances of similar attachment
to their flag, in seamen whose ordinary pursuits were
opposed to its interests, were not uncommon. Their
misdeeds resemble the errors of passion and temptation,
while the momentary return to better things is
like the inextinguishable impulses of nature.
The admonition of the free-trader, who had enjoined
the captain to allow his people to sleep, was
remembered. Twenty times, within as many minutes,
did our young sailor examine his watch, to note
the tardy passage of the time; and as often did he
return it to his pocket, with a determination to forbear.
and drew near the only form that was erect. The
watch was commanded by a youth of sixteen, whose
regular period of probationary service had not passed,
but who, in the absence of his superiors, was intrusted
with this delicate and important duty. He
stood leaning against the capstan, one hand supporting
his cheek, while the elbow rested against the
drum, and the body was without motion. Ludlow
regarded him a moment, and then lifting a lighted
battle-lantern to his face, he saw that he slept. Without
disturbing the delinquent, the captain replaced
the lantern and passed forward. In the gangway
there stood a marine, with his musket shouldered, in
an attitude of attention. As Ludlow brushed within
a few inches of his eyes, it was easy to be seen that
they opened and shut involuntarily, and without consciousness
of what lay before them. On the top-gallant-forecastle
was a short, square, and well-balanced
figure, that stood without support of any kind, with
both arms thrust into the bosom of a jacket, and a
head that turned slowly to the west and south, as if
it were examining the ocean in those directions.
Stepping lightly up the ladder, Ludlow saw that
it was the veteran seaman who was rated as the
captain of the forecastle.
“I am glad, at last, to find one pair of eyes open,
in my ship,” said the captain. “Of the whole watch,
you alone are alert.”
“I have doubled cape fifty, your Honor, and the
seaman who has made that voyage, rarely wants the
second call of the boatswain. Young heads have
young eyes, and sleep is next to food, after a heavy
drag at gun-tackles and lanyards.”
“And what draws your attention so steadily in
that quarter? There is nothing visible but the haze
of the sea.”
“'Tis the direction of the Frenchmen, Sir—does
your Honor hear nothing?”
“Nothing;” said Ludlow, after intently listening
for half a minute. “Nothing, unless it be the wash
of the surf on the beach.”
“It may be only fancy, but there came a sound
like the fall of an oar-blade on a thwart, and 'tis but
natural, your Honor, to expect the mounsheer will
be out, in this smooth water, to see what has become
of us.—There went the flash of a light, or my name
is not Bob Cleet!”
Ludlow was silent. A light was certainly visible
in the quarter where the enemy was known to be
anchored, and it came and disappeared like a moving
lantern. At length it was seen to descend slowly, and
vanish as if it were extinguished in the water.
“That lantern went into a boat, Captain Ludlow,
though a lubber carried it!” said the positive old
forecastle-man, shaking his head and beginning to
pace across the deck, with the air of a man who
needed no further confirmation of his suspicions.
Ludlow returned towards the quarter-deck,
thoughtful but calm. He passed among his sleeping
crew, without awaking a man, and even forbearing
to touch the still motionless midshipman, he entered
his cabin without speaking.
The commander of the Coquette was absent but
a few minutes. When he again appeared on deck,
there was more of decision and of preparation in his
manner.
“'Tis time to call the watch, Mr. Reef;” he whispered
at the elbow of the drowsy officer of the deck,
without betraying his consciousness of the youth's
forgetfulness of duty. “The glass is out.”
“Ay, ay, Sir.—Bear a hand, and turn the glass!”
muttered the young man. “A fine night, Sir, and
very smooth water.—I was just thinking of—”
“Home and thy mother! 'Tis the way with us all
the thoughts. Muster all the gentlemen, here,
on the quarter-deck, Sir.”
“When the half-sleeping midshipman quitted his
captain to obey this order, the latter drew near the
spot where Trysail still lay in an unquiet sleep. A
light touch of a single finger was sufficient to raise
the master on his feet. The first look of the veteran
tar was aloft, the second at the heavens, and the last
at his captain.
“I fear thy wound stiffens, and that the night air
has added to the pain?” observed the latter, speaking
in a kind and considerate tone.
“The wounded spar cannot be trusted like a sound
stick, Captain Ludlow; but as I am no foot-soldier
on a march, the duty of the ship may go on without
my calling for a horse.”
“I rejoice in thy cheerful spirit, my old friend, for
here is serious work likely to fall upon our hands.
The Frenchmen are in their boats, and we shall
shortly be brought to close quarters, or prognostics
are false.”
“Boats!” repeated the master. “I had rather it
were under our canvas, with a stiff breeze! The
play of this ship is a lively foot, and a touching leech;
but, when, it comes to boats, a marine is nearly as
good a man as a quarter-master!”
“We must take fortune as it offers.—Here is our
council!—It is composed of young heads, but of
hearts that might do credit to gray hairs.”
Ludlow joined the little group of officers that was
by this time assembled near the capstan. Here, in a
few words, he explained the reason why he had summoned
them from their sleep. When each of the
youths understood his orders, and the nature of the
new danger that threatened the ship, they separated,
and began to enter with activity, but in guarded
silence, on the necessary preparations. The sound
immediately joined their officers.
Half an hour passed like a moment, in such an
occupation. At the end of that time, Ludlow deemed
his ship ready. The two forward guns had been run
in, and the shot having been drawn, their places
were supplied with double charges of grape and
canister. Several swivels, a species of armament
much used in that age, were loaded to the muzzles,
and placed in situations to rake the deck, while the
fore-top was plentifully stored with arms and ammunition.
The matches were prepared, and then the
whole of the crew was mustered, by a particular
call of each man. Five minutes sufficed to issue the
necessary orders, and to see each post occupied.
After this, the low hum ceased in the ship, and the
silence again became so deep and general, that the
wash of the receding surf was nearly as audible as
the plunge of the wave on the sands.
Ludlow stood on the forecastle, accompanied by
the master. Here he lent all his senses to the appearance
of the elements, and to the signs of the
moment. Wind there was none, though occasionally
a breath of hot air came from the land, like the first
efforts of the night-breeze. The heavens were
clouded, though a few thoughtful stars glimmered
between the masses of vapor.
“A calmer night never shut in the Americas!”
said the veteran Trysail, shaking his head doubtingly,
and speaking in a suppressed and cautious tone. “I
am one of those, Captain Ludlow, who think more
than half the virtue is out of a ship when her anchor
is down!”
“With a weakened crew, it may be better for us
that the people have no yards to handle, nor any
bowlines to steady. All our care can be given to
defence.”
“This is much like telling the hawk he can fight
trouble of flying! The nature of a ship is motion,
and the merit of a seaman is judicious and lively
handling;—but of what use is complaining, since it
will neither lift an anchor nor fill a sail? What is
your opinion, Captain Ludlow, concerning an after
life, and of all those matters one occasionally hears
of if he happens to drift in the way of a church?”
“The question is broad as the ocean, my good
friend, and a fitting answer might lead us into abstrusities
deeper than any problem in our trigonometry.—Was
that the stroke of an oar?”
“'Twas a land noise. Well, I am no great navigator
among the crooked channels of religion. Every
new argument is a sand-bar, or a shoal, that obliges
me to tack and stand off again; else I might have
been a bishop, for any thing the world knows to the
contrary. 'Tis a gloomy night, Captain Ludlow, and
one that is sparing of its stars. I never knew luck
come of an expedition on which a natural light did
not fall!”
“So much the worse for those who seek to harm
us.—I surely heard an oar in the row-lock!”
“It came from the shore, and had the sound of
the land about it;” quietly returned the master, who
still kept his look riveted on the heavens. “This
world, in which we live, Captain Ludlow, is one of
extraordinary uses; but that, to which we are
steering, is still more unaccountable. They say that
worlds are sailing above us, like ships in a clear sea;
and there are people who believe, that when we
take our departure from this planet, we are only
bound to another, in which we are to be rated according
to our own deeds here; which is much the
same as being drafted for a new ship, with a certificate
of service in one's pocket.”
“The resemblance is perfect;” returned the
other, leaning far over a timber-head, to catch the
“That was no more than the blowing of a porpoise!”
“It was strong enough for the puff of a whale.
There is no scarcity of big fish on the coast of this
island, and bold harpooners are the men who are
scattered about on the sandy downs, here-away, to
the northward. I once sailed with an officer who
knew the name of every star in the heavens, and
often have I passed hours in listening to his history
of their magnitude and character, during the middle
watches. It was his opinion, that there is but one
navigator for all the rovers of the air, whether meteors,
comets, or planets.”
“No doubt he must be right, having been there.”
“No, that is more than I can say for him, though
few men have gone deeper into the high latitudes
on both sides of our own equator, than he. One
surely spoke—here, in a line with yonder low star!”
“Was it not a water-fowl?”
“No gull—ha! here we have the object, just
within the starboard jib-boom-guy. There comes
the Frenchman in his pride, and 'twill be lucky for
him who lives to count the slain, or to boast of his
deeds!”
The master descended from the forecastle, and
passed among the crew, with every thought recalled
from its excursive flight to the duty of the moment.
Ludlow continued on the forecastle, alone. There
was a low, whispering sound in the ship, like that
which is made by the murmuring of a rising breeze,
—and then all was still as death.
The Coquette lay with her head to seaward, the
stern necessarily pointing towards the land. The
distance from the latter was less than a mile, and
the direction of the ship's hull was caused by the
course of the heavy ground-swell, which incessantly
rolled the waters on the wide beach of the island.
Ludlow walked out on the bowsprit, in order that
nothing should lie between him and the part of the
ocean he wished to study. Here he had not stood
a minute, when he caught, first a confused and then
a more distinct glimpse of a line of dark objects, advancing
slowly towards the ship. Assured of the
position of his enemy, he returned in-board, and descended
among his people. In another moment he
was again on the forecastle, across which he paced
leisurely, and, to all appearance, with the calmness
of one who enjoyed the refreshing coolness of the
night.
At the distance of a hundred fathoms, the dusky
line of boats paused, and began to change its order.
At that instant the first puffs of the land breeze
were felt, and the stern of the ship made a gentle
inclination seaward.
“Help her with the mizen! Let fall the topsail!”
whispered the young captain to those beneath him.
Ere another moment, the flap of the loosened sail
was heard. The ship swung still further, and Ludlow
stamped on the deck.
A round fiery light shot beyond the martingale,
and the smoke rolled along the sea, outstripped by a
crowd of missiles that were hissing across the water.
A shout, in which command was mingled with shrieks,
followed, and then oar-blades were heard dashing the
water aside, regardless of concealment. The ocean
lighted, and three or four boat-guns returned the
fatal discharge from the ship. Ludlow had not spoken.
Still alone on his elevated and exposed post, he
watched the effects of both fires, with a commander's
coolness. The smile that struggled about his compressed
mouth, when the momentary confusion among
the boats betrayed the success of his own attack,
had been wild and exulting; but when he heard the
rending of the plank beneath him, the heavy groans
that were scattered by the shot, as it passed with
lessened force along the deck of his ship, it became
fierce and resentful.
“Let them have it!” he shouted, in a clear animating
voice, that assured the people of his presence
and his care. “Show them the humor of an Englishman's
sleep, my lads! Speak to them, tops and
decks!”
The order was obeyed. The remaining bow-gun
was fired, and the discharge of all the Coquette's
musketry and blunderbusses followed. A crowd of
boats came sweeping under the bowsprit of the ship
at the same moment, and then arose the clamor and
shouts of the boarders.
The succeeding minutes were full of confusion,
and of devoted exertion. Twice were the head and
bowsprit of the ship filled with dark groups of men,
whose grim visages were only visible by the pistol's
flash, and as often were they cleared by the pike
and bayonet. A third effort was more successful, and
the tread of the assailants was heard on the deck of
the forecastle. The struggle was but momentary,
though many fell, and the narrow arena was soon
slippery with blood. The Boulognese mariner was
foremost among his countrymen, and at that desperate
emergency Ludlow and Trysail fought in the
common herd. Numbers prevailed, and it was fortunate
for the commander of the Coquette, that the
sudden recoil of a human body that fell upon him,
drove him from his footing to the deck beneath.
Recovering from the fall, the young captain cheered
his men by his voice, and was answered by the
deep-mouthed shouts, which an excited seaman is
ever ready to deliver, even to the death.
“Rally in the gangways, and defy them!” was the
animated cry—“Rally in the gangways, hearts of
oak,” was returned by Trysail, in a ready but weakened
he could still muster a force capable of resistance.
Both parties for a moment paused. The fire of the
top annoyed the boarders, and the defendants hesitated
to advance. But the rush from both was common,
and a fierce encounter occurred at the foot of
the foremast. The crowd thickened in the rear of
the French, and one of their number no sooner fell
than another filled his place. The English receded,
and Ludlow, extricating himself from the mass, retired
to the quarter-deck.
“Give way, men!” he again shouted, so clear and
steady, as to be heard above the cries and execrations
of the fight. “Into the wings; down,—between
the guns—down—to your covers!”
The English disappeared, as if by magic. Some
leaped upon the ridge-ropes, others sought the protection
of the guns, and many went through the
hatches. At that moment Ludlow made his most
desperate effort. Aided by the gunner, he applied
matches to the two swivels, which had been placed
in readiness for a last resort. The deck was enveloped
in smoke, and, when the vapor lifted, the forward
part of the ship was as clear as if man had never
trod it. All who had not fallen, had vanished.
A shout, and a loud hurrah! brought back the
defendants, and Ludlow headed a charge upon the
top-gallant-forecastle, again, in person. A few of
the assailants showed themselves from behind covers
on the deck, and the struggle was renewed. Glaring
balls of fire sailed over the heads of the combatants,
and fell among the throng in the rear. Ludlow saw
the danger, and he endeavored to urge his people
on to regain the bow-guns, one of which was known
to be loaded. But the explosion of a grenade on
deck, and in his rear, was followed by a shock in the
hold, that threatened to force the bottom out of the
vessel. The alarmed and weakened crew began to
by a fierce rally, in which the assailants
brought up fifty men in a body from their boats,
Ludlow found himself compelled to retire amid the
retreating mass of his own crew.
The defence now assumed the character of hopeless
but desperate resistance. The cries of the enemy
were more and more clamorous; and they succeeded
in nearly silencing the top, by a heavy fire of musketry
established on the bowsprit and sprit-sail-yard.
Events passed much faster than they can be related.
The enemy were in possession of all the forward
part of the ship to her fore-hatches, but into
these young Hopper had thrown himself, with half-a-dozen
men, and, aided by a brother midshipman in
the launch, backed by a few followers, they still held
the assailants at bay. Ludlow cast an eye behind
him, and began to think of selling his life as dearly
as possible in the cabins. That glance was arrested
by the sight of the malign smile of the sea-green
lady, as the gleaming face rose above the taffrail.
A dozen dark forms leaped upon the poop, and then
arose a voice that sent every tone it uttered to his
heart.
“Abide the shock!” was the shout of those who
came to the succor; and “abide the shock!” was
echoed by the crew. The mysterious image glided
along the deck, and Ludlow knew the athletic frame
that brushed through the throng at its side.
There was little noise in the onset, save the groans
of the sufferers. It endured but a moment, but it
was a moment that resembled the passage of a whirlwind.
The defendants knew that they were succored,
and the assailants recoiled before so unexpected a
foe. The few that were caught beneath the forecastle
were mercilessly slain, and those above were
swept from their post like chaff drifting in a gale.
The living and the dead were heard falling alike
time, the decks of the Coquette were free. A solitary
enemy still hesitated on the bowsprit. A powerful
and active frame leaped along the spar, and though
the blow was not seen, its effects were visible, as the
victim tumbled helplessly into the ocean.
The hurried dash of oars followed, and before the
defendants had time to assure themselves of the
completeness of their success, the gloomy void of the
surrounding ocean had swallowed up the boats.
| CHAPTER XIII. The water-witch, or, The skimmer of the seas | |