 | CHAPTER V. The pilot |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
Lifts her red arm, expos'd and bare:—
Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see,
And look not madly wild, like thee?”
Collins.
It is certain that Tom Coffin had devised no
settled plan of operations, when he issued from
the apartment of Borroughcliffe, if we except a
most resolute determination to make the best of
his way to the Ariel, and to share her fate, let it
be either to sink or swim. But this was a resolution
much easier formed by the honest seaman,
than executed, in his present situation. He
would have found it less difficult to extricate a
vessel from the dangerous shoals of the “Devil's-Grip,”
than to thread the mazes of the
labyrinth of passages, galleries, and apartments,
in which he found himself involved. He remembered,
as he expressed it to himself, in a low soliloquy,
“to have run into a narrow passage from
the main channel, but whether he had sheered
to the starboard or larboard hand,” was a material
fact, that had entirely escaped his memory.
Tom was in that part of the building that Colonel
Howard had designated as the “cloisters,”
and in which, luckily for him, he was but little
liable to encounter any foe; the room occupied by
wing, that was not exclusively devoted to the
service of the ladies. The circumstance of the
soldier's being permitted to invade this sanctuary,
was owing to the necessity, on the part of
Colonel Howard, of placing either Griffith, Manual,
or the recruiting officer, in the vicinity of his
wards, or of subjecting his prisoners to a treatment
that the veteran would have thought unworthy
of his name and character. This recent change
in the quarters of Borroughcliffe operated doubly
to the advantage of Tom, by lessening the
chance of the speedy release of his uneasy captive,
as well as by diminishing his own danger.
Of the former circumstance he was, however, not
aware, and the consideration of the latter was a
sort of reflection to which the cockswain was, in
no degree, addicted.
Following, necessarily, the line of the wall, he
soon emerged from the dark and narrow passage
in which he had first found himself, and entered
the principal gallery, that communicated with all
the lower apartments of that wing, as well as
with the main body of the edifice. An open
door, through which a strong light was glaring,
at a distant end of this gallery, instantly caught
his eye, and the old seaman had not advanced
many steps towards it, before he discovered that
he was approaching the very room which had so
much excited his curiosity, and by the identical
passage through which he had entered the Abbey.
To turn, and retrace his steps, was the most obvious
course, for any man to take, who felt anxious
to escape; but the sounds of high conviviality,
bursting from the cheerful apartment, among
which the cockswain thought he distinguished
the name of Griffith, determined Tom to advance
and reconnoitre the scene more closely. The
shadow, the doubting old seaman stood once more
near that threshold which he had so lately crossed,
when conducted to the room of Borroughcliffe.
The seat of that gentleman was now occupied by
Dillon, and Colonel Howard had resumed his
wonted station at the foot of the table. The
noise was chiefly made by the latter, who had
evidently been enjoying a more minute relation
of the means by which his kinsman had entrapped
his unwary enemy.
“A noble ruse!” cried the veteran, as Tom
assumed his post, in ambush; “a most noble and
ingenious ruse, and such a one as would have
baffled Cæsar! he must have been a cunning
dog, that Cæsar; but I do think, Kit, you would
have been too much for him; hang me, if I don't
think you would have puzzled Wolfe himself, had
you held Quebec, instead of Montcalm! Ah!
boy, we want you in the colonies, with the ermine
over your shoulders; such men as you,
cousin Christopher, are sadly, sadly wanting
there to defend his majesty's rights.”
“Indeed, dear sir, your partiality gives me
credit for qualities I do not possess,” said Dillon,
dropping his eyes, perhaps with a feeling of conscious
unworthiness, but with an air of much
humility; “the little justifiable artifice—”
“Ay! there lies the beauty of the transaction,”
interrupted the colonel, shoving the bottle from
him, with the free, open air of a man who never
harboured disguise; “you told no lie; no mean
deception, that any dog, however base and unworthy,
might invent; but you practised a neat,
a military, a—a—yes, a classical deception on
your enemy; a classical deception, that is the
very term for it! such a deception as Pompey,
or Mark Antony, or—or—you know those old
the cleverest fellow that ever lived in Greece or
Rome, and I shall say he is a dunce, compared
to you. 'Twas a real Spartan trick, both simple
and honest.”
It was extremely fortunate for Dillon, that the
animation of his aged kinsman kept his head and
body in such constant motion, during this apostrophe,
as to intercept the aim that the cockswain
was deliberately taking at his head, with
one of Borroughcliffe's pistols; and perhaps
the sense of shame, which induced him to sink
his face on his two hands, was another means
of saving his life, by giving the indignant old
seaman time for reflection.
“But you have not spoken of the ladies,” said
Dillon, after a moment's pause; “I should hope,
they have borne the alarm of the day like kinswomen
of the family of Howard.”
The colonel glanced his eyes around him, as if
to assure himself they were alone, and dropped
his voice, as he answered—
“Ah! Kit, they have come to, since this rebel
scoundrel, Griffith, has been brought into the
Abbey; we were favoured with the company of
even Miss Howard, in the dining-room, to-day.
There was a good deal of `dear uncleing,' and
`fears that my life might be exposed by the quarrels
and skirmishes of these desperadoes who
have landed;' as if an old fellow, who served
through the whole war, from '56 to '63, was afraid
to let his nose smell gunpowder, any more than if
it were snuff! But it will be a hard matter to
wheedle an old soldier out of his allegiance!
This Griffith goes to the Tower, at least, Mr.
Dillon.”
“It would be advisable to commit his person
to the civil authority, without delay.”
“To the constable of the Tower, the Earl Cornwallis,
a good and loyal nobleman, who is, at
this moment, fighting the rebels in my own native
province, Christopher,” interrupted the colonel;
“that will be what I call retributive justice;
but,” continued the veteran, rising with an air of
gentlemanly dignity, “it will not do to permit
even the constable of the Tower of London, to
surpass the master of St. Ruth, in hospitality and
kindness to his prisoners. I have ordered suitable
refreshments to their apartments, and it is incumbent
on me to see that my commands have been
properly obeyed. Arrangements must also be
made for the reception of this Captain Barnstable,
who will, doubtless, soon be here.”
“Within the hour, at farthest,” said Dillon,
looking uneasily at his watch.
“We must be stirring, boy,” continued the
colonel, moving towards the door that led to the
apartments of his prisoners; “but there is a
courtesy due to the ladies, as well as to these unfortunate
violators of the laws—go, Christopher,
convey my kindest wishes to Cecilia; she don't
deserve them, the obstinate vixen, but then she is
my brother Harry's child! and while there, you
arch dog, plead your own cause. Mark Antony
was a fool to you at a `ruse,' and yet Mark was
one of your successful suitors, too; there was
that Queen of the Pyramids—”
The door closed on the excited veteran, at
these words, and Dillon was left standing by
himself, at the side of the table, musing, as if in
doubt, whether to venture on the step that his
kinsman had proposed, or not.
The greater part of the preceding discourse
was unintelligible to the cockswain, who had
waited its termination with extraordinary patience,
in hopes he might obtain some information
officers. Before he had time to decide on
what was now best for him to do, Dillon, suddenly,
determined to venture himself in the cloisters;
and, swallowing a couple of glasses of wine
in a breath, he passed the hesitating cockswain,
who was concealed by the opening door, so closely
as to brush his person, and moved down
the gallery with those rapid strides, which men,
who act under the impulse of forced resolutions,
are very apt to assume, as if to conceal their
weakness from themselves. Tom hesitated no
longer, but, aiding the impulse given to the door
by Dillon as he passed, so as to darken the passage,
he followed the sounds of the other's footsteps,
while he trod, in the manner already described,
the stone pavement of the gallery. Dillon
paused an instant at the turning that led to the
room of Borroughcliffe, but whether irresolute
which way to urge his steps, or listening to the
incautious and heavy treads of the cockswain, is
not known; if the latter, he mistook them for
the echoes of his own footsteps, and moved forward
again, without making any discovery.
The light tap which Dillon gave on the door
of the withdrawing-room of the cloisters, was
answered by the soft voice of Cecilia Howard
herself, who bid the applicant enter. There was
a slight confusion evident in the manner of the
gentleman as he complied with the bidding, and
in its hesitancy, the door was, for an instant, neglected.
“I come, Miss Howard,” said Dillon, “by
the commands of your uncle, and, permit me to
add, by my own—”
“May heaven shield us!” exclaimed Cecilia,
clasping her hands in affright, and rising involuntarily
and murdered?”
“Surely Miss Howard will not impute to me”—
but Dillon, observing that the wild looks, not only
of Cecilia, but of Katherine and Alice Dunscombe,
also, were directed at some other object,
turned, and, to his manifest terror, he beheld the
gigantic frame of the cockswain, surmounted by
an iron visage fixed in settled hostility, in possession
of the only passage to or from the apartment.
“If there's murder to be done,” said Tom, after
surveying the astonished group with a stern
eye, “it's as likely this here liar will be the one
to do it, as another; but you have nothing to fear
from a man who has followed the seas too long,
and has grappled with too many monsters, both
fish and flesh, not to know how to treat a helpless
woman. None, who know him, will ever
say, that Thomas Coffin ever used uncivil language,
or unseaman-like conduct, to any of his
mother's kind.”
“Coffin!” exclaimed Katherine, advancing
with a more confident air, from the corner, into
which terror had driven her with her companions.
“Ay, Coffin,” continued the old sailor, his
grim features gradually relaxing, as he gazed on
her bright looks; “'tis a solemn word, but it's a
name that passes over the shoals, among the islands,
and along the cape, oftener than any other.
My father was a Coffin, and my mother was a
Joy; and the two names can count more flukes
than all the rest in the island together; though
the Worths, and the Gar'ners, and the Swaines,
dart better harpoons, and set truer lances, than
any men who come from the weather-side of the
Atlantic.”
Katherine listened to this digression in honour
of the whalers of Nantucket, with marked complacency,
and, when he concluded, she repeated,
slowly—
“Coffin! this, then, is long-Tom!”
“Ay, ay, long-Tom, and no sham in the name
either,” returned the cockswain, suffering the
stern indignation that had lowered around his
hard visage, to relax into a low laugh, as he gazed
on her animated features; “the Lord bless
your smiling face and bright black eyes, young
madam; you have heard of old long-Tom, then?
most likely, 'twas something about the blow he
strikes at the fish—ah! I'm old and I'm stiff,
now, young madam, but, afore I was nineteen, I
stood at the head of the dance, at a ball on the
cape, and that with a partner almost as handsome
as yourself—ay! and this was after I had
three broad flukes logg'd against my name.”
“No,” said Katherine, advancing in her eagerness
a step or two nigher to the old tar, her
cheeks flushing while she spoke, “I had heard of
you as the instructer in a seaman's duty, as the
faithful cockswain, nay, I may say, as the devoted
companion and friend of Mr. Richard Barnstable—but,
perhaps, you come now as the bearer
of some message or letter from that gentleman.”
The sound of his commander's name suddenly
revived the recollection of Coffin, and with it,
all the fierce sternness of his manner returned.
Bending his eyes keenly on the cowering form of
Dillon, he said, in those deep, harsh tones, that
seem peculiar to men, who have braved the elements,
until they appear to have imbibed some
of their roughest qualities—
“Liar! how now? what brought old Tom
Coffin into these shoals and narrow channels?
the winds to blow, and teacheth the lost mariner
how to steer over the wide waters, you shall
sleep this night, villain, on the planks of the
Ariel; and if it be the will of God, that beautiful
piece of handicraft is to sink at her moorings,
like a worthless hulk, ye shall still sleep in her;
ay, and a sleep that shall not end, 'till they call
all hands, to foot up the days'-work of this life,
at the close of man's longest voyage.”
The extraordinary vehemence, the language,
the attitude of the old seaman, commanding in
its energy, and the honest indignation that shone
in every look of his keen eyes, together with the
nature of the address, and its paralyzing effect on
Dillon, who quailed before it like the stricken
deer, united to keep the female listeners, for many
moments, silent, through amazement. During
this brief period, Tom advanced upon his nerveless
victim, and lashing his arms together behind
his back, he fastened him, by a strong cord, to
the broad canvass belt that he constantly wore
around his own body, leaving to himself, by this
arrangement, the free use of his arms and weapons
of offence, while he secured his captive.
“Surely,” said Cecilia, recovering her recollection
the first of the astonished group, “Mr.
Barnstable has not commissioned you to offer
this violence to my uncle's kinsman, under the
roof of Colonel Howard?—Miss Plowden, your
friend has strangely forgotten himself, in this
transaction, if this man acts in obedience to his
orders!”
“My friend, my cousin Howard,” returned
Katherine, “would never commission his cockswain,
or any one, to do an unworthy deed.
Speak, honest sailor; why do you commit this
outrage on the worthy Mr. Dillon, Colonel Howard's
Ruth's Abbey?”
“Nay, Katherine—”
“Nay, Cecilia, be patient, and let the stranger
have utterance; he may solve the difficulty
altogether.”
The cockswain, understanding that an explanation
was expected from his lips, addressed himself
to the task, with an energy suitable both to
the subject and to his own feelings. In a very
few words, though a little obscured by his peculiar
diction, he made his listeners understand the
confidence that Barnstable had reposed in Dillon,
and the treachery of the latter. They heard him
with increased astonishment, and Cecilia hardly
allowed him time to conclude, before she exclaimed—
“And did Colonel Howard, could Colonel
Howard listen to this treacherous project?”
“Ay, they patched it up among them,” returned
Tom; “though one part of this cruise will
turn out but badly.”
“Even Borroughcliffe, cold and hardened as
he appears to be by habit, would spurn at such
dishonour,” added Miss Howard.
“But, Mr. Barnstable?” at length Katherine
succeeded in saying, when her feelings permitted
her utterance, “said you not, that soldiers were
in quest of him?”
“Ay, ay, young madam,” the cockswain replied,
smiling with grim ferocity, “they are in
chase, but he has shifted his anchorage; and even
if they should find him, his long pikes would
make short work of a dozen red-coats. The
Lord of tempests and calms have mercy though,
on the schooner! Ah! young madam, she is as
lovely to the eyes of an old sea-faring man, as
any of your kind can be to human nature.”
“But why this delay?—away then, honest
Tom, and reveal the treachery to your commander;
you may not yet be too late—why delay
a moment?”
“The ship tarries for want of a pilot—I could
carry three fathom over the shoals of Nantucket,
the darkest night that ever shut the windows of
heaven, but I should be likely to run upon
breakers in this navigation. As it was, I was
near getting into company that I should have had
to fight my way out of.”
“If that be all, follow me,” cried the ardent
Katherine; “I will conduct you to a path that
leads to the ocean, without approaching the sentinels.”
Until this moment, Dillon had entertained a
secret expectation of a rescue, but when he heard
this proposal, he felt his blood retreating to his
heart, from every part of his agitated frame, and
his last hope seemed wrested from him. Raising
himself from the abject, shrinking attitude, in
which both shame and dread had conspired to
keep him, as though he had been fettered to the
spot, he approached Cecilia, and cried, in tones
of horror—
“Do not, do not consent, Miss Howard, to
abandon me to the fury of this man! your uncle,
your honourable uncle, even now, applauded and
united with me in my enterprise, which is no
more than a common artifice in war.”
“My uncle would unite, Mr. Dillon, in no project
of deliberate treachery, like this,” said Cecilia,
coldly.
“He did, I swear by—”
“Liar!” interrupted the deep tones of the
cockswain.
Dillon shivered with agony and terror, while
the sounds of this appalling voice sunk into his inmost
secret ravines of the cliffs, and the turbulence of
the ocean, flashed across his imagination, he again
yielded to a dread of the horrors to which he
should be exposed, in encountering them at the
mercy of his powerful enemy, and he continued
his solicitations—
“Hear me, once more hear me—Miss Howard,
I beseech you, hear me; am I not of your own
blood and country! will you see me abandoned
to the wild, merciless, malignant fury of this
man, who will transfix me with that—oh! God!
if you had but seen the sight I beheld in the
Alacrity!—hear me, Miss Howard, for the love
you bear your Maker, intercede for me. Mr.
Griffith shall be released—”
“Liar!” again interrupted the cockswain.
“What promises he?” asked Cecilia, turning
her averted face once more at the miserable captive.
“Nothing that will be fulfilled,” said Katherine;
“follow, honest Tom, and I, at least, will
conduct you in good faith.”
“Cruel, obdurate Miss Plowden; gentle, kind
Miss Alice, you will not refuse to raise your voice
in my favour; your heart is not hardened by any
imaginary dangers to those you love.”
“Nay, address not me,” said Alice, bending
her meek eyes to the floor; “I trust your life is
in no danger, and I pray that he who has the
power, will have the mercy, to see you unharmed.”
“Away,” said Tom, grasping the collar of the
helpless Dillon, and rather carrying than leading
him into the gallery; “if a sound, one quarter
as loud as a young porpoise makes, when he
draws his first breath, comes from you, villain,
you shall see the sight of the Alacrity over again.
can yet drive it to the seizing.”
This menace effectually silenced even the hard,
perturbed breathings of the captive, who, with
his conductor, followed the light steps of Katherine,
through some of the secret mazes of the
building, until, in a few minutes, they issued
through a small door, into the open air. Without
pausing to deliberate, Miss Plowden led the
cockswain through the grounds, to a different
wicket from the one by which he had entered the
paddock, and pointing to the path, which might
be dimly traced along the faded herbage, she bad
God bless him, in a voice that discovered her interest
in his safety, and vanished from his sight,
like an aerial being.
Tom needed no incentive to his speed, now
that his course lay so plainly before him, but,
loosening his pistols in his belt, and poising his
harpoon, he crossed the fields at a gait that compelled
his companion to exert his utmost powers,
in the way of walking, to equal. Once or twice,
Dillon ventured to utter a word or two, but a
stern “silence,” from the cockswain, warned him
to cease, until, perceiving that they were approaching
the cliffs, he made a final effort to obtain
his liberty, by hurriedly promising a large
bribe. The cockswain made no reply, and the
captive was secretly hoping that his scheme was
producing its wonted effects, when he unexpectedly
felt the keen, cold edge of the barbed iron of the
harpoon pressing against his breast, through the
opening of his ruffles, and even rasing the skin.
“Liar,” said Tom, “another word, and I'll
drive it through your heart.”
From that moment, Dillon was as silent as the
grave. They reached the edge of the cliffs, without
encountering the party that had been sent in
they had landed. The old seaman paused an
instant on the verge of the precipice, and cast his
experienced eyes along the wide expanse of water
that lay before him. The sea was no longer sleeping,
but already in heavy motion, and rolling its
surly waves against the base of the rocks on
which he stood, and scattering their white crests
high in foam. The cockswain, after bending
his looks along the whole line of the eastern horizon,
gave utterance to a low and stifled groan,
and then striking the staff of his harpoon violently
against the earth, he pursued his way along
the very edge of the cliffs, muttering certain
dreadful denunciations, which the conscience
of his appalled listener did not fail to cause him
to apply to himself. It appeared to the latter,
that his angry and excited leader sought the
giddy verge of the precipice with a sort of wanton
recklessness, so daring were the steps that he
took along its brow, notwithstanding the darkness
of the hour, and the violence of the blasts
that occasionally rushed by them, leaving behind
a kind of reaction, that more than once brought
the life of the manacled captive in imminent
jeopardy. But it would seem, the wary cockswain
had a motive for his, apparently, inconsiderate
desperation. When they had made good
quite half the distance between the point where
Barnstable had landed, and that where he had
appointed to meet his cockswain, the sounds of
voices were brought indistinctly to their ears, in
one of the momentary pauses of the rushing winds,
and caused the cockswain to make a dead stand
in his progress. He listened intently, for a single
minute, when his resolution appeared to be taken.
He turned to Dillon, and spoke; but though his
resolute.
“One word, and you die; over the cliffs. You
must take a seaman's ladder; there is footing,
on the rocks and crags, for your hands. Over the
cliff, I bid ye, or I'll cast ye into the sea, as I
would a dead enemy.”
“Mercy, mercy,” implored Dillon; “I could
not do it in the day; I shall surely perish by this
light.”
“Over with ye,” said Tom, “or I—”
Dillon waited for no more, but descended, with
trembling steps, the dangerous precipice which lay
before him. He was followed by the cockswain,
with a haste that unavoidably dislodged his captive
from the trembling stand he had taken on the
shelf of a rock, who, to his increased horror, found
himself dangling in the air, his body impending
over the sullen surf, that was tumbling in, with
violence, upon the rocks beneath him. An involuntary
shriek burst from Dillon, as he felt his
person thrust from the narrow shelf, and his
cry sounded amid the tempest, like the screechings
of the spirit of the storm.
“Another such call, and I cut your tow-line,
villain,” said the determined seaman, “when nothing
short of eternity will bring you up.”
The sounds of footsteps and voices were now
distinctly audible, and presently a group of armed
men appeared on the edges of the rocks, directly
above them.
“It was a human voice,” said one of them,
“and like a man in distress.”
“It cannot be the party we are sent in search
of,” returned Sergeant Drill; “for no watch-word
that I ever heard sounded like that cry.”
“They say, that such cries are often heard, in
uttered with less of military confidence than the
two others; “and they are thought to come from
drowned seamen.”
A feeble laugh arose among the listeners, and
one or two forced jokes were made, at the expense
of their superstitious comrade; but the
scene did not fail to produce its effect on even
the most sturdy among the unbelievers in the
marvellous; for, after a few more very similar
remarks, the whole party retired from the cliffs,
at a pace that might have been accelerated
by the nature of their discourse. The cockswain,
who had stood, all this time, firm as the
rock which supported him, bearing up not only
his own weight, but the person of Dillon also,
raised his head above the brow of the precipice,
as they withdrew, to reconnoitre, and then
drew up the nearly insensible captive, and first
placing him in safety on the bank, he followed
himself. Not a moment was wasted in unnecessary
explanations, but Dillon found himself
again urged forward, with the same velocity as
before. In a few minutes they gained the desired
ravine, down which Tom plunged, with a
seaman's nerve, dragging his prisoner after him,
and directly they stood where the waves rose to
their feet, as they flowed far and foaming across
the sands. The cockswain stooped, so as to
bring the crests of the billows in a line with the
horizon, when he discovered the dark boat playing
in the outer edge of the surf.
“What hoa! Ariels there!” shouted Tom, in
a voice that the growing tempest carried to the
ears of the retreating soldiers, who quickened
their footsteps, as they listened to sounds that their
fears taught them to believe unnatural.
“Who hails?” cried the well known voice of
Barnstable.
“Once your master, now your servant,” answered
the cockswain, in a watch-word of his
own invention.
“'Tis he,” returned the lieutenant; “veer
away, boys, veer away. You must wade into the
surf.”
Tom caught Dillon in his arms, and throwing
him, like a cork, across his shoulder, he dashed
into the streak of foam that was bearing the boat
on its crest, and before his companion had time
for remonstrance or entreaty, he found himself
once more by the side of Barnstable.
“Who have we here?” asked the lieutenant;
“this is not Griffith!”
“Haul out, and weigh your grapnel,” said the
cockswain sternly; “and then, boys, if you love
the Ariel, pull while the life and the will is left
in you.”
Barnstable knew his man, and not another
question was asked, until the boat was without
the breakers; now skimming the rounded summits
of the waves, or settling into the hollows of
the seas, but always cutting the waters asunder,
as she urged her course, with amazing velocity,
towards the haven where the schooner had been
left at anchor. Then, in a few, but bitter sentences,
the cockswain explained to his commander
the treachery of Dillon, and the danger of
the Ariel.
“The soldiers are slow at a night muster,”
Tom concluded, “and from what I overheard,
the express will have to make a crooked course,
to double the head of the bay; so, that but for
this north-easter, we might weather upon them
yet; but it's a matter that lies altogether in the
every thing depends on your oars to-night.”
Barnstable listened, in deep silence, to this
unexpected narration, which sounded to the ears
of Dillon like his funeral knell. At length, the
suppressed voice of the lieutenant was heard,
also, uttering—
“Wretch! if I should cast you into the sea, as
food for the fishes, who could blame me? But
if my schooner goes to the bottom, she shall
prove your coffin.”
| CHAPTER V. The pilot | |