 | CHAPTER XV. The Red Rover |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
— “Take him hence;
The whole world shall not save him.”
—Cymbeline.
The recent gust had not passed more fearfully and
suddenly over the ship, than the scene just related.
But the smiling aspect of the tranquil sky, and bright
sun of the Caribbean sea, found no parallel in the
horrors that succeeded the combat. The momentary
confusion which accompanied the fall of Scipio
soon disappeared, and Wilder was left to gaze on the
wreck of all the boasted powers of his cruiser, and
on that waste of human life, which had been the attendants
of the struggle. The former has already
been sufficiently described; but a short account of
the present state of the actors may serve to elucidate
the events that are to follow.
Within a few yards of the place he was permitted
to occupy himself, stood the motionless form of the
Rover. A second glance was necessary, however,
to recognise, in the grim visage to which the boarding-cap
already mentioned lent a look of artificial ferocity,
the usually bland countenance of the individual.
As the eye of Wilder roamed over the swelling,
erect, and still triumphant figure, it was difficult
not to fancy that even the stature had been suddenly
and unaccountably increased. One hand rested on
the hilt of a yataghan, which, by the crimson drops
that flowed along its curved blade, had evidently
done fatal service in the fray; and one foot was
placed, seemingly with supernatural weight, on that
national emblem which it had been his pride to lower.
His eye was wandering sternly, but understandingly,
over the scene, though he spoke not, nor in any other
manner betrayed the deep interest he felt in the past.
stood the cowering form of the boy Roderick, unprovided
with weapon, his garments sprinkled with
blood, his eye contracted, wild, and fearful, and his
face pallid as those in whom the tide of life had just
ceased to circulate.
Here and there, were to be seen the wounded captives,
still sullen and unconquered in spirit, while
many of their scarcely less fortunate enemies lay in
their blood, around the deck, with such gleamings of
ferocity on their countenances as plainly denoted
that the current of their mediations was still running
on vengeance. The uninjured and the slightly
wounded, of both bands, were already pursuing
their different objects of plunder or of secretion.
But, so thorough was the discipline established by
the leader of the freebooters, so absolute his power,
that blow had not been struck, nor blood drawn,
since the moment when his prohibitory mandate was
heard. There had been enough of destruction, however,
to have satisfied their most gluttonous longings,
had human life been the sole object of the assault.
Wilder felt many a pang, as the marble-like features
of humble friend or faithful servitor came, one after
another, under his recognition; but the shock was
greatest when his eye fell upon the rigid, and still
frowning, countenance of his veteran Commander.
“Captain Heidegger,” he said, struggling to maintain
the fortitude which became the moment; “the
fortune of the day is yours: I ask mercy and kindness,
in behalf of the survivors.”
“They shall be granted to those who, of right,
may claim them: I hope it may be found that all are
included in this promise.”
The voice of the Rover was solemn, and full of
meaning; and it appeared to convey more than the
simple import of the words. Wilder might have
mused long and vainly, however, on the equivocal
approach of a body of the hostile crew, among whom
he instantly recognised the most prominent of the
late mutineers of the “Dolphin,” speedily supplied a
clue to the hidden meaning of their leader.
“We claim the execution of our ancient laws!”
sternly commenced the foremost of the gang, addressing
his chief with a brevity and an air of fierceness
which the late combat might well have generated, if
not excused.
“What would you have?”
“The lives of traitors!” was the sullen answer.
“You know the conditions of our service. If any
such are in our power, let them meet their fate.”
Had any doubt remained in the mind of Wilder,
as to the meaning of these terrible claimants of justice,
it would have vanished at the sullen, ominous
manner with which he and his two companions
were immediately dragged before the lawless chief.
Though the love of life was strong and active in his
breast, it was not, even in that fearful moment, exhibited
in any deprecating or unmanly form. Not
for an instant did his mind waver, or his thoughts
wander to any subterfuge, that might prove unworthy
of his profession or his former character. One
anxious, inquiring look was fastened on the eye of
him whose power alone might save him. He witnessed
the short, severe struggle of regret that softened
the rigid muscles of the Rover's countenance;
and then he saw the instant, cold, and calm composure
which settled on every one of its disciplined
lineaments. He knew, at once, that the feelings of
the man were smothered in the duty of the chief,
and more was unnecessary to teach him the utter
hopelessness of his condition. Scorning to render
his state degrading by useless remonstrances, the
youth remained where his accusers had seen fit to
place him—firm, motionless, and silent.
“What would ye have?” the Rover was at length
heard to say, in a voice that even his iron nerves
scarce rendered deep and full-toned as common.
“What ask ye?”
“Their lives!”
“I understand you; go; they are at your mercy.”
Notwithstanding the horrors of the scene through
which he had just passed, and that high and lofty
excitement which had sustained him through the
fight, the deliberate, solemn tones with which his
judge delivered a sentence that he knew consigned
him to a hasty and ignominious death, shook the
frame of our adventurer nearly to insensibility. The
blood recoiled backward to his heart, and the sickening
sensation that beset his brain threatened to upset
his reason. But the shock passed, on the instant,
leaving him erect, and seemingly proud and firm as
ever, and certainly with no evidence of mortal weakness,
that human eye could discover.
“For myself nothing is demanded,” he said, with
admirable steadiness. “I know your self-enacted
laws condemn me to a miserable fate; but for these
ignorant, confiding, faithful followers, I claim, nay
beg, entreat, implore your mercy; they knew not
what they did, and”—
“Speak to these!” said the Rover, pointing, with
an averted eye, to the fierce knot by which he was
surrounded: “These are your judges, and the sole
ministers of mercy.”
Strong and nearly unconquerable disgust was apparent
in the manner of the youth; but, with a mighty
effort, he subdued it, and, turning to the crew, continued,—
“Then even to these will I humble myself in petitions.
Ye are men, and ye are mariners”—
“Away with him!” exclaimed the croaking Nightingale;
“he preaches! away with him to the yard-arm!
away!”
The shrill, long-drawn winding of the call which
the callous boatswain sounded in bitter mockery,
was answered by an echo from twenty voices, in
which the accents of nearly as many different people
mingled in hoarse discordancy, as they shouted,—
“To the yard-arm! away with the three! away!”
Wilder cast a last glance of appeal at the Rover;
but he met no look, in return, from a face that was
intentionally averted. Then, with a burning brain,
he felt himself rudely transferred from the quarter-deck
into the centre and less privileged portion of
the ship. The violence of the passage, the hurried
reeving of cords, and all the fearful preparations of a
nautical execution, appeared but the business of a
moment, to him who stood so near the verge of time.
“A yellow flag for punishment!” bawled the revengeful
captain of the forecastle; “let the gentleman
sail on his last cruise, under the rogue's ensign!”
“A yellow flag! a yellow flag!” echoed twenty
taunting throats. “Down with the Rover's ensign,
and up with the colours of the prevot-marshal! A
yellow flag! a yellow flag!”
The hoarse laughter, and mocking merriment, with
which this coarse device was received, stirred the ire
of Fid, who had submitted in silence, so far, to the
rude treatment he received, for no other reason than
that he thought his superior was the best qualified to
utter the little which it might be necessary to say.
“Avast, ye villains!” he hotly exclaimed, prudence
and moderation losing their influence, under the excitement
of scornful anger; “ye cut-throat, lubberly
villains! That ye are villains, is to be proved, in your
teeth, by your getting your sailing orders from the
devil; and that ye are lubbers, any man may see by
the fashion in which ye have rove this cord about
my throat. A fine jam will ye make with a turn in
your whip! But ye'll all come to know how a man
is to be decently hanged, ye rogues, ye will. Ye'll
will!”
“Clear the turn, and run him up!” shouted one,
two, three voices, in rapid succession; “a clear whip,
and a swift run to heaven!”
Happily a fresh burst of riotous clamour, from one
of the hatchways, interrupted the intention; and then
was heard the cry of,—
“A priest! a priest! Pipe the rogues to prayers,
before they take their dance on nothing!”
The ferocious laughter with which the freebooters
received this sneering proposal, was hushed as suddenly
as though One answered to their mockery, from
that mercy-seat whose power they so sacrilegiously
braved, when a deep, menacing voice was heard in
their midst, saying,—
“By heaven, if touch, or look, be laid too boldly
on a prisoner in this ship, he who offends had better
beg the fate ye give these miserable men, than meet
my anger. Stand off, I bid you, and let the chaplain
approach!”
Every bold hand was instantly withdrawn, and
each profane lip was closed in trembling silence, giving
the terrified and horror-stricken subject of their
liberties room and opportunity to advance to the
scene of punishment.
“See,” said the Rover, in calmer but still deeply
authoritative tones; “you are a minister of God,
and your office is sacred charity: If you have aught
to smooth the dying moment to fellow mortal, haste
to impart it!”
“In what have these offended?” demanded the
divine, when power was given to speak.
“No matter; it is enough that their hour is near!
If you would lift your voice in prayer, fear nothing.
The unusual sounds shall be welcome even here.
Ay, and these miscreants, who so boldly surround
you, shall kneel, and be mute, as beings whose souls
and unbelievers respectful, at my beck.—Speak
freely!”
“Scourge of the seas!” commenced the chaplain,
across whose pallid features a flash of holy excitement
had cast its glow, “remorseless violator of the
laws of man! audacious contemner of the mandates
of your God! a fearful retribution shall avenge this
crime. Is it not enough that you have this day consigned
so many to a sudden end, but your vengeance
must be glutted with more blood? Beware the hour
when these things shall be visited, in almighty power,
on your own devoted head!”
“Look!” said the Rover, smiling, but with an expression
that was haggard, in spite of the unnatural
exultation that struggled about his quivering lip;
“here are the evidences of the manner in which
Heaven protects the right!”
“Though its awful justice be hidden in inscrutable
wisdom for a time, deceive not thyself; the hour
is at hand when it shall be seen and felt in majesty!”
The voice of the chaplain became suddenly choaked;
for his wandering eye had fallen on the frowning
countenance of Bignall, which, set in death, lay but
half concealed beneath that flag which the Rover
himself had cast upon the body. Then, summoning
his energies, he continued, in the clear and admonitory
strain that befitted his sacred calling: “They
tell me you are but half lost to feeling for your kind;
and, though the seeds of better principles, of better
days, are smothered in your heart, that they still exist,
and might be quickened into goodly”—
“Peace! You speak in vain. To your duty with
these men, or be silent.”
“Is their doom sealed?”
“It is.”
“Who says it?” demanded a low voice at the elbow
of the Rover, which, coming upon his ear at that
the blood from his cheek to the secret recesses of his
frame. But the weakness had already passed away
with the surprise, as he calmly, and almost instantly,
answered,—
“The law.”
“The law!” repeated the governess. “Can they
who set all order at defiance, who despise each human
regulation, talk of law! Say, it is heartless, vindictive
vengeance, if you will; but call it not by the
sacred name of law.—I wander from my object!
They have told me of this frightful scene, and I am
come to offer ransom for the offenders. Name your
price, and let it be worthy of the subject we redeem;
a grateful parent shall freely give it all for thpreserver
of his child.”
“If gold will purchase the lives you wish,” the
other interrupted, with the swiftness of thought, “it
is here in hoards, and ready on the moment. What
say my people! Will they take ransom?”
A short, brooding pause succeeded; and then a low,
ominous murmur was raised in the throng, announcing
their reluctance to dispense with throng, vengeance. A
scornful glance shot from the glowing eye of the
Rover, across the fierce countenances by which he
was environed; his lips moved with vehemence;
but, as if he disdained further intercession, nothing
was uttered for the ear. Turning to the divine, he
added, with all the former composure of his wonderful
manner,—
“Forget not your sacred office—time is leaving
us.” He was then moving slowly aside, in imitation
of the governess, who had already veiled her features
from the revolting scene, when Wilder addressed
him.
“For the service you would have done me, from
my soul I thank you,” he said. “If you would know
before I die.”
“To what?”
“Promise, that they who came with me into your
ship shall leave it unharmed, and speedily.”
“Promise, Walter,” said a solemn, smothered
voice, in the throng.
“I do.”
“I ask no more.—Now, Reverend Minister of God,
perform thy holy office, near my companions. Their
ignorance may profit by your service. If I quit this
bright and glorious scene, without thought and gratitude
to that Being who, I humbly trust, has made me
an heritor of still greater things, I offend wittingly
and without hope. But these may find consolation
in your prayers.”
Amid an awful and breathing silence, the chaplain
approached the devoted companions of Wilder.
Their comparative insignificance had left them unobserved
during most of the foregoing scene; and material
changes had occurred, unbeeded, in their situation.
Fid was seated on the deck, his collar unbuttoned,
his neck encircled with the fatal cord, sustaining
the head of the helpless black, which he
had placed, with singular tenderness and care, in
his lap.
“This man, at least, will disappoint the malice of
his enemies,” said the divine, taking the hard hand
of the negro into his own; “the termination of his
wrongs and his degradation approaches; he will soon
be far beyond the reach of human injustice.—Friend,
by what name is your companion known?”
“It is little matter how you hail a dying man,” returned
Richard, with a melancholy shake of the
head. “He has commonly been entered on the ship's
books as Scipio Africa, coming, as he did, from the
coast of Guinea; but, if you call him S'ip, he will
not be slow to understand.”
“Has he known baptism? Is he a Christian?”
“If he be not, I don't know who the devil is!”
responded Richard, with an asperity that might be
deemed a little unseasonable. “A man who serves
his country, is true to his messmate, and has no skulk
about him, I call a saint, so far as mere religion goes.
I say, Guinea, my hearty, give the chaplain a gripe
of the fist, if you call yourself a Christian. A Spanish
windlass wouldn't give a stronger screw than the
knuckles of that nigger an hour ago; and, now, you
see to what a giant may be brought.”
“His latter moment is indeed near. Shall I offer
a prayer for the health of the departing spirit?”
“I don't know, I don't know!” answered Fid,
gulping his words, and uttering a hem, that was still
deep and powerful, as in the brightest and happiest
of his days. “When there is so little time given to
a poor fellow to speak his mind in, it may be well to
let him have a chance to do most of the talking.
Something may come uppermost which he would
like to send to his friends in Africa; in which case,
we may as well be looking out for a proper messenger.
Hah! what is it, boy? You see he is already
trying to rowse something up out of his ideas.”
“Misser Fid—he'm take a collar,” said the black,
struggling for utterance.
“Ay, ay,” returned Richard, again clearing his
throat, and looking to the right and left fiercely, as
if he were seeking some object on which to wreak
his vengeance. “Ay, ay, Guinea; put your mind at
ease on that point, and for that matter on all others.
You shall have a grave as deep as the sea, and Christian
burial, boy, if this here parson will stand by his
work. Any small message you may have for your
friends shall be logg'd, and put in the way of coming
to their ears. You have had much foul weather in
your time, Guinea, and some squalls have whistled
about your head, that might have been spared, mayhap,
For that matter, it may be that I have rode you
down a little too close myself, boy, when over-heated
with the conceit of skin; for all which may the Lord
forgive me as freely as I hope you will do the same
thing!”
The negro made a fruitless effort to rise, endeavouring
to grasp the hand of the other, saying, as he
did so,—
“Misser Fid beg a pardon of a black man! Masser
aloft forget he'm all, misser Richard; he t'ink 'em
no more.”
“It will be what I call a d—'d generous thing,
if he does,” returned Richard, whose sorrow and
whose conscience had stirred up his uncouth feelings
to an extraordinary degree. “There's the affair of
slipping off the wreck of the smuggler has never been
properly settled atween us, neither; and many other
small services of like nature, for which, d'ye see, I'll
just thank you, while there is opportunity; for no
one can say whether we shall ever be borne again
on the same ship's books.”
A feeble sign from his companion caused the topman
to pause, while he endeavoured to construe its
meaning as well as he was able. With a facility, that
was in some degree owing to the character of the individual,
his construction of the other's meaning was
favourable to himself, as was quite evident by the
manner in which he resumed,—
“Well, well, mayhap we may. I suppose they
birth the people there in some such order as is done
here below, in which case we may be put within
hailing distance, after all. Our sailing orders are
both signed; thought, as you seem likely to slip your
cable before these thieves are ready to run me up,
you will be getting the best of the wind. I shall not
say much concerning any signals it may be necessary
to make, in order to make one another out aloft,
Harry, on account of the small advantage you
may have in being the first to shove off, intending
myself to keep as close as possible in his wake, which
will give me the twofold advantage of knowing I am
on the right tack, and of falling in with you”—
“These are evil words, and fatal alike to your
own future peace, and to that of your unfortunate
friend,” interrupted the divine. “His reliance must
be placed on One, different in all his attributes from
your officer, to follow whom, or to consult whose
fraii conduct, would be the height of madness. Place
your faith on another”—
“If I do, may I be—”
“Peace,” said Wilder. “The black would speak
to me.”
Scipio had turned his looks in the direction of his
officer, and was making another feeble effort towards
extending his hand. As Wilder placed the member
within the grasp of the dying negro, the latter succeeded
in laying it on his lips, and then, flourishing
with a convulsive movement that herculean arm
which he had so lately and so successfully brandished
in defence of his master, the limb stiffened and fell,
though the eyes still continued their affectionate and
glaring gaze on that countenance he had so long
loved, and which, in the midst of all his long-endured
wrongs, had never refused to meet his look of love
in kindness. A low murmur followed this scene, and
then complaints succeeded, in a louder strain, till
more than one voice was heard openly muttering its
discontent that vengeance should be so long delayed.
“Away with them!” shouted an ill-omened voice
from the throng. “Into the sea with the carcass, and
up with the living.”
“Avast!” burst out of the chest of Fid, with an
awfulness and depth that stayed even the daring
movements of that lawless moment. “Who dare to
standing in his lights, and his last words still in his
messmate's ears? Ha! would ye stopper the fins of
a man as ye would pin a lobster's claw! That for
your fastenings and your lubberly knots together!”
The excited topman snapped the lines by which his
elbows had been imperfectly secured, while speaking,
and immediately lashed the body of the black to
his own, though his words received no interruption
from a process that was executed with all a seaman's
dexterity. “Where was the man in your lubberly
crew that could lay upon a yard with this here black,
or haul upon a lee-earing, while he held the weatherline?
Could any one of ye all give up his rations, in
order that a sick messmate might fare the better? or
work a double tide, to spare the weak arm of a friend?
Show me one who had as little dodge under fire, as
a sound mainmast, and I will show you all that is left
of his better. And now sway upon your whip, and
thank God that the honest end goes up, while the
rogues are suffered to keep their footing for a time.”
“Sway away!” echoed Nightingale, seconding the
hoarse sounds of his voice by the winding of his call;
“away with them to heaven.”
“Hold!” exclaimed the chaplain, happily arresting
the cord before it had yet done its fatal office.
“For His sake, whose mercy may one day be needed
by the most hardened of ye all, give but another moment
of time! What mean these words! read I aright?
`Ark, of Lynnhaven!' ”
“Ay, ay,” said Richard, loosening the rope a little,
in order to speak with greater freedom, and transferring
the last morsel of the weed from his box to
his mouth, as he answered; “seeing you are an apt
scholar, no wonder you make it out so easily, though
written by a hand that was always better with a
marling-spike than a quill.”
“But whence came the words? and why do you
Patience, men! monsters! demons! Would ye deprive
the dying man of even a minute of that precious
time which becomes so dear to all, as life is
leaving us?”
“Give yet another minute!” said a deep voice
from behind.
“Whence come the words, I ask?” again the chaplain
demanded.
“They are neither more nor less than the manner
in which a circumstance was logged, which is now of
no consequence, seeing that the cruise is nearly up
with all who are chiefly concerned. The black spoke
of the collar; but, then, he thought I might be staying
in port, while he was drifting between heaven
and earth, in search of his last moorings.”
“Is there aught, here, that I should know?” interrupted
the eager, tremulous voice of Mrs Wyllys.
“O Merton! why these questions? Has my yearning
been prophetic? Does nature give so mysterious
a warning of its claim!”
“Hush, dearest Madam! your thoughts wander
from probabilities, and my faculties become confused.
—`Ark, of Lynnhaven,' was the name of an estate
in the islands, belonging to a near and dear friend,
and it was the place where I received, and whence I
sent to the main, the precious trust you confided to
my care. But”—
“Say on!” exclaimed the lady, rushing madly in
front of Wilder, and seizing the cord which, a moment
before, had been tightened nearly to his destruction,
stripping it from his throat, with a sort of
supernatural dexterity: “It was not, then, the name
of a ship?”
“A ship! surely not. But what mean these hopes?
—these fears?”
“The collar? the collar? speak; what of that
collar?”
“It means no great things, now, my Lady,” returned
Fid, very coolly placing himself in the same
condition as Wilder, by profiting by the liberty of his
arms, and loosening his own neck from the halter,
notwithstanding a movement made by some of the
people to prevent it, which was, however, staid by a
look from their leader's eyes. “I will first cast loose
this here rope; seeing that it is neither decent, nor
safe, for an ignorant man, like me, to enter into such
unknown navigation, a-head of his officer. The collar
was just the necklace of the dog, which is here
to be seen on the arm of poor Guinea, who was, in
most respects, a man for whose equal one might long
look in vain.”
“Read it,” said the governess, a film passing before
her own eyes; “read it,” she added, motioning,
with a quivering hand, to the divine to peruse the
inscription, that was distinctly legible on the plate
of brass.
“Holy Dispenser of good! what is this I see?
`Neptune, the property of Paul de Lacey?' ”
A loud cry burst from the lips of the governess;
her hands were clasped one single instant upward,
in that thanksgiving which oppressed her soul, and
then, as recollection returned, Wilder was pressed
fondly, frantickly to her bosom, while her voice was
heard to say, in the piercing tones of all-powerful
nature,—
“My child! my child!—You will not—cannot—
dare not, rob a long-stricken and bereaved mother
of her offspring. Give me back my son, my noble
son! and I will weary Heaven with prayers in your
behalf. Ye are brave, and cannot be deaf to mercy.
Ye are men, who have lived in constant view of
God's majesty, and will not refuse to listen to this
evidence of his pleasure. Give me my child, and I
yield all else. He is of a race long honoured upon
the seas, and no mariner will be deaf to his claims.
cries for mercy. Their united blood is in his veins,
and it will not be spilt by you! A mother bows herself
to the dust before you, to ask mercy for her off-spring.
Oh! give me my child! my child!”
As the words of the petitioner died upon the ear,
a stillness settled on the place, that might have been
likened to the holy calm which the entrance of better
feelings leaves upon the soul of the sinner. The
grim freebooters regarded each other in doubt; the
workings of nature manifesting themselves in the
gleamings of even their stern and hardened visages.
Still, the desire for vengeance had got too firm a hold
of their minds to be dispossessed at a word. The
result would yet have been doubtful, had not one
suddenly re-appeared in their midst who never ordered
in vain; and who knew how to guide, to quell,
or to mount and trample on their humours, as his
own pleasure dictated. For half a minute, he looked
around him, his eye still following the circle, which
receded as he gazed, until even those longest accustomed
to yield to his will began to wonder at the extraordinary
aspect in which it was now exhibited.
The gaze was wild and bewildered; and the face
pallid as that of the petitioning mother. Three times
did the lips sever, before sound issued from the caverns
of his chest; then arose, on the attentive ears
of the breathless and listening crowd, a voice that
seemed equally charged with inward emotion and
high authority. With a haughty gesture of the hand,
and a manner that was too well understood to be
mistaken, he said,—
“Disperse! Ye know my justice; but ye know
I will be obeyed. My pleasure shall be known to-morrow.”
| CHAPTER XV. The Red Rover | |