 | CHAPTER XVI. The Red Rover |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
—“This is he;
Who hath upon him still that natural stamp:
It was wise Nature's end in the donation,
To be his evidence now.”
—Shakspeare.
That morrow came; and, with it, an entire change
in the scene and character of our tale. The “Dolphin”
and the “Dart” were sailing in amity, side by
side; the latter again bearing the ensign of England,
and the former carrying a naked gaff. The injuries
of the gust, and the combat, had so far been repaired,
that, to a common eye, each gallant vessel was again
prepared, equally to encounter the hazards of the
ocean or of warfare. A long, blue, hazy streak, to
the north, proclaimed the proximity of the land; and
some three or four light coasters of that region, which
were sailing nigh, announced how little of hostility
existed in the present purposes of the freebooters.
What those designs were, however, still remained
a secret, buried in the bosom of the Rover alone.
Doubt, wonder, and distrust were, each in its turn,
to be traced, not only in the features of his captives,
but in those of his own crew. Throughout the
whole of the long night, which had succeeded the
events of the important day just past, he had been
seen to pace the poop in brooding silence. The little
he had uttered was merely to direct the movements
of the vessel; and when any ventured, with
other design, to approach his person, a sign, that none
there dared to disregard, secured him the solitude he
wished. Once or twice, indeed, the boy Roderick
was seen hovering at his elbow, but it was as a guardian
spirit would be fancied to linger near the object
of its care, unobtrusively, and, it might almost be
added, invisible. When, however, the sun came,
a gun was fired, to bring a coaster to the side of the
“Dolphin;” and then it seemed that the curtain was
to be raised on the closing scene of the drama. With
his crew assembled on the deck beneath, and the
principal personages among his captives beside him
on the poop, the Rover addressed the former.
“Years have united us by a common fortune,” he
said: “We have long been submissive to the same
laws. If I have been prompt to punish, I have been
ready to obey. You cannot charge me with injustice.
But the covenant is now ended. I take back
my pledge, and I return you your faiths. Nay, frown
not—hesitate not—murmur not! The compact ceases,
and our laws are ended. Such were the conditions
of the service. I give you your liberty, and
little do I claim in return. That you need have no
grounds of reproach, I bestow my treasure. See,”
he added, raising that bloody ensign with which he
had so often braved the power of the nations, and
exhibiting beneath it sacks of that metal which has
so long governed the world; “see! This was mine;
it is now yours. It shall be put in yonder coaster;
there I leave you, to bestow it, yourselves, on those
you may deem most worthy. Go; the land is near.
Disperse, for your own sakes: Nor hesitate; for,
without me, well do ye know that vessel of the King
would be your master. The ship is already mine;
of all the rest, I claim these prisoners alone for my
portion. Farewell!”
Silent amazement succeeded this unlooked-for address.
There was, indeed, for a moment, some disposition
to rebel; but the measures of the Rover had
been too well taken for resistance. The “Dart” lay
on their beam, with her people at their guns, matches
lighted, and a heavy battery. Unprepared, without
a leader, and surprised, opposition would have
abated, before each freebooter rushed to secure his
individual effects, and to transfer them to the deck
of the coaster. When all but the crew of a single
boat had left the “Dolphin,” the promised gold was
sent, and then the loaded craft was seen hastily seeking
the shelter of some secret creek. During this
scene, the Rover had again been silent as death. He
next turned to Wilder; and, making a mighty but
successful effort to still his feelings, he added,—
“Now must we, too, part. I commend my wounded
to your care. They are necessarily with your
surgeons. I know the trust I give you will not be
abused.”
“My word is the pledge of their safety,” returned
the young de Lacey.
“I believe you.—Lady,” he added, approaching
the elder of the females, with an air in which earnestness
and hesitation strongly contended, “if a proscribed
and guilty man may still address you, grant
yet a favour.”
“Name it; a mother's ear can never be deaf to
him who has spared her child.”
“When you petition Heaven for that child, then,
forget not there is another being who may still profit
by your prayers!—No more.—And now,” he continued,
looking about him like one who was determined
to be equal to the pang of the moment, however
difficult it might prove, and surveying, with an eye
of painful regret, those naked decks which were so
lately teeming with scenes of life and revelry; “and
now—ay—now we part! The boat awaits you.”
Wilder had soon seen his mother and Gertrude
into the pinnace; but he still lingered on the deck
himself.
“And you!” he said, “what will become of you?”
“I shall shortly be—forgotten.—Adieu!”
The manner in which the Rover spoke forbade
delay. The young man hesitated, squeezed his hand,
and left him.
When Wilder found himself restored to his proper
vessel, of which the death of Bignall had left him in
command, he immediately issued the order to fill her
sails, and to steer for the nearest haven of his country.
So long as sight could read the movements of
the man who remained on the decks of the “Dolphin,”
not a look was averted from the still motionless
object. She lay, with her maintop-sail to the
mast, stationary as some beautiful fabric placed there
by fairy power, still lovely in her proportions, and
perfect in all her parts. A human form was seen
swiftly pacing her poop, and, by its side, glided one
who looked like a lessened shadow of that restless
figure. At length distance swallowed these indistinct
images; and then the eye was wearied, in vain,
to trace the internal movements of the distant ship.
But doubt was soon ended. Suddenly a streak of
flame flashed from her decks, springing fiercely from
sail to sail. A vast cloud of smoke broke out of the
hull, and then came the deadened roar of artillery.
To this succeeded, for a time, the awful, and yet attractive,
spectacle of a burning ship. The whole
was terminated by an immense canopy of smoke,
and an explosion that caused the sails of the distant
“Dart” to waver, as though the winds of the trades
were deserting their eternal direction. When the
cloud had lifted from the ocean, an empty waste of
water was seen beneath; and none might mark the
spot where so lately had floated that beautiful specimen
of human ingenuity. Some of those who ascended
to the upper masts of the cruiser, and were
aided by glasses, believed, indeed, they could discern
a solitary speck upon the sea; but whether it was
a boat, or some fragment of the wreck, was never
known.
From that time, the history of the dreaded Red
Rover became gradually lost, in the fresher incidents
of those eventful seas. But the mariner, long after,
was known to shorten the watches of the night, by
recounting scenes of mad enterprise that were thought
to have occurred under his auspices. Rumour did
not fail to embellish and pervert them, until the real
character, and even name, of the individual were
confounded with the actors of other atrocities.
Scenes of higher and more ennobling interest, too,
were occurring on the Western Continent, to efface
the circumstances of a legend that many deemed wild
and improbable. The British colonies of North
America had revolted against the government of the
Crown, and a weary war was bringing the contest to
a successful issue. Newport, the opening scene of
this tale, had been successively occupied by the arms
of the King, and by those of that monarch who had
sent the chivalry of his nation to aid in stripping his
rival of her vast possessions.
The beautiful haven had sheltered hostile fleets,
and the peaceful villas had often rung with the merriment
of youthful soldiers. More than twenty years,
after the events just related, had been added to the
long record of time, when the island town witnessed
the rejoicings of another festival. The allied forces
had compelled the most enterprising leader of the
British troops to yield himself and army captives to
their numbers and skill. The struggle was believed
to be over, and the worthy townsmen had, as usual,
been loud in the manifestations of their pleasure.
The rejoicings, however, ceased with the day; and,
as night gathered over the place, the little city was
resuming its customary provincial tranquillity. A
gallant frigate, which lay in the very spot where the
vessel of the Rover has first been seen, had already
lowered the gay assemblage of friendly ensigns,
which had been spread in the usual order of a gala
constellation of bright and rising stars, alone was
floating at her gaff. Just at this moment, another
cruiser, but one of far less magnitude, was seen entering
the roadstead, bearing also the friendly ensign
of the new States. Headed by the tide, and deserted
by the breeze, she soon dropped an anchor, in the
pass between Connanicut and Rhodes, when a boat
was seen making for the inner harbour, impelled by
the arms of six powerful rowers. As the barge approached
a retired and lonely wharf, a solitary observer
of its movements was enabled to see that it
contained a curtained litter, and a single female form.
Before the curiosity which such a sight would be apt
to create, in the breast of one like the spectator
mentioned, had time to exercise itself in conjectures,
the oars were tossed, the boat had touched the piles,
and, borne by the seamen, the litter, attended by the
woman, stood before him.
“Tell me, I pray you,” said a voice, in whose
tones grief and resignation were singularly combined,
“if Captain Henry de Lacey, of the continental
marine, has a residence in this town of Newport?”
“That has he,” answered the aged man addressed
by the female; “that has he; or, as one might say,
two; since yonder frigate is no less his than the
dwelling on the hill, just by.”
“Thou art too old to point us out the way; but,
if grandchild, or idler of any sort, be near, here is
silver to reward him.”
“Lord help you, Lady!” returned the other, casting
an oblique glance at her appearance, as a sort of
salvo for the term, and pocketing the trifling piece
she offered, with singular care; “Lord help you,
Madam! old though I am, and something worn down
by hardships and marvellous adventures, both by sea
and land, yet will I gladly do so small an office for
that your pilot is not altogether unused to the path.”
The old man turned, and was leading the way off
the wharf, even before he had completed the assurance
of his boasted ability. The seamen and the
female followed; the latter walking sorrowfully and
in silence by the side of the litter.
“If you have need of refreshment,” said their
guide, pointing over his shoulder, “yonder is a well-known
inn, and one much frequented in its time by
mariners. Neighbour Joram and the `Foul Anchor'
have had a reputation in their day, as well as the
greatest warrior in the land; and, though honest Joe
is gathered-in for the general harvest, the house stands
as firm as the day he first entered it. A goodly end
he made, and profitable is it to the weak-minded sinner
to keep such an example before his eyes!”
A low, smothered sound issued from the litter;
but, though the guide stopped to listen, it was succeeded
by no other evidence of the character of its
tenant.
“The sick man is in suffering,” he resumed; “but
bodily pain, and all afflictions which we suffer in the
flesh, must have their allotted time. I have lived to
see seven bloody and cruel wars, of which this,
which now rages, is, I humbly trust, to be the last.
Of the wonders which I witnessed, and the bodily
dangers which I compassed, in the sixth, eye hath
never beheld, nor can tongue utter, their equal!”
“Time hath dealt hardly by you, friend,” meekly
interrupted the female. “This gold may add a few
more comfortable days to those that are already
past.”
The cripple, for their conductor was lame as well
as aged, received the offering with gratitude, apparently
too much occupied in estimating its amount,
to give any more of his immediate attention to the
party reached the door of the villa they sought.
It was now night; the short twilight of the season
having disappeared, while the bearers of the litter
had been ascending the hill. A loud rap was given
on the door by the guide; and then he was told that
his services were no longer needed.
“I have seen much and hard service,” he replied,
“and well do I know that the prudent mariner does
not dismiss the pilot, until the ship is safely moored.
Perhaps old Madam de Lacey is abroad, or the Captain
himself may not”—
“Enough; here is one who will answer all our
questions.”
The portal was now, in truth, opened; and a man
appeared on its threshold, holding a light. The appearance
of the porter was not, however, of the
most encouraging aspect. A certain air, which can
neither be assumed nor gotten rid of, proclaimed him
a son of the ocean, while a wooden limb, which
served to prop a portion of his still square and athletic
body, sufficiently proved he was one who had
not attained the experience of his hardy calling without
some bodily risk. His countenance, as he held
the light above his head, in order to scan the persons
of the groupe without, was dogmatic, scowling, and
a little fierce. He was not long, however, in recognizing
the cripple, of whom he unceremoniously demanded
the object of what he was pleased to term
“such a night squall.”
“Here is a wounded mariner,” returned the female,
with tones so tremulous that they instantly
softened the heart of the nautical Cerberus, “who is
come to claim hospitality of a brother in the service,
and shelter for the night. We would speak with
Captain Henry de Lacey.”
“Then you have struck soundings on the right
coast, Madam,” returned the tar, “as master Paul,
in that of the sweet lady his mother; not forgetting
old madam his grandam, who is no fresh-water fish
herself, for that matter.”
“That he will,” said a fine, manly youth of some
seventeen years, who wore the attire of one who
was already in training for the seas, and who was
looking curiously over the shoulder of the elderly
seaman. “I will acquaint my father of the visit,
and, Richard—do you seek out a proper birth for
our guests, without delay.”
This order, which was given with the air of one
who had been accustomed to act for himself, and to
speak with authority, was instantly obeyed. The
apartment, selected by Richard, was the ordinary
parlour of the dwelling. Here, in a few moments,
the litter was deposited; the bearers were then dismissed,
and the female only was left, with its tenant
and the rude attendant, who had not hesitated to give
them so frank a reception. The latter busied himself
in trimming the lights, and in replenishing a bright
wood fire; taking care, at the same time, that no unnecessary
vacuum should occur in the discourse, to
render the brief interval, necessary for the appearance
of his superiors, tedious. During this state of
things an inner door was opened, the youth already
named leading the way for the three principal personages
of the mansion.
First came a middle-aged, athletic man, in the naval
undress of a Captain of the new States. His look
was calm, and his step was still firm, though time
and exposure were beginning to sprinkle his head
with gray. He wore one arm in a sling, a proof that
his service was still recent; on the other leaned a
lady, in whose matronly mien, but still blooming
cheek and bright eyes, were to be traced most of the
ripened beauties of her sex. Behind them followed
a third, a female also, whose step was less elastic,
of a peaceful evening to the troubled day of life.
The three courteously saluted the stranger, delicately
refraining from making any precipitate allusion to
the motive of her visit. Their reserve seemed necessary;
for, by the agitation which shook the shattered
frame of one who appeared as much sinking
with grief as infirmity, it was too apparent that the
unknown lady needed a little time to collect her energies,
and to arrange her thoughts.
She wept long and bitterly, as though alone; nor
did she essay to speak until further silence would
have become suspicious. Then, drying her eyes, and
with cheeks on which a bright, hectic spot was seated,
her voice was heard for the first time by her wondering
hosts.
“You may deem this visit an intrusion,” she said;
“but one, whose will is my law, would be brought
hither.”
“Wherefore?” asked the officer, with mildness,
observing that her voice was already choaked.
“To die!” was the whispered, husky answer.
A common start manifested the surprise of her auditors;
and then the gentleman arose, and approaching
the litter, he gently drew aside a curtain, exposing
its hitherto unseen tenant to the examination of all
in the room. There was understanding in the look
that met his gaze, though death was but too plainly
stamped on the pallid lineaments of the wounded
man. His eye alone seemed still to belong to earth;
for, while all around it appeared already to be sunk
into the helplessness of the last stage of human debility,
that was still bright, intelligent, and glowing—
it might almost have been described as glaring.
“Is there aught in which we can contribute to
your comfort, or to your wishes?” asked Captain de
Lacey, after a long and solemn pause, during which
sad spectacle of sinking mortality.
The smile of the dying man was ghastly, though
tenderness and sorrow were singularly and fearfully
combined in its expression. He answered not; but
his eyes had wandered from face to face, until they
became riveted, by a species of charm, on the countenance
of the oldest of the two females. His gaze
was met by a look as settled as his own; and so evident
was the powerful sympathy which existed between
the two, that it could not escape the observation
of the spectators.
“Mother!” said the officer, with affectionate concern;
“my mother! what troubles you?”
“Henry—Gertrude,” answered the venerable parent,
extending her arms to her offspring, as if she
asked support; “my children, your doors have been
opened to one who has a claim to enter them. Oh!
it is in these terrible moments, when passion is asleep
and our weakness is most apparent, in these moments
of debility and disease, that nature so strongly
manifests its impression! I see it all in that fading
countenance, in those sunken features, where so little
is left but the last lingering look of family and kindred!”
“Kindred!” exclaimed Captain de Lacey: “Of
what affinity is our guest?”
“A brother!” answered the lady, dropping her
head on her bosom, as though she had proclaimed a
degree of consanguinity which gave pain no less than
pleasure.
The stranger, too much overcome himself to speak,
made a joyful gesture of assent, but never averted a
gaze that seemed destined to maintain its direction
so long as life should lend it intelligence.
“A brother!” repeated her son, in unfeigned astonishment.
“I knew you had a brother; but I had
thought him dead a boy.”
“ 'Twas so I long believed, myself; though frightful
glimpses of the contrary have often beset me; but
now the truth is too plain, in that fading visage and
those fallen features, to be misunderstood. Poverty
and misfortune divided us. I suppose we thought
each other dead.”
Another feeble gesture proclaimed the assent of
the wounded man.
“There is no further mystery. Henry, the stranger
is thy uncle—my brother—once my pupil!”
“I could wish to see him under happier circumstances,”
returned the officer, with a seaman's frankness;
“but, as a kinsman, he is welcome. Poverty,
at least, shall no longer divide you.”
“Look, Henry—Gertrude!” added the mother,
veiling her own eyes as she spoke, “that face is no
stranger to you. See ye not the sad ruins of one ye
both fear and love?”
Wonder kept her children mute, though both looked
until sight became confused, so long and intense was
their examination. Then a hollow sound, which
came from the chest of the stranger, caused them
both to start; and, as his low, but distinct enunciation
rose on their ears, doubt and perplexity vanished.
“Wilder,” he said, with an effort in which his
utmost strength appeared exerted, “I have come to
ask the last office at your hands.”
“Captain Heidegger!” exclaimed the officer.
“The Red Rover!” murmured the younger Mrs
de Lacey, involuntarily recoiling a pace from the litter,
in alarm.
“The Red Rover!” repeated her son, pressing
nigher with ungovernable curiosity.
“Laid by the heels at last!” bluntly observed Fid,
stumping up towards the groupe, without relinquishing
the tongs, which he had kept in constant use, as
an apology for remaining in the presence.
“I had long hid my repentance, and my shame,
surprise had a little abated; “but this war
drew me from my concealment. Our country needed
us both, and both has she had! You have served as
one who never offended might serve; but a cause so
holy was not to be tarnished by a name like mine.
May the little I have done for good be remembered
when the world speaks of the evil of my hands! Sister—mother—pardon!”
“May that God, who forms his creatures with such
fearful natures, look mercifully on all our weaknesses!”
exclaimed the weeping Mrs de Lacey, bowing
to her knees, and lifting her hands and eyes to heaven.
“O brother, brother! you have been trained
in the holy mystery of your redemption, and need
not now be told on what Rock to place your hopes
of pardon!”
“Had I never forgotten those precepts, my name
would still be known with honour. But, Wilder!”
he added with startling energy, “Wilder!—”
All eyes were bent eagerly on the speaker. His
hand was holding a roll on which he had been reposing,
as on a pillow. With a supernatural effort,
his form arose on the litter; and, with both hands
elevated above his head, he let fall before him that
blazonry of intermingled stripes, with its blue field
of rising stars, a glow of high exultation illumining
each feature of his face, as in his former day of pride.
“Wilder!” he repeated, laughing hysterically, “we
have triumphed!”—Then he fell backward, without
motion, the exulting lineaments settling in the gloom
of death, as shadows obscure the smiling brightness
of the sun.
| CHAPTER XVI. The Red Rover | |