 | CHAPTER X. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Before all temples, the upright heart and pure,
Instruct me; for thou know'st.”
Milton.
The spot in which Carlo Giuntotardi had taken refuge,
is well known on the Sorrentine shore, as the water-cavern,
at the ruins of Queen Joan's country-house. Cavern it is
the basin within being open to the heavens, and the place
resembling an artificial excavation, made to shelter boats in;
profiting by the natural passage to obtain an entrance. Let
the origin of this little haven be what it may, art could not
have devised a more convenient, or a more perfect refuge
than it afforded to our fugitives at a most critical moment.
Once through the arch, the boat would have been effectually
concealed from her pursuers, under a noon-day sun; nor
would any, who were unacquainted with the peculiarities of
the entrance, dream of a boat's lying, as it might be, buried
in the rocks of the little promontory. Neither Ghita nor
her uncle any longer felt concern; but, the former announced
her intention to land here, assuring Raoul that she
could easily find her way into the bridle-path which leads to
St. Agata.
The desperate character of the recent chase, aided by his
late almost miraculous escape from death, joined to the
necessity of parting from his mistress, rendered our hero
melancholy, if not moody. He could not ask Ghita to share
his dangers any longer; and yet he felt, if he permitted her
now to quit him, the separation might be for ever. Still he
made no objection; but, leaving Ithuel in charge of the boat,
he assisted Ghita up the funnel-like sides of the basin, and
prepared to accompany her on her way to the road. Carlo
preceded the pair; telling his niece that she would find him
at a cottage on the way, that was well known to both.
The obscurity was not so great as to render the walking
very difficult; and Raoul and Ghita pursued their course
slowly along the rocks, each oppressed with the same sensation
of regret at parting, though influenced by nearly
opposing views for the future. The girl took the young
man's arm without hesitation; and there was a tenderness
in the tones of her voice, as well as in her general manner,
that betrayed how nearly her heart was interested in what
was passing. Still, principle was ever uppermost in her
thoughts; and she determined, now, to speak plainly, and
to the purpose.
“Raoul,” she said, after listening to some one of those fervent
declarations of love that were peculiarly agreeable to one
of her affectionate and sincere nature, even when she most felt
be an end of this. I can never go through, again, the scenes
I have lately witnessed, nor allow you to run such fearful
risks. The sooner we understand each other, and I may
say, the sooner we part, it will be the wiser, and the better
for the interests of both. I blame myself, for suffering the
intimacy to last so long, and for proceeding so far.”
“And this is said by a fervent-souled Italian girl!—One
of eighteen years;—who comes of a region in which it is
the boast, that the heart is even warmer than the sun; of a
race, among whom it is hard to find one—oui, even a poor
one — who is not ready to sacrifice home, country, hopes,
fortune, nay, life itself, to give happiness to the man who
has chosen her from all the rest of her sex.”
“It would seem to me easy to do all this, Raoul. Si—I
think I could sacrifice everything you have named, to make
you happy! Home I have not, unless the Prince's Towers
can thus be called; country, since the sad event of this week,
I feel as if I had altogether lost; of hopes, I have few in this
world, with which your image has not been connected; but,
those which were once so precious to me, are now, I fear,
lost; you know I have no fortune, to tempt me to stay, or
you to follow; as for my life, I fear it will soon be very
valueless—am sure it will be miserable.”
“Then why not decide at once, dearest Ghita, to throw
the weight of your sorrows on the shoulders of one strong
enough to bear them? You care not for dress, or gay appearances,
and can take a bridegroom even with the miserable
aspect of a lazzarone, when you know the heart is right.
You will not despise me because I am not decked as I might
be for the bridal. Nothing is easier than to find an altar
and a priest among these monasteries; and the hour for
saying mass is not very distant. Give me a right to claim
you, and I will appoint a place of rendezvous, bring in the
lugger to-morrow night, and carry you off in triumph to our
gay Provence; where you will find hearts gentle as your
own, to welcome you with joy, and call you sister.”
Raoul was earnest in his manner, and it was not possible
to doubt his sincerity. Though an air of self-satisfaction
gleamed in his face, when he alluded to his present personal
in spite of the dress of a lazzarone.
“Urge me not, dear Raoul,” Ghita answered, though,
unconsciously to herself, she pressed closer to his side, and
both sadness and love were in the very tones of her voice;
“urge me not, dear Raoul; this can never be. I have
already told you the gulf that lies between us; you will not
cross it, to join me, and I cannot cross it, to join you.
Nothing but that could separate us; but that, to my eyes,
grows broader and deeper every hour.”
“Ah, Ghita, thou deceivest me, and thyself. Were thy
feelings as thou fanciest, no human inducement could lead
thee to reject me.”
“It is not a human inducement, Raoul; it is one above
earth, and all it holds.”
“Peste!—These priests are scourges sent to torment men
in every shape! They inflict hard lessons in childhood,
teach asperity in youth, and make us superstitious and silly
in age. I do not wonder that my brave compatriots drove
them from France; they did nothing but devour like locusts,
and deface the beauties of providence.”
“Raoul, thou art speaking of the ministers of God!”
Ghita observed meekly, but in sorrow.
“Pardon me, dearest Ghita; I have no patience when I
remember what a trifle, after all, threatens to tear us asunder.
Thou pretendest to love me?”
“It is not pretence, Raoul, but a deep, and I fear, a painful
reality.”
“To think that a girl so frank, with a heart so tender,
and a soul so true, will allow any secondary thing to divide
her from the man of her choice!”
“It is not a secondary, but a primary thing, Raoul; oh!
that I could make thee think so. The question is between
thee and God—were it aught else, thou might'st indeed prevail.”
“Why trouble thyself about my religion, at all? Are
there not thousands of wives who tell their beads, and repeat
their aves, while their husbands think of anything but heaven?
Thou and I can overlook this difference; others
overlook them, and keep but one heart between them still.
I never would molest thee, Ghita, in thy gentle worship.”
“It is not thou that I dread, Raoul, but myself;” answered
the girl, with streaming eyes, though she succeeded
in suppressing the sobs that struggled for utterance. “`A
house divided against itself cannot stand,' they say; how
could a heart that was filled with thee, find place for the
love it ought to bear the author of its being. When the
husband lives only for the world, it is hard for the wife to
think of heaven as she ought.”
Raoul was deeply touched with the feeling Ghita betrayed,
while he was ready to adore her for the confiding sincerity
with which she confessed his power over her heart. His
answer was given with seductive tenderness of manner,
which proved that he was not altogether unworthy of the
strange conflict he had created in so gentle a breast.
“Thy God will never desert thee, Ghita,” he said; “thou
hast nothing to fear as my wife, or that of any other man.
None but a brute could ever think of molesting thee in thy
worship, or in doing aught that thy opinions render necessary,
or proper. I would tear the tongue from my mouth,
before reproach, sneer, or argument, should be used to bring
thee pain, after I once felt that thou leanedst on me for support.
All that I have said has come from the wish that
thou would'st not misunderstand me, in a matter that I
know thou think'st important.”
“Ah! Raoul, little dost thou understand the hearts of
women. If thy power is so great over me to-day, as almost
to incline me from the most solemn of all my duties, what
would it become when the love of a girl should turn into the
absorbing affection of a wife! I find it hard, even now, to
reconcile the love I bear to God, with the strong feeling thou
hast created in my heart. A year of wedded life would
endanger more than I can express to you in words.”
“And, then, the fear of losing thy salvation, is stronger
than thy earthly attachments?”
“Nay, Raoul, it is not that. I am not selfish, or cowardly
as respects myself, I hope; nor do I think, at all, of any
punishment that might follow from a marriage with an unbeliever;
what I most apprehend is being taught to love my
God less than I feel I now do, or than, as the creature of his
mercy, I ought.”
“Thou speakest as if man could rival the being whom
we bear the Deity, and that we bear each other, are of a
very different quality. I can see no necessity for their interfering
with each other.”
“Nothing can be less alike, Raoul; yet one may impair,
if not destroy the other. Oh! if thou would'st but believe
that thy Saviour was thy God, if thou could'st but be dead
to his love, and not active against him, I might hope for
better things; but I dare not pledge all my earthly duties
to one who is openly an enemy of my own great Master and
Redeemer.”
“I will not, cannot deceive thee, Ghita—that I leave to
the priests. Thou know'st my opinions, and must take me
as I am, or wholly reject me. This I say, though I feel
that disappointment, if you persist in your cruelty, will drive
me to some desperate act, by means of which I shall yet
taste of the mercies of these English.”
“Say not so, Raoul; be prudent for the sake of your
country—”
“But not for thine, Ghita?”
“Yes, Raoul, and for mine also. I wish not to conceal
how much happier I shall be in hearing of your welfare and
peace of mind. I fear, though an enemy, it will ever give
me pleasure to learn that thou art victorious. But, here is
the road, yonder the cottage where my uncle waits for me,
and we must part. Heaven bless thee, Raoul; my prayers
will be full of thee. Do not—do not, risk more to see me,
but, if—” The heart of the girl was so full, that emotion
choked her. Raoul listened intently for the next word, but
he listened in vain.
“If what, dear Ghita? Thou wert about to utter something
that I feel is encouraging.”
“Oh! how I hope it may be so, my poor Raoul! I was
going to add, if God ever touches thy heart, and thou
would'st stand before his altar, a believer, with one at thy
side who is ready and anxious to devote all to thee, but her
love of the Being who created her, and her treasures of
future happiness, seek Ghita; thou wilt find her thou
would'st have.”
Raoul stretched forth his arms to clasp the tender girl to
his bosom; but, fearful of herself, she avoided him, and fled
pursuit. The young man paused a moment, half inclined
to follow; then prudence regained its influence, and he bethought
him of the necessity of getting to a place of safety
while it was yet night. The future was still before him, in
hope, and that hope led him to look forward to other occasions
to press his suit.
Little, however, did Raoul Yvard, much as he prized her,
know Ghita Caraccioli. Her nature was full of womanly
sensibilities, it is true, and her heart replete with tenderness
for him in particular; but the adoration she paid to God,
was of that lasting character which endures to the end. In
all she said and felt, she was truth itself; and while no
false shame interposed to cause her to conceal her attachment,
there was a moral armour thrown about her purposes,
that rendered them impregnable to the assaults of the world.
Our hero found Ithuel sleeping in the boat, in perfect
security. The graniteman thoroughly understood his situation,
and foreseeing a long row before him, he had quietly
lain down in the stern-sheet of the yawl, and was taking his
rest, as tranquilly as he had ever done in his berth on board
le Feu-Follet. He was even aroused with difficulty, and he
resumed the oar with reluctance. Before descending the
funnel, Raoul had taken a survey of the water from the
rocks above. He listened intently, to catch any sounds that
might arise from the English boats. But nothing was visible
in the obscurity, while distance, or caution, prevented anything
from being audible. Satisfied that all was safe outside,
he determined to row out into the Bay, and, making a
circuit to avoid his enemies, push to the westward, in the
expectation of finding his lugger in the offing. As there
was now a considerable land-breeze, and the yawl was
lightened of so much of her freight, there was little doubt
of his being able to effect his purpose, so far as getting out
of sight was concerned, at least, long ere the return of light.
“Pardie, Etooelle?” Raoul exclaimed, after he had given
the American, jog the third, “you sleep like a friar who is
paid for saying masses at midnight. Come, ami; now is
our time to move, for all is clear outside.”
“Well, natur', they say, is a good workman, Captain
Rule,” answered Ithuel, gaping and rubbing his eyes; “and
sleeps so quietly in it! Heigho! I suppose the ash must be
kept moving, or we may yet miss our passage back to
France. Shove her bows round, Captain Rule; here is the
hole, which is almost as hard to find, as it is to thread a
needle with a cable. A good shove, and she will shoot out
into the open water.”
Raoul did as desired. Ithuel touching the tiller, the yawl
glided through the opening, and felt the long ground-swell
of the glorious Bay. The two adventurers looked about
them with some concern, as they issued from their-hiding
place, but the obscurity was too deep to bring anything in
view on the face of the waters. The flashing that occasionally
illuminated the summit of Vesuvius, resembled heat-lightning,
and would have plainly indicated the position of
that celebrated mountain, had not its dark outlines been
visible, exposing a black mass at the head of the Bay. The
ragged mountain-tops, behind and above Castel a Mare,
were also to be traced, as was the whole range of the
nearer coast, though that opposite was only discoverable
by the faint glimmerings of a thousand lights, that were
appearing and disappearing, like stars eclipsed, on the other
side of the broad sheet of placid water. On the Bay itself,
little could be discerned; under the near coast, nothing, the
shadows of the rocks obscuring its borders with a wide belt
of darkness.
After looking around them quite a minute in silence, the
men dropped their oars, and began to pull from under the
point, with the intention of making an offing before they set
their little luggs. As they came out, the heavy flap of canvass,
quite near, startled their ears, and both turned instinctively
to look ahead. There, indeed, was a vessel, standing
directly in, threatening even to cross their very track. She
was close on a wind, with her larboard tacks aboard, and
had evidently just shaken everything, in the expectation of
luffing past the point without tacking. Could she succeed
in this, it would be in her power to stand on, until compelled
to go about beneath the very cliffs of the town of
Sorrento. This was, in truth, her aim; for again she
shook all her sails.
“Peste!” muttered Raoul; “this is a bold pilot—he loves
Etooelle, and let him pass; else he may trouble us.”
“'Twill be the wisest, Captain Rule; though I do not think
him an Englishman. Hark! The ripple under his bow is
like that of a knife going through a ripe water-melon.”
“Mon Feu-Follet!” exclaimed Raoul, rising and actually
extending his arms, as if to embrace the beloved craft.
“Etooelle, they seek us, for we are much behind our
time!”
The stranger drew near fast; when his outlines became
visible, there was no mistaking them. The two enormous
luggs, the little jigger, the hull, almost awash, and the whole
of the fairy form, came mistily into view, as the swift bird
assumes colour and proportion, while it advances out of the
depth of the void. The vessel was but a hundred yards
distant; in another minute, she would be past.
“Vive la Republique!” said Raoul, distinctly, though he
feared to trust his voice with a loud hail.
Again the canvass flapped, and the trampling of feet was
heard on the lugger's deck; then she came sweeping into
the wind, within fifty feet of the yawl. Raoul watched the
movement; and by the time her way was nearly lost, he
was alongside, and had caught a rope. At the next instant,
he was on board her.
Raoul trod the deck of his lugger, again, with the pride
of a monarch, as he ascends his throne. Certain of her
sailing qualities, and confident of his own skill, this gallant
seaman was perfectly indifferent to the circumstance that he
was environed by powerful enemies. The wind and the
hour were propitious, and no sensation of alarm disturbed
the exultation of that happy moment. The explanations
that passed between him and his first-lieutenant, Pintard,
were brief but distinct. Le Feu-Follet had kept off the land,
with her sails lowered, a trim in which a vessel of her rig
and lowness in the water would not be visible more than five
or six miles, until sufficient time had elapsed, when she was
taken into the Gulf of Salerno, to look for signals from the
heights of St. Agata. Finding none, she went to sea again,
as has been stated, sweeping along the coast, in the hope of
falling in with intelligence. Although she could not be seen
by her enemies, she saw the three cruisers who were on the
the fates of the absentees. On the afternoon of that
day, the lugger was carried close in with the north-west side
of Ischia, which island she rounded at dusk, seemingly
intending to anchor at Baiæ, a harbour seldom without allied
cruisers. As the wind came off the land, however, she kept
away, and passing between Procida and Mysenum, she came
out into the Bay of Naples, about three hours before meeting
with Raoul, with the intention of examining the whole of the
opposite coast, in search of the yawl. She had seen the
light at the gaff of the Proserpine, and, at first, supposed it
might be a signal from the missing boat. With a view to
make sure of it, the lugger had been kept away, until the
night-glasses announced a ship; when she was hauled up on
a wind, and had made two or three successive half-boards,
to weather the point where her captain lay concealed; the
Marina Grande of Sorrento being one of the places of rendezvous
mentioned by our hero, in his last instructions.
There was a scene of lively congratulation, and of even
pleasing emotion, on the deck of the lugger, when Raoul so
unexpectedly appeared. He had every quality to make
himself beloved by his men. Brave, adventurous, active,
generous and kind-hearted, his qualities rendered him a
favourite to a degree that was not common even among the
people of that chivalrous nation. The French mariner will
bear familiarity better than his great rival and neighbour,
the Englishman; and it was natural with our hero to be
frank and free with all; whether above him or below him in
condition. The temperaments to be brought into subjection
were not as rude and intractable as those of the Anglo-Saxon;
and the off-hand, dashing character of Raoul was admirably
adapted to win both the admiration and the affections of his
people. They now thronged about him, without hesitation
or reserve, each man anxious to make his good wishes
known, his felicitations heard.
“I have kept you playing about the fire, camarades,”
said Raoul, affected by the proofs of attachment he received;
“but, we will now take our revenge. There are English
boats in chase of me, at this moment, under the land; we
will try to pick up one or two of them, by way of letting
them know there is still such a vessel as le Feu-Follet.”
An exclamation of pleasure followed; then an old quarter-master,
who had actually taught his commander his first
lessons in seamanship, shoved through the crowd, and put
his questions with a sort of authority.
“Mon capitaine,” he said, “have you been near these
English?”
“Ay, Benoit; somewhat nearer than I could wish. To
own the truth, the reason you have not sooner seen me, was,
that I was passing my time on board our old friend, La Proserpine.
Her officers and crew would not lose my company,
when they had once begun to enjoy it.”
“Peste!—mon cher capitaine—were you a prisoner?”
“Something of that sort, Benoit. At least, they had me
on a grafing, with a rope round the neck, and were about
to make me swing off, as a spy, when a happy gun or two,
from Nelson, up above there, at the town, ordered them to
let me go below. As I had no taste for such amusements,
and wanted to see mon cher Feu-Follet, Etooelle and I got
into the yawl, and left them; intending to return and be
hanged, when we can find nothing better to do.”
This account required an explanation, which Raoul gave
in a very few words, and then the crew were directed to go
to their stations, in order that the lugger might be properly
worked. The next minute the sails were filled, on the larboard-tack,
as before, and le Feu-Follet again drew ahead,
standing in for the cliffs.
“There is a light in motion, near Capri, mon capitaine,”
observed the first-lieutenant; “I suppose it to be on board
some enemy. They are plenty as gulls, about this bay.”
“You are very right, Monsieur. 'Tis la Prosperine;
she shows the light for her boats. She is too far to leeward
to meddle with us, however, and we are pretty certain
there is nothing between her and the ships off the town,
that can do us any harm. Are all our lights concealed?
Let them be well looked to, monsieur.”
“All safe, mon capitaine. Le Feu-Follet never shows her
lantern, until she wishes to lead an enemy into the mire!”
“Raoul laughed, and pronounced the word “bon” in
the emphatic manner peculiar to a Frenchman. Then, as
the lugger was drawing swiftly in towards the rocks, he
ahead; Ithuel, as usual, standing at his side.
The piano, or plain, of Sorrento terminates, on the side
of the bay, in perpendicular cliffs of tufa, that vary from one
to near two hundred feet in height. Those near the town
are among the highest, and are lined with villas, convents,
and other dwellings, of which the foundations are frequently
placed upon shelves of rock, fifty feet below the adjacent
streets. Raoul had been often here, during the short reign of
the Rufo faction, and was familiar with most of the coast.
He knew that his little lugger might brush against the very
rocks, in most places, and was satisfied that if he fell in
with the Prosperine's boats at all, it must be quite near the
land. As the night wind blew directly down the bay, sighing
across the campagna between Vesuvius and Castel a
Mare, it became necessary to tack off-shore, as soon as le
Feu-Follet got close to the cliffs, where the obscurity was
greatest, and her proportions and rig were not discernible
at any distance. While in the very act of going round, and
before the head-sheets were drawn, Raoul was startled by a
sudden hail.
“Felucca, ahoy!” cried one, in English, from a boat
that was close on the lugger's bow.
“Halloo!” answered Ithuel, raising an arm, for all near
him to be quiet.
“What craft's that?” resumed he in the boat.
“A felucca sent down by the admiral, to look for the
Proserpine—not finding her at Capri, we are turning up to
the anchorage of the fleet again.”
“Hold on a moment, sir, if you please; I'll come on
board you. Perhaps, I can help you out of your difficulty;
for I happen to know something of that ship.”
“Ay, ay — bear a hand, if you please; for we want to
make the most of this wind while it stands.”
It is singular how easily we are deceived, when the mind
commences by taking a wrong direction. Such was now
the fact, with him in the boat, for he had imbibed the
notion that he could trace the outlines of a felucca, of
which so many navigate those waters, and the idea that it was
the very lugger he had been seeking, never crossed his mind.
the deck of his enemy.
“Do you know this gentleman, Etooelle?” demanded
Raoul, who had gone to the gangway to receive his visiter.”
“It is Mr. Clinch, the master's-mate of the accursed Proserpine;
he who spoke us in the yawl, off the point yonder.”
“How!” exclaimed Clinch, his alarm being sufficiently
apparent in his voice; “have I fallen into the hands of
Frenchmen?”
“You have, Monsieur,” answered Raoul, courteously, “but
not into the hands of enemies. This is le Feu-Follet, and
I am Raoul Yvard.”
“Then all hope for Jane is gone, for ever!—I have passed
a happy day, though a busy one, for I did begin to think
there was some chance for me. A man cannot see Nelson
without pulling up, and wishing to be something like him;
but, a prison is no place for promotion.”
“Let us go into my cabin, Monsieur. There we can converse
more at our ease; and we shall have a light.”
Clinch was in despair; it mattered not to him, whither
he was taken. In the cabin he sat the picture of a helpless
man, and a bottle of brandy happening to stand on the table,
he eyed it with something like the ferocity with which the
hungry wolf may be supposed to gaze at the lamb ere he
leaps the fold.
“Is this the gentleman you mean, Etooelle?” demanded
Raoul, when the cabin-lamp shone on the prisoner's face;
“he who was so much rejoiced to hear that his enemy was
not hanged?”
“'Tis the same, Captain Rule; in the main, he is a good-natured
officer—one that does more harm to himself than
to any one else. They said, in the ship, that he went up to
Naples to do you some good turn or other.”
“Bon!—You have been long in your boat, Mr. Clinch
—we will give you a warm supper and a glass of wine—
after which, you are at liberty to seek your frigate, and to return
to your own flag.”
Clinch stared as if he did not, or could not, believe what
he heard—then the truth flashed on his mind, and he burst
into tears. Throughout that day his feelings had been in
for the future, through the renewed confidence and advice of his
captain. Thus far he had done well, and it was by striving
to do still better that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy.
For a single moment the beautiful fabric which revived hopes
had been industriously weaving throughout the day, was
torn into tatters. The kindness of Raoul's manner, however,
his words, and the explanations of Ithuel, removed a
mountain from his breast, and he became quite unmanned.
There is none so debased as not to retain glimmerings of
the bright spirit that is associated with the grosser particles
of their material nature. Clinch had in him the living consciousness
that he was capable of better things, and he endured
moments of deep anguish, as the image of the patient,
self-devoting, and constant Jane rose before his mind's eye
to reproach him with his weaknesses.
It is true that she never made these reproaches in terms;
so far from that, she would not even believe the slanders of
those she mistook for his enemies; but Clinch could not
always quiet the spirit within him, and he often felt degraded
as he remembered with how much more firmness Jane
supported the loud of hope deferred, than he did himself.
The recent interview with Cuffe had aroused all that was
left of ambition and self-respect, and he had left the ship
that morning with a full and manly determination to reform,
and to make one continued and persevering effort to obtain
a commission, and with it Jane. Then followed capture
and the moment of deep despair. But Raoul's generosity
removed the load, and again the prospect brightened.
| CHAPTER X. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet | |