 | CHAPTER XV. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
By virgin innocence! It makes
Felicity in others, seem deformed.”
Davenant.
We must return to the rocks, and the melancholy
scene they offered. Our purposes will be answered, however,
by advancing the time into the evening, omitting many
things that the reader can imagine, without our relating
them.
It is scarcely necessary to say, that Andrea Barrofaldi,
and Vito Viti, took no part in the bloody transactions we
have related. When all was over, however, they drew near
to the rocks, and, sitting in their boat, contemplating the
sad spectacle presented within the narrow compass of the
islet of the ruins, the following short dialogue occurred
between them:—
“Vice-governatore,” demanded the podestâ, pointing to
the place where Sir Frederick lay, a motionless corpse,
Raoul bleeding, and others were writhing under their
wounds—“do you call this reality, or is it a part of that
damnable doctrine, which is enough to set the whole earth
by the ears, and to turn men into tigers and hawks?”
“I fear, neighbour Vito, this will only prove too true. I
see the bodies of Sir Dashwood and Sir Smees; and God
knows how many more have this day departed for the world
of spirits.”
“Leaving behind them only a world of shadows,” muttered
Vito Viti, even that melancholy spectacle failing to
draw his thoughts altogether from a discussion that had now
lasted near four-and-twenty hours. But the moment was
This was within half-an-hour after the struggle had ceased;
and our intentions are to advance the time to the moment
mentioned in the opening of this Chapter.
We must give here, however, a rapid sketch of the proceedings
that narrowed down the view to that we intend
shortly to lay before the reader. As soon as there was
leisure, Winchester made a survey of the field of battle. He
found many of his own men slain, and more wounded. Of
the French on the islet, quite half were hurt; but the mortal
wound received by their leader, was the blow that all
lamented. The surgeon soon pronounced Raoul's case to
be hopeless; and this declaration was heard with regret even
by generous enemies. The defence had been desperate;
it would have succeeded, had it been within the scope
of possibility for so few courageous men to repel double
their numbers of those who were equally brave. Both sides
had fought for honour; and, when this is the case, victory
generally awaits the strongest.
As soon as it was perceived that all the ships were likely
to be led far to leeward, in chase, the English officers felt
the necessity of acting for themselves. The medical men
had been busy from the first, and in the course of a couple
of hours, all had been done for the wounded that present
circumstances would allow. The amputations were few,
and each vessel having sent a surgeon, these were all made,
while the other appliances had been successfully used in such
cases as would be benefited by them. The day was drawing
near a close, and the distance from the fleet was so great
as to call for exertion.
As soon, therefore, as the uninjured men were refreshed,
and the wounded cared for, the latter were put into the
launches, in the best manner they might be, and the cutters
took them in tow. One had no sooner received its melancholy
freight, than it left the islets, on its way to the hospitalship
of the fleet. The others succeeded, in turn; the unhurt
French willingly offering to assist in the performance of this
pious duty. At length, but three boats remained. One was
Sir Frederick's gig, which Winchester had kept for his own
particular use; another was the yawl of Andrea Barrofaldi;
and the third, the little craft in which Carlo Giuntotardi had
the surgeon of the lugger, Raoul's steward and personal
attendant, and Raoul himself. If to these be added the two
Italians, and their oarsmen, Carlo and his niece, with Winchester
and his boat's crew, we enumerate all who now
remained at the rocks.
By this time the sun had sunk below the adjacent hills,
and it was necessary to decide on some course. Winchester
consulted the surgeon as to the expediency of removing his
patient. Could it be done, it had better be done soon.
“Mons. lieutenant,” answered this personage a little drily,
“mon brave capitaine has but a short time to live. He has
entreated to be left here, on the scene of his glory, and in
the company of that female whom he so well loved—mais—
you are the victors”— shrugging his shoulders—“and you
will do your own pleasure.”
Winchester coloured and bit his lips. The idea of torturing
Raoul, either in body or mind, was the last intention
of one so humane, but he felt indignant at the implied suspicion.
Commanding himself, notwithstanding, he bowed
courteously, and intimated that he would remain himself,
with his prisoner, until all were over. The Frenchman was
surprised, and when he read the sympathy of the other in
the expression of his countenance, he felt regret for his own
distrust, and still more at having expressed it.
“Mais, Monsieur,” he answered, “night will soon come
—you may have to pass it on the rocks.”
“And if we do, doctor, it is no more than we seamen are
used to. Boat-service is common duty with us. I have
only to wrap myself in my cloak, to enjoy a seaman's comfort.”
This settled the matter, and no more was said. The surgeon,
a man accustomed to the exercise of such resources,
soon managed to make his dispositions for the final scene.
In clearing the lugger, a hundred light articles had been
thrown on the islet on which she had touched, and among
others were several rude mattresses of the seamen. Two
or three of these were procured, placed on the smoothest
surface of the rock, and a bed formed for Raoul. The medical
man, and the seamen, would have erected a tent with a
sail, but this the wounded man forbade.
“Let me breathe the free air,” he said—“I shall use but
little of it;—let that little be free.”
It was useless to oppose such a wish, nor was there any
motive for it. The air was pure, and little need be apprehended
from the night, in behalf of Ghita, surrounded as
they were by the pure waters of the ocean. Even when the
Tramontana came, although it was cool, its coolness was
not unpleasant, the adjacent hill sheltering the islets from
its immediate influence.
The English seamen collected some fuel from the spare
spars of the lugger, and lighted a fire on the rock where
they had been found. Food of all sorts was abundant, and
several casks of water had been struck out whole, as provision
against a siege. Here they made coffee, and cooked enough
food for the wants of all the party. The distance prevented
their disturbing those who remained near Raoul, while the
light of the fire, which was kept in a cheerful blaze, cast a
picturesque glow upon the group around the dying man, as
soon as the night had fairly set in. It superseded, too, the
necessity of any lamps or torches.
We pass over all the first outpourings of Ghita's anguish,
when she learned the wound of Raoul, her many and fervent
prayers, and the scenes that took place during the time
that the islet was still crowded with the combatants. More
quiet hours succeeded when these last were gone; and as
the night advanced, something like the fixed tranquillity of
settled despair followed the first emotions. When ten o'clock
arrived, we reach the moment at which we wish to raise the
curtain once more, in order to present the principal actors
in the scene.
Raoul lay on the summit of the islet, where his eye could
range over the mild waters that washed the rock, and his
ear listen to the murmuring of his own element. The Tramontana,
as usual, had driven all perceptible vapour from the
atmosphere, and the vault of heaven, in its cerulean blue,
and spangled with thousands of stars, stretched itself above
him, a glorious harbinger for the future, to one who died in
hope. The care of Ghita and the attendants had collected
around the spot, so many little comforts as to give it the air
of a room suddenly divested of sides and ceiling, but habitable
and useful. Winchester, fatigued with his day's work,
to be alone with Ghita, had lain down on a mattress, leaving
orders to be called should anything occur; while the
surgeon, conscious that he could do no more, had imitated
his example, making a similar request. As for Carlo Giuntotardi,
he seldom slept; he was at his prayers in the ruins.
Andrea and the podestâ paced the rock to keep themselves
warm, slightly regretting the sudden burst of humanity
which had induced them to remain.
Raoul and Ghita were alone. The former lay on his
back, his head bolstered, and his face upturned towards the
vault of heaven. The pain was over, and life was ebbing
fast. Still, the mind was unshackled, and thought busy as
ever. His heart was still full of Ghita; thought his extraordinary
situation, and more especially, the glorious view
before his eyes, blended certain pictures of the future, with
his feelings, that were as novel as he found them powerful.
With the girl it was different. As a woman, she had felt
the force of this sudden blow in a manner that she found
difficult to bear. Still, she blessed God, that what had
occurred, happened in her presence, as it might be; leaving
her the means of acting, and the efficacy of prayer. To say
that she did not yet feel the liveliest love for Raoul, all that
tenderness which constitutes so large a portion of woman's
nature, would be untrue; but, her mind was now made up
to the worst, and her thoughts were of another state of
being.
A long pause had occurred, in which Raoul remained
steadfastly gazing at the starry canopy above.
“It is remarkable, Ghita,” he said, at length, “that I—
Raoul Yvard—the corsair—the man of wars and tempests—
fierce combats and hair-breadth escapes — should be dying
here, on this rock, with all those stars looking down upon
me, as it might be, from your heaven, seeming to smile upon
me!”
“Why not your heaven, as well as mine, Raoul?” Ghita
answered, tremulously. “It is as vast as He who dwells in
it — whose throne it is — and can contain all who love him,
and seek his mercy.”
“Dost thou think one like me would be received into his
presence, Ghita?”
“Do not doubt it — free from all error and weakness
Himself, his Holy Spirit delights in the penitent and the sorrowful.
Oh! dearest, dearest Raoul, if thou would'st but
pray!”
A gleam, like that of triumph, glowed on the face of the
wounded man; and Ghita, in the intensity of her expectation,
rose, and stood over him, her own features filled with a
momentary hope.
“Mon Feu-Follet!” exclaimed Raoul, letting the tongue
reveal the transient thought which brought the gleam of
triumph to his countenance. “Thou, at least, hast escaped!
These English will not count thee among their victims, and
glut their eyes on thy charming proportions!”
Ghita felt a chill at her heart. She fell back on her seat,
and continued watching her lover's countenance, with a
feeling of despair, though inextinguishable tenderness was
still crowding around her soul. Raoul heard the movement;
and turning his head, he gazed at the girl, for quite
a minute, with a portion of that intense admiration that used
to gleam from his eyes in happier moments.
“It is better as it is, Ghita,” he said, “than that I should
live without thee. Fate has been kind, in thus ending my
misery.”
“Oh! Raoul! there is no fate, but the holy will of God.
Deceive not thyself, at this awful moment; but bow down
thy proud spirit, in humility, and turn to Him for succour!”
“Poor Ghita!—Well, thine is not the only innocent mind
by millions, that hath been trammelled by priests; and, I
suppose, what hath commenced with the beginning, will last
till the end.”
“The beginning and the end, are both God, Raoul. Since
the commencement of time, hath he established laws which
have brought about the trials of thy life—the sadness of
this very hour.”
“And dost thou think he will pardon all thy care of one
so unworthy?”
Ghita bowed her head to the mattress over which she
leaned, and buried her face in her hands. When the minute
of prayer, that succeeded, was over, and her face was again
raised with the flush of feeling tempered by innocence on it,
Raoul was lying on his back, his eyes riveted, again, on the
farther into the study of astronomy than comported with his
general education; and, addicted to speculation, its facts
had often seized upon his fancy, though they had failed to
touch his heart. Hitherto, indeed, he had fallen into the
common error of limited research, and found a confirmation
of his suspicions, in the assumed grasp of his own reason.
The dread moment that was so near, could not fail of its
influence, however; and that unknown future over which he
hung, as it might be, suspended by a hair, inevitably led
his mind into an inquiry after the unknown God.
“Dost thou know, Ghita,” he asked, “that the learned
of France tell us that all yonder bright stars are worlds,
peopled most probably like this of our own, and to which
the earth appears but as a star itself, and that, too, of no
great magnitude?”
“And what is this, Raoul, to the power and majesty of
Him who created the universe? Ah! think not of the things
of his hand, but of Him who made them!”
“Hast thou ever heard, my poor Ghita, that the mind of
man hath been able to invent instruments to trace the movements
of all these worlds, and hath power, even, to calculate
their wanderings with accuracy, for ages to come?”
“And dost thou know, my poor Raoul, what this mind
of man is?”
“A part of his nature—the highest quality; that which
maketh him the lord of earth.”
“His highest quality—and that which maketh him lord
of earth, in one sense, truly; but, after all, a mere fragment
—a spot on the width of the heavens—of the spirit of God
himself. It is, in this sense, that he hath been made in the
image of his creator.”
“Thou think'st then, Ghita, that man is God, after all.”
“Raoul!—Raoul! if thou would'st not see me die with
thee, interpret not my words in this manner!”
“Would it, then, be so hard to quit life in my company,
Ghita?” To me it would seem supreme felicity were our
places to be changed.”
“To go whither? Hast thou bethought thee of this, my
beloved?”
Raoul answered not for some time. His eyes were fastened
crowd upon his brain. There are moments in the life of
every man, when the mental vision obtains clearer views of
remote conclusions, equally in connection with the past and
the future, as there are days, when an atmosphere purer
than common, more readily gives up its objects to the physical
organs, — leaving the mind momentarily the master,
almost without control. One of these gleams of truth passed
over the faculties of the dying man, and it could not be altogether
without its fruits. Raoul's soul was agitated by novel
sensations.
“Do thy priests fancy that they who have known and
loved each other in this life,” he asked, “will know and
love each other, in that which they fancy is to come?”
“The life that is to come, Raoul, is one all love, or one
all hatred. That we may know each other, I try to hope;
nor, do I see any reason for disbelieving it. My uncle is
of opinion it must be so.”
“Thy uncle, Ghita? What, Carlo Giuntotardi—he who
seemeth never to think of things around him — doth a mind
like his dwell on thoughts as remote and sublime as this?”
“Little dost thou know, or understand him, Raoul. His
mind seldom ceases to dwell on thoughts like these; this is
the reason why earth, and all it contains, seem so indifferent.”
Raoul made no answer, but appearing to suffer under the
pain of his wound, the feelings of woman so far prevailed
over Ghita's tender nature, that she had not the heart to
press even his salvation on him, at such a moment. She
offered him soothing drinks, and nursed him with unabated
care; and when there seemed to be a cessation to his sufferings,
she again passed minutes on her knees, her whole soul
absorbed in his future welfare. An hour passed in this
manner, all on, or near the rock sleeping, overcome by
fatigue, but Ghita and the dying man.
“That star haunts me, Ghita!” Raoul at length muttered.
“If it be really a world, some all-powerful hand must have
created it. Chance never made a world, more than chance
made a ship. Thought — mind — intelligence must have
governed at the formation of one, as well as of the other.”
For months Ghita had not known an instant as happy as
extricate itself from the shallow philosophy so much in
fashion, and which had hitherto deadened a nature so kind,
an intellect ordinarily so clear. Could his thoughts but once
take the right direction, she had strong confidence in the
distinctness of their views, but most of all in the goodness
of the Deity.
“Raoul,” she whispered, “God is there, as he is with us,
on this rock. His spirit is everywhere. Bless him!—bless
him in thy soul, my beloved, and be for ever happy!”
Raoul answered not. His face was upturned, and his eye
still remained riveted on that particular star. Ghita would
not disturb him, but taking his hand in hers, she once more
knelt, and resumed her prayers. Minute passed after minute,
and neither seemed disposed to speak. At length Ghita
became woman again, and bethought her of her patient's
bodily wants. It was time to administer the liquids of the
surgeon, and she advanced to hold them to his lips. The
eye was still fastened on the star, but the lips did not meet
her with the customary smile of love. They were compressed,
as when the body was about to mingle in the strife of a battle,
a sort of stern resolution being settled on them. Raoul
Yvard was dead.
The discovery of the truth was a fearful moment to Ghita.
Not a living being near her had the consciousness of her
situation; all being bound in the sleep of the weary. The
first feeling was that which belonged to her sex. She threw
herself on the body, and embraced it wildly, giving way to
those pent-up emotions, of which her lover, in his moody
humours, was wont to accuse her of not possessing. She
kissed the forehead, the cheeks, the pallid, stern lips of the
dead; and, for a time, there was the danger that her own
spirit might pass away in the paroxysm of her grief. But,
it was morally impossible for Ghita to remain long under
the influence of despair. Her gentle spirit had communed
too long and too closely with her Heavenly Father, not to
resort to his support in all the critical moments of life. She
prayed, for the tenth time, that night, and arose from her
knees calm, if not absolutely resigned.
The situation of Ghita was now as wildly picturesque as
it was moving to her inmost spirit. All around her still slept,
rise again, when the sea and the land gave up their dead.
The excitement and exertions of the past day produced
their reaction, and seldom did sleep exercise a more profound
influence. The fire was still burning bright, on the
islet of the gig-men, casting its rays fairly atwhart the
ruins, the different sleepers in them, and the immoveable
body of the dead. At moments, gusts of the Tramontana,
which was now blowing fresh, descended so low as to fan the
flames, when the glare that succeeded seemed to give a startling
reality to all that surrounded the place.
Still, the girl was too highly sustained, to be moved with
anything but her loss, and her restless inquietude for the
departed spirit. She saw that even her uncle slept, leaving
her truly alone with Raoul. Once a feeling of desertion
came over her, and she was inclined to arouse some of the
sleepers. She did approach the spot where the surgeon
lay, and her hand was raised to stir him, when a flash of
light shot atwhart the pallid countenance of Raoul, and she
perceived that his eyes were still open. Drawing near, she
bent over the body, gazing long and wistfully into those
windows of the soul, that had so often beamed on her in
manly tenderness, and she felt, like a miser with his hoarded
gold, unwilling to share it with any other.
Throughout the livelong night did Ghita watch by the
body of her well-beloved, now hanging over it with a tenderness
no change could extinguish, now besieging heaven
with her prayers. Not one awoke, to interfere with
the strange happiness she felt in those pious offices, or to
wound her sensibilities, by the surprise or the sneers of the
vulgar. Ere the day came, she closed the eyes of Raoul
with her own hands, covered his body with a French
ensign, that lay upon the rock, and sat, patient and resigned,
awaiting the moment when some of the others might be
ready to aid her in performing the last pious offices in behalf
of the dead. As a Romanist, she found a holy consolation
in that beautiful portion of her church's creed, that
admits of unceasing petition for the souls of the departed,
even to the latest hour of earthly things.
Winchester was the first to stir. Starting up, he
appeared to be astonished at the situation in which he found
towards Ghita, he was about to inquire after the
welfare of Raoul, when, struck by the expression of her
seraphic countenance, he turned to the body, and read the
truth in the appropriate pall. It was no time for self-upbraidings,
or for reproaches to others; but arousing the
sleepers, in a subdued and respectful manner, he gave to the
place the quiet and seeming sanctity of a chapel.
Carlo Giuntotardi, soon after, begged the dead body from
the conquerors. There was no motive for denying the
request, and it was placed in a boat, and towed to the shore,
accompanied by all who had remained. The heavy sirocco
that soon succeeded, drove the waves atwhart the islet of the
ruins, effectually erasing its stains of blood, and sweeping
every trace of le Feu-Follet, and of the recent events, into
the sea.
At the foot of the Scaricatojo, the seamen constructed a
rude bier, and thus they bore the dead up that wild, and yet
lovely precipice, persevering in their good work until they
reached the cottage of Carlo Giuntotardi's sister. A little
procession accompanied the body from the first; and, Ghita
being universally known and respected among the simple
inhabitants of those heights, when it entered the street of
St. Agata, it had grown into a line that included a hundred
believers.
The convent, the empty buildings of which still crown
the summit of one of the adjacent hills, was then in existence
as a religious community; and the influence of Carlo
Giuntotardi was sufficient to procure its offices in behalf
of the dead. For three days and nights did the body of
Raoul Yvard, the unbeliever, lie in the chapel of that holy
fraternity, his soul receiving the benefit of masses; and then
it was committed to holy ground, to await the summons of
the last trump.
There is a strange disposition in the human breast to
withhold praise from a man when living, that is freely
accorded to him when dead. Although we believe that
envy, and its attendant evil, detraction, are peculiarly democratic
vices, meaning thereby that democracy is the most
fertile field in which these human failings luxuriate, yet is
there much reason to think that our parent nation is preeminent
That which subsequently awaited Napoleon, after his imprisonment
and death, was now exhibited in the case of
Raoul Yvard, on a scale suited to his condition and renown.
From being detested in the English fleet, he got to be
honoured and extolled. Now that he was dead and harmless,
his seamanship could be praised, his chivalry emulated,
his courage glorified. Winchester, McBean, O'Leary, and
Clinch, attended his funeral, quite as a matter of course.
They had proved themselves worthy to be there; but many
others insisted on being of the party. Some came to get a
last look of so celebrated an adventurer, even in his coffin;
others to say they had been present; and not a few to catch
a glimpse of the girl whose romantic, but innocent passion,
had got to be the subject of much discourse in the ships.
The result was such a procession, and such funeral honours,
as threw the quiet little hamlet of St. Agata into commotion.
All noted the particulars, and all were pleased but
Ghita. On her, these tardy compliments failed of their
effect, her soul being engrossed with the great care of
petitioning heaven in behalf of the deceased.
Andrea Barrofaldi and Vito Viti, too, figured on this
occasion; the latter taking care to let all who would listen,
understand how closely he had been connected with “Sir
Smees;” no longer viewed as an impostor, but honoured as
a hero. He even created a little difficulty in claiming a
precedency for the toga over arms on the occasion; well
knowing that if the vice-governatore got a conspicuous
place in the ceremony, that the podestâ could not fail to be
near at hand. The matter was settled entirely to Andrea's
satisfaction, if not to that of his friend.
To confess the truth, Nelson was not sorry for what had
occurred. When he learned the desperate nature of Raoul's
defence, and heard some traits of his liberal conduct on
various occasions, he felt a generous regret at his death;
but he thought even this preferable to escape. When Cuffe
got in, and brought the report of the lugger's fate, though he
would have preferred her capture, the common sentiment
settled down into a feeling that both lugger and commander
had fared as well as a privateer and her people usually
merited.
As a matter of course, those concerned in the capture,
and who survived the affair, reaped some advantages from
their success. England seldom fails in the duty of conferring
rewards, more especially in her marine. When Cook
returned from his renowned voyages, it was not to meet
with persecution and neglect, but credit and justice. Nelson
knew how to appreciate that spirit and enterprise, which
were so often exercised by himself. As for Sir Frederick
Dashwood, little could be done besides giving his name an
honourable place on the list of those who had fallen in battle.
His heir wore mourning, seemed filled with sorrow, and
inwardly rejoiced at being a baronet with some thousands a
year. Lyon got his ship, and, from that moment, he ceased
to consider the chase and all connected with le Feu-Follet
an unprofitable thing. Airchy followed him to the Terpsichore,
with visions of prize-money before his eyes, which
were tolerably realized in the course of the succeeding five
years.
Winchester was promoted into the Ringdove, and Griffin
became first of the Proserpine. This, of course, made Yelverton
second, and left one vacancy. Thus far the orders
had been made out, when Cuffe dined with the Admiral, by
invitation, tête-à-tête.
“One of my objects in having you here to-day, Cuffe,”
observed Nelson, as they sat together over their wine, the
cabin cleared, “was to say something about the vacant berth
in your gun-room, and the other was to beg a master's-mate
of you, in behalf of Berry. You remember that some
of your people were received on board here, before you got
in, the other day?”
“I do, my lord; and I meant to make my acknowledgments
for the favour. The poor fellows had a warm time
of it at the rocks, and deserved comfortable berths after it
was over.”
“I believe we gave them as much—at least, I know few
suffer in this ship. Well, there was a mate among them,
who is a little advanced, and who is likely to stick where he
is, by what I learn. We want just such a man for the hold,
and I have promised my Captain to speak to you about him.
Don't let him go if there 's any reason for wishing to retain
him; good fellows too, they tell me.”
Cuffe picked some nuts, and appeared a little at a loss for
a reply. Nelson saw this, and he fancied the other reluctant
to give up his mate.
“Well, I see how it is,” he said, smiling. “We must do
without him, and you will keep your Mr. Clinch. A thorough
officer in a ship's hold is an advantage not to be thrown
away; and I suppose, if Hotham had asked such a thing of
old Agamemnon, he might have whistled for the favour.
The deuce is in it, if we do not get as good a mate somewhere!”
“It 's not that, my lord—you 're welcome to the man,
though a better, in his station, cannot be had. But, I was
in hopes his recent good conduct, and his long services, might
give him a lift into the vacant gun-room berth.”
The Admiral appeared surprised, while he did not seem
to be exactly pleased.
“It has a hard look, I grant you, Cuffe, to keep a poor
devil ten or fifteen years in the same station, and this, too,
after he has served long enough for a commission. I was
a captain ten years younger than this Mr. Clinch must be
to-day, and it does seem hard; and yet I doubt not it is just.
I have rarely known a midshipman or a mate passed over, in
this way, that there was not some great fault at the bottom.
We must think of the service, as well as of generosity.”
“I confess all this, my lord — and yet I did hope poor
Clinch's delinquencies would at length be forgotten.”
“If there are any particular reasons for it, I should like
to hear them.”
Cuffe now related all that had passed between himself and
the master's-mate; taking care to give Jane a due place in
his history. Nelson began to twitch the stump of his arm,
and by the time the story was told, Clinch's promotion was
settled. An order was sent forthwith, to the secretary, to
make out the orders, and Cuffe carried them back with him
to the Proserpine that night, when he returned to his own
ship.
All Nelson's promotions were confirmed by the Admiralty,
pretty much as a matter of course. Among others was that
of Clinch, who now became the junior lieutenant of the Proserpine.
He dressed better; refrained from the bottle; paid more
attention to his mind; improved in manners, by keeping
better company; and, in the course of the next twelvemonth,
had made rapid advances towards respectability. At the
end of that time, the ship was sent home; and Jane, in her
imagination at least, received the reward of all her virtuous
constancy, by becoming his wife. Nor did Cuffe cease his
friendly offices, here. He succeeded in getting Clinch put
in command of a cutter; in which he captured a privateer,
after a warm action, within a month. This success procured
him a gun-brig, and with her he was still more fortunate;
actually cutting out, with her boats, a French sloop-of-war,
that was not half manned, it is true, but which was
still considered a handsome prize. For this affair he got
the sloop; thus demonstrating the caprice of fortune, by
whose means he found himself a commander in less than
three years after he had been a mate. Here he stuck, however,
for a long time, until he got another sloop in fair fight,
when he was posted. From that moment we have lost sight
of him.
Cuffe being sent into the Gulf of Genoa, shortly after,
seized the opportunity to restore the vice-governatore and
his friend to their native island. The fame of their deeds
had preceded them, exaggerated, as a matter of course, by
the tongue of rumour. It was understood that the two Elbans
were actually in the fight, in which Raoul Yvard fell; and,
there being no one to deny it, many even believed that Vito
Viti, in particular, had killed the corsair with his own
hand. A discreet forbearance on the part of the podestâ,
always kept the matter so completely involved in mystery,
that we question if any traveller who should visit the island,
even at this day, would be able to learn more than we now
tell the reader. In a word, the podestâ, for ever after, passed
for a hero, through one of those mysterious processes by
which men sometimes reach fame; quite as much, perhaps,
to their own astonishment, as to the surprise of everybody
else.
As for Ithuel, he did not appear in America for many
years. When he did return, he came back with several
thousand dollars; how obtained no one knew, nor did he
and settled in life. In due time he “experienced religion,”
and, at this moment, is an active abolitionist, a patron of the
temperance cause, tee-totally, and a general terror to evildoers,
under the appellation of Deacon Bolt.
It was very different with the meek, pious and singleminded
Ghita; though one was e'en a Roman Catholic,
and the other a Protestant, and that, too, of the Puritan
school. Our heroine had little of this world left to live for.
She continued, however, to reside with her uncle, until his
days were numbered; and then she retired to a convent,
not so much to comply with any religious superstitions, as
to be able to pass her time, uninterrupted, in repeating
prayers for the soul of Raoul. To her latest hour, and she
lived until quite recently, did this pure-minded creature
devote herself to what she believed to be the eternal welfare
of the man who had so interwoven himself with her virgin
affections, as to threaten, at one time, to disturb the just
ascendency of the dread Being who had created her.
| CHAPTER XV. The wing-and-wing, or, Le Feu-follet | |