University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

THE ABDUCTION.

The Buccanneer

—Scott.

It was a beautiful Spring-morning, and
Fanny Merton, as the sister of Henry Fowler
was now called, wandered, flower-gathering,
with her dear friend, Lucia Abbot, along the
banks of the Merrimac river. Lucia had
been for a month on a visit at her aunt's, and
the two girls had conceived a strong affection
for each other. Together they had climbed
the dark old Powow hill, together they had
glided over the smooth waters of the bay,
and together had they talked of the lost
Henry.

Too late had Mr. Abbot learned his error,
when the confessions of Frederick Johnson,
and the flight of Martin, had revealed the
true villain. Lucia had wept and laughed
by turns. “I knew he was innocent,” she
cried to her mother; “Henry would never
have committed such a crime.”

Mr. Abbot had taken every step to bring to
justice the offender. But he had escaped,
and the merchant could only regret his too
easy credulity. Frederick Johnson had made
a full and free confession, and through the
influence and exertions of his friend Rifton,
and Mr. Abbot, he had been pardoned.

“And William has come home again?”
said Fanny, inquiringly, to her young friend.

“Yes, but he is soon to leave again. Oh,
Fanny, I wish every one we love, would
stay with us; but I suppose that is impossible.”

“Where is he going, Lucia?”

“To South America; he is to be supercargo,
I believe they call it, of one of father's
ships. Father says his health requires a sea
voyage.

“But he will soon return, dear Lucia.”

“Yes, in a few months. Oh, I wish our
dear Henry would come with him.”

The orphan sighed. “But perhaps he
will meet with him.”

“Oh, yes,” cried Lucia, catching eagerly
at the thought; “wouldn't it be delightful if
William should bring him home.”

At this moment, a man approached the
speakers. He came from towards the water
and was dressed in sailor garments, apparently
a seaman belonging to one of the numerous
craft that nestled in the snug harbor of
Newburyport. Doffing his hat, he made a
low bow, and looking at the astonished girls,
said,

“Mayhap I address the sister of Henry
Fowler--”

“Henry, Henry!” cried Fanny, darting
forward, and seizing the man's hand; “what
of my brother, sir? Oh, tell me!”

“He's alive and well. The captain has
a letter from him. I've been watching you
since you came from that great house on the
hill,” said the sailor, pointing to the mansion
of Mrs. Merton, which, from a high point on
the east side of the town, overlooked the
waters of the harbor.

“And why did you not bring it to me?”
asked Fanny, anxiously.

“I doesn't like to overhaul them front
doors,” answered the man, rolling his quid
of tobacco in his mouth, “and captain said I
must see Miss Fanny herself, and give her
this; be said you'd know what it meant;”
and he took from his pocket a little packet.

Fanny eagerly seized and unrolled it. It
was a little locket, and in it was a lock of her
own hair, which she had braided when she
last parted from her brother. It was the
same locket which Fowler had missed from
his neck the Right of his rescue of Captain
Mina. Richard Martin had snatched it, as
he retreated from the crowd.

“Oh, Lucia! brother sent it. Where is
he; when will he come, sir?”

“As to the matter of that, Miss, I can't
say; but the captain has got a letter for you.”

“Oh, tell him to bring it to one, do; can
he not, to-night?”

“He said if I saw the young lady to ax
her to walk down to the shore to-morrow, and
he would meet her and give it to her.”

“There is some mystery in this business,”
said Lucia, advancing; “why does not your
captain come to the house, and deliver his
letter?”

“Why, to tell you blunt,” said the man,
with an apparent air of frankness, “our ship
is a privateer in the South-service, and the
captain doesn't like to come on shore much;
it's rather dangerous. But he's a friend
of your brother, I take it, Miss, and won't
stop to serve him. At any rate, I'll ax him
to go to the house, if you won't tell what
the craft is.”

“O thank you, thank you, sir,” said Fanny,
“we won't say a word.”

“But you'd better come down to the shore,
howsomdever,” said the sailor. “Mayhaps I
can get the letter myself,” continued he, as
he took a new plug of tobacco, and turned
away.

The girls hurried home together, to talk
and weep over the lock of hair, and imagine
and dream what would be the contents of the
letter. Alas for golden antieipations!

Mr. Abbot was seated in his parlor, lefsurely
smoking a cigar, for, like all sensible
old gentlemen, he knew what was good to
settle his dinner. All at once a carriage
drove to the door, and the next moment
Lucia was in his arms.

“Bless me! returned, my child! and what
is the matter?” said he, observing the traces
of tears on his daughter's cheeks.

“Oh, father—father—poor Fanny!” was
all she could utter.

“What of Fanny, my child; what has
happened?”

“Oh, I cannot—here, here is aunt's letter;
Fanny is murdered!”

“Murdered! bless us! murdered! What
do you mean, Lucia? Let me see the letter.”
Lucia with a trembling hand produced
it.

Mr. Abbot for sometime was silent with
amazement. “Martin!” cried he at last

“Lucia, tell me more of this. What are
the circumstances? What have the villains
done?”

As soon as Lucia could, she related her
story. They had met the stranger on the
beach, accompanied by another man. He
gave the delighted Fanny a letter, and ere
she could read a line, she was seized by his
companion and borne shrieking to the boat.
Lucia mingled her eries with Fanny's, and
fled to the house for succor. When she returned
with assistance, the boat was no
where to be found.

Mrs. Merton and her friends made every
exertion to rescue the lost girl. Boats were
immediately despatched down the harbor,
but the villains had escaped to their ship,
and with a smart breeze were already standing
from the bay. Porsuit with the heavy
and unprepared craft then in the harbor was
useless, and the boats were quickly left behind.
There was no cutter to overtake
them, and the pirate bark escaped with her
prize.

“And why do you,” said the father, when
Lucia had finished her narration, “why do
you think Richard--”

“I saw him, father. It was he who seized
my dear Fanny. I knew him, and he knew
me.”

“Knew you, Lucia?”

“Yes, father; he gave me a terrible look.
It was Richard Martin. I knew it, father.
Poor Fanny! he will murder her.”

What a thing is crime. Successful and
glorious. It carries all before it. The murderer
attains his object. The seducer attains
his object. It gave Dick Martin money,
power, freedom, love. Had he remained an
honest clerk, he might have starved on his
paltry salary. Ho, ho! for your Robinsons,
your Averys, and your Edwardses. Ho! ho!
for the merry hell-dance!