 | CHAPTER X. Ringwood the rover |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
The day passed over, as all days must, in its
appointed time, whether of joy or sorrow, and the
great sun went down upon the pirate's hold, as
peacefully as on the shepherd's hut, all bright and
blessing, and one by one the stars came out in
their set places, and the broad moon arose—a ball
of liquid silver.
The day passed over—but through its weary
hours, though trembling at each distant footstep,
and shuddering at every voice, Teresa heard no
more, saw no more, of the dreaded Rover; and
as she learned by slow degrees to forget—if not to
forgive—the frailty of her lovely hostess in her
compassionate kindness; and as hour after hour
glided by, and naught occurred to wake new apprehension,
the tension of her nerves, strong preternaturally
by the intense and terrible excitement
of the scenes in which she had so lately
borne a part so prominent, was gradually softened
down; her tears flowed, not convulsively, but in
a tranquil stream which ever seemed to relieve
her burning brain from one half of its fiery burthen—she
now wept not for herself alone—and
even that rather from nervous irritation, than that
she had appreciated her position—but for her tortured,
butchered brother—for her unhappy parent
—for, more than all beside—her true, her own
dear Amadis! Nor did she only weep!—she
prayed—prayed purely, fervently, with strong
affectionate unwavering faith, for strength—that
only real strength—the strength which cometh
from on high—to bear in calm humility, in Christian
fortitude, whatever might be sent to her by
Him, who sendeth all his gifts, whether of joy
or sorrow, wisely and well, and—though we,
thoughtlesss and hard-hearted, believe it not to be
so—for our eternal good! She prayed—and rose
up from her bended knees—as all will rise, who
do pray fervently, and purely, and with faith—
refreshed and comforted in spirit, and strengthened
with an inward hope, surpassing any confidence
of earth, in a strong Rescuer on high. She rose
up, braver than she had knelt down, and with a
better courage; for it was not based on her own
vain confidence of heart, and stubborn purpose,
but in the love of Him who slumbereth not, nor
rent from the head of his most humble worshiper.
She rose up, as we have said, comforted and
strengthened—she washed, and braided her disordered
locks, and clad herself in the most modest
garments of her fair entertainer; she ate and
drank, and laid her down in her pure unsunned innocence,
beside that bright but erring being,
whose very virtues had been melted down by the
uncurbed indulgence of ungovernable passions,
into voluptuous vice, and slept as soundly and as
sweetly as the young happy infant cradled upon
its mother's bosom. While long, long after she
had sunk to rest, the fair-haired beauty watched
every long drawn breath, and almost wept, she
knew not why, over the calm unconscious sleeper
—till when the night had far advanced toward
morning, she started, as if into remembrance from
a sudden dream; and, rising from Teresa's side,
thrust her small snowy feet into a pair of fairy
slippers, drew a large robe of velvet about her
shapely limbs, and stole away, nor returned any
more to her own bower, until the tropical sun was
high already in the clear firmament.
That day the Rover came not nigh Teresa, for
in the fort without, and in the circular basin, all
was now bustle and hot haste. During the night
two more feluccas, which had been detached from
the rest upon some distant cruise, had been warped
into the harbor and found berths beside their
consorts, and all the morning long all hands were
actively employed refitting them for instant service—water
casks were rolled out, and filled, and
hoisted in again; and biscuit, and rich meats, and
fragrant wines, and arms, and ammunition, and
fresh men, embarked with emulous haste. At
noon, as the two girls might see from Bella's
bower—for having, though half reluctant, and
half doubtful of her own liberty to do so, become
in some degree conciliated to that kind although
guilty creature, Teresa would no more consent to
quit her private chamber; nor to seek any more
intercourse with those who, although in truth no
more guilty than the English girl, yet seemed so
to her eyes already influenced—alas! weak mortals!—by
some small show of kindness—at noon,
as the two girls might see from Bella's bower—a
council was held within the ramparts of the keep,
of all the pirate leaders; and, shortly after the
drum beat to arms; and all the buccaneers assembled,
and fell into their ranks, a gay and gorgeous
host, numbering at least twelve hundred practiced
warriors.
After a brief inspection by the great buccaneer
himself, eight hundred were detailed, and instantly
embarked in the two last arrived feluccas, and
all the vessels of the other squadron, saving
alone the largest barque—Ringwood's own flag
ship—and the small sloop or tender which lay
moored by the water-gate. Within an hour at
furthest, the last of this gallant squadron, detached,
as it was evident, on some peculiar duty,
disappeared behind a dense mass of trees which
veiled the outlet of the harbor; and so strong was
the current of the river which leaped up there at
once, a giant from its birth, that in less than two
hours more they were all out at sea with their
sails set to the stiff breeze, ploughing the billows
merrily.
With them, however, we go not on their path
of rapine—their sails were spread, and their masts
bent to the morning blast, and their lean bows
cleft with a sound of laughter the blue waves.
But no eye from the pirate's hold could mark
them, though many a heart beat eager with anticipation.
When they were out of sight, after some
short parade and manning of the guns, Ringwood
dismissed his men; and with his arms folded upon
his bosom, and his proud head depressed as though
in melancholy thought, strolled for some time in
a listless mood about the esplanade of the fort, and
then withdrew quietly to his own turret chamber,
where none—not his most intimate associates—
not his most trusted officers—ever presumed to
break upon his solitude—and there remained all
moody and alone, till the sun had already plunged
his lower limb into the deep and tufted foliage of the
surrounding forest. Just at that time, however, as
the land breeze began to die away, and a faint
languid calm succeeded, before the setting in of
the fresher breath of the free ocean—a dull, deep,
heavy sound—a sort of rumbling and continuous
roar was heard by the watchers on the bastions;
and while they were yet wondering what those
hoarse notes might mean, the Rover stood among
them—
“Ordnance!” he said—“and heavy ordnance!
—man all the batteries, load, and run out the guns;
see you have linstocks ready, and fire at hand to
light them.”
And, although many doubted that those far sounds
were indeed guns—none disobeyed his orders!
none hesitated for a moment—and ere long it was
proved how perfect was the ear, how accurate the
judgment of the great English Rover—for as the
sea breeze freshened, and blew strong, it bore
upon its dewy breath the sharp reports of many a
single cannon, of many a long continuous volley.
At last the sounds died off, and seemed to melt
into the distance, and pass entirely away—but
again, just as it grew quite dark, before the moon
had risen, or the stars yet come out, the cannonading
was renewed, closer, as it seemed, than before;
glare rushed up the deep blue sky; and so continued,
wavering now—now flashing fiery bright,
for nigh an hour of time; then a keen stream, or
column rather, of white light shot up toward the
zenith with a dull heavy shock; a shower of sparks
fell seaward, and all was dark and silent. All
that night long torches were blazing and guards
pacing the stone bastions, and blue lights dimly
burning in all the trenches of the outer works.
Nay, more, the guns were manned even in the citadel
itself, and in the Rover's keep—and all those
tedious hours with ear, heart, eye on the alert,
Teresa watched and prayed in the strong hope of
coming succor. Both vessels in the harbor were
full manned and all in battle order—but, though
all hearts were burning, all arms high strung
against the foe, though Reginald himself waked to
devise fresh means of desperate defence, half
doubting that his consorts were cut off, and two-thirds
of his men destroyed, for well he knew no
one would yield him captive—no foe appeared—
nor friend. The chirpings and hummings of the
innumerable insect tribes—the croak of the countless
reptiles, mixed with the chatter of the nighthawk
and the rich melody of an occasional mocking
bird, were the only sounds that waked the
night echoes of the Florida forest, except the
watchword and the tramp of the stern sentinel.
Just as day dawned, commanding the small
sloop to slip her cable, and with a picked and veteran
crew of twenty English sailors, to drop
down cautiously and reconnoitre, Ringwood departed
from the busy ramparts; and, for the first
time, since the stormy scene which had ensued
on Teresa's introduction, turned toward the bower.
He lingered not, however, there; when he found
none within its gorgeous precincts save the Italian
girl, and the soft Persian dancer, though each tried
her most choice allurements to detain him; but
passed, after a few short moments, into the bower
of his English favorite.
“Ha! Bella,” he said, as he entered, “my sweet
Bella,” and a touch of real fondness was audible
in his rich accents—“and thou, Teresa, nay! nay!
start not, nor look so wildly, lady—I come not to
alarm, much less to harm you; sit, fair one, and
fear nothing. Now, Bella, dearest, I have watched
all night long, and am fatigued and faint, bid your
slave girls bring forth their dainties, I come to
break my fast in your sweet company, and spend
a tranquil hour,” and with the words he cast his
splendid figure at length upon a satin ottoman on
the side of the chamber farthest from Teresa, in
an attitude of the most perfect grace and majesty,
and remained for some seconds without speaking,
a grave and even sorrowful expression pervading
his expressive lineaments. After a few moments,
raising his eyes to Teresa's face, he perceived that
the bland air of dismay, almost despair, still sat
upon her pallid features; and that with lips apart,
nostrils dilated, and eyes rigidly set and glaring,
she gazed upon his features, as if she therein
thought to read her doom.
“Fear nothing now from me,” he again said, in
a voice singularly mild and witching. “Fear nothing
now from me, Teresa. The fire has gone
out here,” and he laid his broad hand on his brow,
“and if you fan it not by any heedless folly, will
sleep, perchance, forever. The fiend of memory
is for awhile at rest; see that you wake it not to
phrensy! nay, wonder not, nor start at my words,
either. If I have sinned much, I have suffered
much, and many of my sins have been the rank
fruit of those very sufferings. But a truce now to
this; my word is pledged to you, that you shall
undergo no violence. My word, girl, inviolate
yet—see that you stir me not to any reckless fit—
—when reason yields the sins to memory, to weakness
and revenge! Teresa, fear me not!”
“I fear you not,” she answered, half timidly,
half reassured by his strangely altered manner,
“though I have mighty cause to fear you, yet I
do not!”
“So you shall have no cause—daring myself, I
love the daring and undaunted, even when they
defy me! sin-stained myself and passion-blighted,
I yet admire the innocent and pure. Dauntless I
do know you, Teresa!—for had you not been so,
long hence had your dishonored carcass glutted
the dog-fish and the shark, and pure I do believe
you! were it not, I say, for memory and pride, I
might even now release you.”
“Oh! do! do!” she exclaimed, “do so; and
God will bless you; your sins, though red as
scarlet, shall become white as snow; your rapines
and your crimes shall all be pardoned you;
a grateful virgin's prayers shall rise up nightly
for your weal, shall win the grace of the Eternal,
shall shield your head in battle, that not a hair of
it shall perish, and more, far more, than with a
self-approving conscience, shall crown your days
with bliss, and steep your nights in quiet. Do so,
and on your bed of death a weak girl's voice of
gratitude shall smooth your thorny pillow—her
father's—”
“Ha!—no more!—Peace! on your life, no
more!” cried Ringwood, fiercely interrupting her,
as he half started from the couch whereon he was
reclining, at the mere mention of the man, whom
he indeed had so deep cause to execrate; though
but a little while before he had seemed on the
point of yielding to her prayers. Teresa, nerved
with the hope of winning him, would have replied;
roused him into a burst of savage and ungovernable
fury, but as her lips moved to answer, Bella,
who had been absent for a moment with her handmaids,
fortunately returned, and laying her hand
on Teresa's shoulder, pressed it so strongly, that
she looked up, and then she laid her fingers to her
own mouth with a grave smile, and changed the
subject by addressing Ringwood with some slight
question of no moment.
Meantime the board was spread with dainties,
choice fruits, and savory meats, and snowy bread,
and the enchanting wines of Southern Europe, in
bowls of porcelain and crystal, dishes embossed
with gold, and flasks engraved by the unequaled
chisel of Cellini; and Ringwood led, strange guests!
the fair-haired Bella, and that stern innocent Spanish
virgin, to seats beside him; and played the
host with such unrivaled courtesy, such proud
humility in every accent of his rich, deep, manly
voice, such dignity and grace in every free unstudied
gesture, that even Teresa was won for a
space from her gloomy abstraction, and to her
own astonishment—when she reflected on it afterward—found
herself wondering at—almost admiring—the
chivalrous and dignified demeanor of
the fierce Pirate.
Before the meal was well concluded, one of the
slave girls who attended, came with a hasty step
from the armory, announcing that Pluto and another
black awaited the Rover's leisure.
“What other black—my midnight beauty?”
exclaimed the Rover, laughing, “His fellow Charon,
is it?”
“His name Antonio, massa—who sell us fruit
and fish from his pirogue.”
“Ha!” cried the Rover, “Ha!—” and mused
a moment, and stepped out into the gorgeous vestibule,
decked with its glittering arms, leaving
the door behind him open, so that the girls could
hear every word that passed.
“What! is it you, Antonio—what brings you
here, and whence?”
“From Key West, massa, last, with plenty
fine fresh turtle—they in my pirogue, down below,
so heavy we can't warp him up!”
“Key West—what of our squadron then? you
must have met it.”
“Certain! replied the negro, “I met'em, and
told massa Cunninghame of Spanish fleet in the
offing—seven merchant galliots and one caravel!
Then massa Cunninghame set sail till he fell
within them, and hoisted English color—and then
ran!”
“Ran?” cried the Rover, “ran!”
“Yes, he ran, massa Ringwood, till they all
chased him, and got scattered, then he turned
round and fought; and when the caravel took
ground not fifty fathom from the inlet, he left her
hard and fast, and chased the galliots, and took
two—and then his squadron all came back, and
battered the war-ship and burned her quite, and
sacked the galliots and then seuttled them and
then went off in chase again after five others—
long chase, but still I guess he catch 'era!”
“Ha! well done, Cunninghame! brave Cunninghame!
brave Cunninghame!” exclaimed the
Rover, “take that for thy news, fellow,” giving
him as he spoke two or three Spanish dollars.
“I must away and call the men from the felucca,
and the batteries; they list not service unless it
be strictly needed. What wouldst thou more,
my good fellow?”
“So please you, send four hands in his canoe,
help poor Antonio up with big pirogue: have
plenty fat turtle and fresh fruit to-night.”
“Well, see to it, Pluto!” and with the words
entirely deceived by the intelligence he had received,
and lulled into confidence that his crews
were victorious, the Rover hurried down, and
called off all his men save the two wonted sentinels
upon the bastions, and the two watchmen in
his own felucca; revoked his orders to the sloop
which had already moved toward the outlet; and
ordering an extra supply of wines, in compensation
of their recent toils, to all the buccaneers,
gave himself up to dreams of complete triumph.
An hour or two elapsed and Antonio's pirogue
came up, manned in addition to its usual crew by
four of the Rover's trustiest men, who reported
all still and peaceful in the outlet, and was moored
inside the large felucca, close to the shingly beach
below the batteries. Her deck load of fruit and
fish was soon got ashore, her hatches battened
down, and herself, as it seemed, left vacant and
unguarded, while her black crew, consisting only
of two boys in addition to Antonio, went ashore
with the Rover's men to join in their accustomed
revelings and riots.
Night fell; and though for a little while licentious
songs, loud shouts of mirthful laughter, and
many a sound of wild ungoverned mirth rung
through the guarded esplanade, long before midnight
not an eye was awake in the ships, on the
ramparts, in the dwellings, or in the Rover's keep,
so heavily were the buccaneers exhausted by the
strange mixture of fatigue and feasting which had
characterized the last four days—save those of
the four sentinels, two in the barque, and one on
either bastion, and of the sad Teresa, who, waking
from a perturbed and dreamy sleep, had missed
her fair companion—for she, as on the former
night, had stolen from her couch unnoticed—and
now stood gazing from her high lattice over the
in the indistinct light of the happy moon, half
lustre and half shadow.
| CHAPTER X. Ringwood the rover | |