University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

Leaving Captain Benbow and his
boats' crew pulling up the bay towards
Bristol, to avoid the consequences that
might follow the firm and bold resistance
he had made to the Gaspee's barges,
and leaving the brig in the hands of
the towns-people, who are discharging
her eargo with such patriotic zeal, we
will return to the youthful seaman,
Martin Manwaring, whom we left swimming
for the shore after his escape
from the sloop of war.

We have seen with what success his
perilous and bold ruse was crowned, securing
his safety by what at first seemed
to threaten it.

Finding that the whole attention of
the officers and men were directed astern
to the buoy, which he had, with
great self-possession cut loose, he felt
that he should escape without being discovered.
With strong arms and much
skill he combatted the current, endeavoring
so to direct his course as to reach
the island, and there rest and take
breath before he proceeded to the main-land.
But he found the tide too strong
for him to swim against without exhausting
the strength which it became him to
husband; for he had a long and arduous
swim before him.

Therefore, he gave up the idea of
reaching the island by stemming the
tide, and resolved to strike out at his
ease, and rather with the current than
against it, trusting he should at least
reach the shore not a great ways below
the town.

The sloop at which he had been a
prisoner was fast blending its masts and
yards with the darkness as he swam on,
and soon he could only faintly discern
the dark mass of her hull resting in the
water like a huge rock. He at length
could only tell her position by the lights
on her deck. The explosion of the
rocket had alarmed him for his safety;
for he felt convinced that if they threw
up several he would be likely to be discovered.
He, consequently, swam a
great deal beneath the surface; till at
length he began to experience great fatigue.
Upon this he ceased his exertions,
and throwing himself flat upon
the water, he floated for many rods
with the current. He had to resort to
this method of resting himself four or
five times, which caused the tide to take
him down the bay almost as fast as he
swam landward. At length he rejoiced
to find himself near the shore, for he
began to feel that if it were very far distant
he should be unable to reach it.—
His arms had now become so tired that
he began to think he had undertaken too
much in attempting to reach the land
from the ship; but inspired with the
hope of liberty, and above all with the
hope of once more seeing his mother,
he took heart and pressed manfully
onward towards the shore, on which he
could discern even the trees and shrubs
relieved against the star-lit sky.

“I shall soon be there,” he said, as
he swam onward with all his remaining
strength; “I shall soon behold my
mother! Courage! The shore is not
far!” And again he pressed onward;
for he saw that he was now just above
a projection of the shore, and that if he
drifted past it he should hardly gain the
land; for below the point the shores receded.
But ere he got near it his
strength was almost gone. He could
no longer move his arms with the confident
sweep and athletic form with which
he started from the ship. He found his
head submerged several times from exhaustion,
and at length he found that
he could scarcely keep his head above
water. Still he struggled on, sometimes
breathing heavily above the surface, at
others lost beneath it. It was at each
moment becoming a struggle between
life and death. The shores seemed to
be within his grasp when he lost sight
of them and found that he had not
strength left to raise himself again to
the top of the water. He felt himself
descending, and was about to surrender
himself to his fate, when he felt his feet
touch the bottom. With reserved hope
and strength he once more renewed his
exertions, and partly by swimming and
partly by clambering over the slimy
rocks below the water, he emerged
where it was shoal enough for him to
stand. He tottered forward to a flat
rock a few feet from him close to the
verge of the beach, and casting his
weary frame upon it, he thanked heaven
for his preservation. But he was almost
insensible from what he had gone
through, and after one or two attempts
to rise and climb the rocks he sank
back, saying faintly,

“I had best rest here for a few minutes!
I am completely exhausted!—
Welcome, liberty! welcome, my be
loved native shore! I would rather perish
here on thy naked rocks than reign
upon the throne of England. If I die
here, thank God I die upon the rocks
where in childhood and boyhood my
feet have trod in happy buoyancy —
From this very rock I have fished, and
it was here I met the little beautiful
girl who—”

Here his voice fell, and overpowered
by drowsiness he sank into a heavy
sleep, the effect of his exposure in the
water combined with weariness of the
body.

Leaving him here to its restorative
influence we will go and follow the fortunes
for this eventful evening of our
story, of the fair maiden whom we introduced
into its opening chapter, the beautiful
Barbara Frankland.

We last left her accompanied by her
father, in the act of descending Signal
Hill towards her home, he himself hastening
thither to make preparations to
go down to meet his brig, an enterprize,
the result of which thus far, we have
witnessed.

Upon her father's departure from the
house to go to the cave, where he was
to meet Finch with the boat, she insisted
on accompanying him, to see him
embark, saying that she was not afraid
to return alone. He, however, permitted
her to attend him only as far as the
path which led round the foot of the
hill, when he took leave of her, saying
that he should return the next day.

He then hastened on along the beach
until he met his boat and embarked
down the bay as we have seen. But
Barbara, instead of returning immediately
homeward, seeing a light sparkling
in the window of poor Margaret's
hut, went towards it; for she felt like
asking her more questions, touching her
singular explanation of her three-fold

dream. From the hour that she had
quitted her her words had been upon
her mind, and she could not forbear giving
to them more weight than she felt
they deserved; indeed she felt ashamed
at giving any credence whatever to what
she had said to her. She tried to laugh
off the impression, and to bring to aid
reason and religion, as both hostile to
anything like supernatural revelations
of this kind from such a source.

It was, therefore, partly to see dame
Margaret a second time, as well as a desire
to see her father depart in the boat
and receive his “good night,” that she
accompanied him. The place where
he had taken boat was about a quarter
of a mile below the hut, and the spot
where he took leave of her urging her
return home at once, was about one
yard above, or rather in the rear of the
hut.

“I will certainly take this opportunity
to say one word more to Margaret,”
she said, “and I can then reach home
safely. It is a retired path from this
home and no one is ever to be met upon
it. The light that glimmers in her
window seems to invite me! I know
it is very foolish and perhaps very wrong
for me to consult her, and then to let
what she chooses to reveal, or call revelations,
make such an impression upon
me. But I can't resist it! Her words
have raised my curiosity to know more.
But can she tell me more? At least I
will learn from her all that she professes
to know.”

Then as if willing to silence all other
objections she hurried forward, and
was in a few moments at the door of
the hut, at which she rapped loudly;
for the darkness and solitude of the
place began already to create in her bosom
emotions of fear.

Who comes? Good or Evil, who
knocks at this hour at the mad woman's
door?”

“A friend! It is me, Margaret.”

“Friends are angels that one hears
much of but never sees. But I should
know the voice; for it is a pleasant
one!”

“It is Barbara Frankland.”

“And Barbara Frankland is always
welcome beneath my roof,” answered
the woman, coming to the door, which
he previously unbolted, and holding a
light in her hand, by which her tall, majestic
figure, and wild, yet noble countenance,
were seen to striking advantage.
Barbara shrank back a step with
awe, and an inward feeling of reverence.

“Margaret, I came to accompany
my father to the cove, where he has taken
a boat to go down the bay to meet
a brig he expects up; and I thought I
would call in and see you, and invite
you to go up to the house with me. I
have some things that I wish to give
you.”

“That may be, lady, for you are always
generous, thou and thy father,
and Heaven bless you! But it is not to
ask me to go home with thee that thou
art here. But come in, and tell me
thy errand,” she said, as she closed the
door. “It is over late for a young girl
like thee to be abroad unattended, and
on so lonely a path; and when thou
goest I will go with thee to protect thee.
Mad Margaret can walk any where and
no man dare insult me! Hast thou
eaten thy evening meal? Poor as I am
I do not forget hospitality. I was at my
humble fare when you came in. It is
but a cake of brown bread and a fish,
with a cup of tea.”

“You are favored, Margaret, in having
such a luxury as tea,” said Barbara,
smiling.

“Yes; but there is a captain, who
never returns to port, that he does not
make a present of a few pounds of tea
and sugar; for he loved my dear boy,
and for his sake he is kind and dear to
me! Come, maiden, sit down. I have
another cup you see; for I don't know
how it is, but I always set that cup and
plate there. I sometimes think he
might sit there again as he used to do,
and — but I shall be a child to cry!
Let the boy pass!” she cried, sternly
and suddenly, as if she felt too proud to
grieve. “Sit there in his place. None
could so well occupy it! No one has
sat there since he—”

“Nay, do not speak of him, Margaret!
I will gladly remain and drink a
cup of tea with thee, if as thou hast
promised, thou wilt walk home with
me!”

With these words, Barbara seated
herself upon a straw-bottomed chair,
by the table, which was about three feet
square, covered with a coarse but white
cloth, and garnished with a black teapot;
a couple of delf plates, two cups
and saucers of the same kind of ware,
and a plate of brown bread, and another
of dried fish. The maiden had already
taken supper with her father, but
she did not wish to wound Margaret's
sensitiveness touching hospitality, and
she therefore condescended to take a
seat at her homely board.

“And where can the merchant be
gone to night, that he takes boat so
late?” asked Margaret, as she poured
out a cup of fragrant tea, the agreeable
odor of which, would have excited the
thirst of a Chinese mandarin.

“He expects a brig in, I believe, and
wishes to meet her before she comes up
to town.”

“There, Miss Barbara, is your tea. I
have none but the brown sugar; and I
have no cream.”

“It is very good as it is, Margaret,”
answered the maiden. “How lonely
you must be here to be always alone.”

“I am never alone. I have with me
the memory of my boy, and then there
is One who is always present!” she added,
looking upward with reverence.—
“But we we will talk of something else.
My heart will swell yet when I speak
of my noble lad! I can't forget him!
I live only with the hope of seeing him
in a better world! They say, I am
crazed, that the loss of my boy crazed
me! Perhaps I am, for I know I am
not as I was when he was with me. I
have been a different person since.—
Sometimes, I have been many weeks,
and could not tell at the end what I was
doing all the while or where I was!—
But people said I wandered by the sea,
and lived on shells and sat upon the
rocks and sang about my boy; and called
sometimes to the waves to give him
back to me. Perhaps I did, perhaps I
did; for I cannot recollect! I know that
sometimes I see only five or six days of
a month; the rest go and I know nothing
of them. I remember it was one
Sunday morning I was seated in my
door listening to God's bells ring his
people to worship him, and the next
thing I remembered I was twenty miles
away down the bay; and people told
me I had been there two weeks; but I
know not how I got there! Perhaps I
am crazy! perhaps I am!” she said,
sadly, and placing her hand to her forehead.
“They tell me I have told a
great many fortunes at such times, and
they became true; but I remember it
not, Barbara! So your father has gone
down to meet his brig. He is a rich
and good man. You are his only child,
and will be rich! Take care of thy

heart, maiden! Love not for riches, for
thou hast enough of thy own, but for
merit, though it come to thee in rags.”

“I have independence enough to do
it, Margaret,” responded the young girl,
with a smile of resolution.