 | CHAPTER XX. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
Such, then, being the history of Barbara's
interview with the unknown youth
who had never since that time been
forgotten by her, but rather remembered
with pleasure, it is not surprising that
she started with surprise, and that her
Margaret said to her—“If you do not
know that you have met with my dear
boy, he has seen you; and if he lives
to this day,” she added, “he remembers
you! But let us sit here upon this
bank! I am fatigued. We will walk
on after we rest.”
“Do you say he met me upon the
Carved Rock?” she exclaimed.
“Yes, lady, he met thee then, and
thou didst smile upon him and speak so
kindly to him that his boyish heart was
won at once!”
“I never met but one person there,
and he was a youth of sixteen, but—”
“But you think it could not be my
boy! Yet it was he. He came home
and told me how he had seen you, and
that he poured into a basket which you
carried—”
“All his beautiful shells!—”
“Yes, and that you in return gave
him a small brooch—”
“Then it was, it must have been
been your son! Why did I not suspect
it before? Why did I not know it before?”
she cried, with sincere joy.
“He did not know you, and asked
me to find out who you were for him;
and I promised to do so; though from
his description I expected it was you!”
“And how did you ascertain?”
“By seeing the brooch, which he did not
show me nor speak of till the next day. I
knew it at once, for I had seen you wear
it, and noticed it as it had a dark-green
stone with red spots upon it! I knew
the brooch at once; but I did not tell
my boy who you were; for I did not
wish to make him unhappy; for I felt
that as soon as he learned you were so
rich and great, and so far above him, he
would pine and be low-hearted; and so
I did not tell him: but I might as well,
for the same night he was torn from
me!”
“My dear Margaret,” said Barbara,
after a few moments' silence, “I hardly
know how to explain to you my feelings
at this discovery. I will, however, be
frank with you, for it may please you,
now that your son is lost to you; but I
trust you will yet see him again! to
know that from that hour when he gave
me the shells, I have not ceased to think
of him with pleasure, and to wonder
who he was! I was impressed with
his politeness and modest diffidence,
and I could not but think a great deal
of him; and, I will tell you the truth,
went to the Carved Rock after that
more than once in hopes of meeting
with him; and I have recently began
to fancy, Margaret, that I might have
dreamed, or that he was a momentary
vision, as he never appeared again.—
But now all is cleared up. And it is
so strange that he should be your son!”
“I hope, lady,” said Margaret, with
something of pride and bitterness, “I
hope that you will not for this hate his
memory, which, till now, you have
seemed to cherish!”
“Hate him because thou art his
mother! Oh, no, Margaret! I rather
think of him the more kindly!”
“God bless you, maiden! You are
true and good as you are beautiful. I
see you have no pride in your heart.
But if he had remained and met you
again and again, children as you
were, my poor boy would have loved
only to despair. It is better that he
was taken as he was! Better for you
both!”
“No, no, Margaret!” answered Barbara,
with warmth of feeling as if her
generous spirit hastened to defend itself
from any such charge as Margaret's
words implied. “If he had remained
up loving one another, as certainly I
think we should have done, had he not
been so cruelly carried away, his being
your son, his humble condition and
poverty, let me say without offence to
you, Margaret, would have had no weight
with me!”
“Even had he asked your hand, maiden,
when he came to manhood?”
“No, Margaret, no! For if it could
be that I loved him, he must have been
worthy of my love; for I could love no
one whom I did not feel was so. Believe
me, I grieve with you, now in your
loss; for I have thought so much about
him, that I have often resolved in my
secret heart, that I will never love any
one but that unknown youth!”
“And is this the reason, lady, that
thou hast refused the alliance with three
different suitors, all thy equals in rank
and in wealth?”
“Thou hast guessed it, Margaret.—
You may think me foolish, but with the
recollection of the handsome youth,
with his image engraven on my heart,
and a secret, half-formed hope that in
some way, my destiny would yet be united
with his, I could not give myself to
another!”
“Then it is true that thou lovest my
son, even now? How wonderful is all
this!”
“I do love him, Margaret; I have
loved him from that day, and with years
has that love grown in my heart, till
there is no more room for any other!”
“It is safe for you to speak thus
lady,” answered Margaret, who, from
the bank where they had seated them,
selves to rest, was gazing off upon the
waters of the bay as they mirrored the
sparkling stars, “it is safe for you to
confess this blessed news now, that my
boy is dead; but were he living, you
would shrink from confessing that you
loved the son of Margaret, the fisherman's
widow!”
“Never, Margaret; not if he should
appear to-morrow! At least, if he returned
without dishonor,” she added,
quickly; “but this could not be in one
with so noble an air and a look so pure
and generous as he had! Yet, even
should he return a guilty being, I should
still cherish my early love for him and
sorrow for his fall, though prudence
might lead me to withdraw from him!
But why speak thus of him!” she said,
sadly. “He is no doubt lost to us both.
If he should return, I feel that he will
return with honor, and be worthy of
the hopes I have so long cherished for
him!”
“I thank thee, I thank thee, maiden.
You do him only justice. Such words
are sweet to my ears. Heaven reward
you for them. How dear thou art to
me since this confession!”
“Now, Margaret, let our conversation,
I pray thee, be secret between us.”
“It shall be so, maiden. It is sacred.
Oh, thanks be to Heaven that I can
talk to thee of my lost one, knowing
thou wilt listen.”
“Will you tell me, Margaret—”
“Hist! What is that speaking in
the water?”
“I heard nothing.”
“Nay, it was but a fish jumping.—
What did you ask?”
“Will you tell me how it was he was
taken from you?”
“Ah, it was a dark, sad hour, that
hour I parted from my boy,” answered
Margaret, sadly, as she gloomily shook
her head. “But I will tell thee how it
was, for thou art now next to my son,
in my heart, for thou, too, lovest him.
I had just put supper on the table—it
twenty-first of May, in '67.”
“This is the twenty-first of May.”
“This?”
“Yes, Margaret.”
“Are you sure? for I lose not only
days of the month, but weeks often.”
“It is the twenty-first day, Margaret.”
“Then it is the anniversary of my
boy's loss. Oh, why have I not kept
fast and prayed this day as I have done
heretofore? But I will make to-morrow
a day of wailing and mourning.—
Five years ago this very day it was,
maiden. I was waiting for my boy to
come in to supper; for he had gone to
town on an errand for me. All at once
I heard shouting over by the hill-side,
here and there a gun was fired close
outside the cottage as it seemed, and
as I got up to run at the door, Martin
bounded into the room like a hunted
deer, his face covered with blood!
“`Hide me, mother!' he cried.—
`The press-gang I have fought till they
were too many for me!' These were
his words. I at once barred the door,
and he was helping me to take up a
board of the floor, under which to conceal
himself, when the door was assailed
and broken open by four armed men
with uniforms. `There he is, seize
him!' cried the leader. I stood before
them calling to Martin to fly by the
window; but seeing one of the men
thrusting me rudely aside, and another
strike me heavily, he flew to
my aid armed with a boat-hook. With
this he drove them across the room and
stood at bay like a lion; but he at
length became faint from a gun-shot
wound in his temple, (for they had fired
on him as he fled from them,) and staggering
fell into my arms. The demons
then tore him from my hold and struck
me senseless. When I recovered I was
alone! I rose and ran hither and thither
calling the name of my son. But
all was silent. I hastened to the town
and asked everywhere for my boy; and
was at length told he and three others had
been taken off to a frigate then in the harbor
and that there was no hope of recovering
him. It was a moonlight night,
and they pointed the frigate out to me
with her sails spread and going out of
the harbor. I did not wait to reflect:
I hastened back to my home, and, taking
Martin's boat, launched out into the
bay. The frigate passed and I pursued,
calling on the name of my child, now
imploring, now entreating, now cursing
those who tore him from me! But the
ship went on, the hearts of the men on
board as hard as the wood of the ship itself
and as senseless. When day dawned,
the ship was twenty miles down the bay,
and I was still pursuing. She was a
league from me at sunrise, and yet my
arm never wearied. I paddled without
rest, without weariness! As the sun
rose a storm arose, and as the waters
grew black with the shadows of the
storm-clouds, and the waves and winds
roared, and the thunder rolled overhead,
I laughed and clapped my hands and
shouted with the storm! I became mad
as it increased, and as the lightning flashed
I bared my bosom to their bolts and
called on the Almighty to strike, now
that my child was taken from me. I
have no further recollection of anything,
save coming to myself in the hut of the
light-house-keeper, many leagues below
this. From him and his family I learned
that I had been drifted in my boat
by the storm upon the head-land, that
he, seeing the boat tossed upon the
waves, hastened to the shore, but he
did not discover that it contained a human
being until a wave tossed it upon
the beach. He then beheld me lying
He took me to his dwelling, and restored
me to consciousness, but never to
reason!”
“Yes, to reason, Margaret,” answered
Barbara, with generous emotion:
“you have your reason now! Surely
you talk with me perfectly yourself.”
“I may seem so at times, maiden;
but it is merely a suspension, an interval
of my disease of mind. I may the
next five minutes be the raving madwoman
you have beheld me. It is your
gentle presence and sympathy that makes
me calm now.”
“For my sake continue so, Margaret.”
“I will, child, I will, at least till the
demon possesses me again. This is
the first time I ever spoke of my boy so
calmly.”
“I hope you will try to speak of him
in the same mood, and learn to bear
his loss, and thus you may be restored
to yourself.”
“Hist, again! There is a splashing
in the water close by that jutting rock;
it sounds like a man swimming. Hark,
I hear a strong panting and a heavy
breathing!”
“I hear it!” cried Barbara, rising
with alarm and surprise; for the sound
was very near, the path in which they
were moving wound along at this place
very close to the water.
“It sounds like a man swimming and
struggling for his life! There! all is
still again!”
“Do you think it can be?” asked
the maiden, eagerly. “I see nothing.”
“There! Look! It is a head above
the water, but whether a dog, a horse,
or a man I cannot say. It is certainly
some living object; and it labors heavily
to reach the shore.”
“There, it has sunk again out of
sight!” cried Barbara
“And now it appears nearer the
shore. Hark, there is a groan of agony!
It is a man striving to reach the
shore!”
“Let us fly to his aid!” cried Barbara;
but Margaret had already anticipated
her words by bounding down the
shore side towards the water. Barbara
was following, when the former turned
back, saying—
“We can't reach the place where he
is trying to reach the shore by this way,
as there is a steep precipice. We must
go back a few rods and so down by the
path to the beach. Follow me. It is
a human life to be saved! He may
have strength to reach the rocks, but
perish for want of a helping hand!”
“It may be some deserter from the
English ship; perhaps some poor impressed
seaman striving to escape from
his bondage!” cried Barbara, as they
hastened to reach the water.
“Then in the name of my dear son let
us to his rescue! If he perish his blood
be upon my head!”
With these words, she ran forward in
the darkness with the firm and confident
step of noon-day.
| CHAPTER XX. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay | |