 | CHAPTER XXI. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay |  |
21. CHAPTER XXI.
The familiarity of Margaret with the
way, and her greater speed of foot,
caused her to outstrip Barbara, and
leave her behind. The maiden, however,
pursued after her as rapidly as
possible, and soon found herself in sight
of the Carved Rock, a few yards above
on the beach. Here she saw Margaret
stop and utter an exclamation of surprise
and pity.
“It is a man, and he lies here senseless
his pulse beats. Run for help, lady.”
But Barbara was already at her side,
and gazed with fear and amazement
upon the form of the young man as he
lay upon the rock. But whether he
was old or young she could not discern
for the darkness. She had the courage
to lay her hand upon his damp forehead:
“He is not dead, Margaret. It is
warm.”
“No, he is not dead,” answered Margaret,
as she raised his head and put
back the wet locks from his brow, while
she tried to discern the features. “He
is not insensible either. It seems to
me by his breathing that it is sleep.—
But will you hasten for aid. I will stay
with him alone till you come back. I
do not fear. He is a seaman by his
dress. Perhaps, as you said, an escaped
colonist who has been impressed.”
Barbara was about to leave the spot,
inspired by a desire to benefit and perhaps
save the life of a fellow-being,
when he moved, and said faintly,
“Who is here? Am I with friends,
and safe?”
“Friends, and safe,” answered Margaret,
with a voice that was tremulous
with joy at hearing him speak. “Stay,
Barbara, he may be able to walk soon.”
“I am better now. Women around
me. Thank God, then I have nothing
to fear,” said Martin, as he
raised himself up, and looked from one
to the other. “I shall be better soon.
Only fatigue. I have swam far. It
was a mercy I reached the shore as I
did. Yes, I shall be able to walk soon.
Thanks, good woman. I owe my restoration
to you. I can stand, you see.”
And he rose to his feet.
“No, sir,” said Margaret, “you recovered
of yourself. We did nothing.”
“I felt a soft warm hand laid upon
my temples, which brought me to consciousness.
How did you find me here?”
“We saw you swimming and struggling
in the water from the hill above
there, and hastened to your aid,” answered
Barbara.
“Thanks, thanks! I owe my life to
you. I need not fear to trust you, ladies,”
he added, “for I must still place
my safety in your hands; for I know
that I have no fear of being betrayed;
for you must be true friends of the colony.”
“We are not only the friends of the
colony, but the foes of England the Oppressor,”
responded Margaret, energetically.
“Then I am safe, and you shall know
who I am and why I am here. I was
an impressed seaman on board the sloop-of-war
Bexley, and the sight of my native
land inspired me with the hopes of
freedom and once more beholding the
dear friends of my childhood, so taking
advantage of the approach of night I
broke my chains, for I had been chained
to keep me from getting away from
the ship while in port, and dropping into
the water swam for the land; which,
after nearly drowning from fatigue, I
have at length reached.”
“And here you shall be safe,” answered
Margaret, who, at his recital
thought of her own boy, and her heart
bled for him, and yearned towards the
youthful sailor as if he were her own
son. As he stood up and they could
get a better view of his figure they could
see that he was a young man, which
the tones of his fine voice also bespoke
him to be. And as he looked from one
to the other of the ladies, he could see
that one was youthful and the other elderly,
though it was too dark to distinguish
features.
Margaret was about to ask him who
his friends were, and his name, when
the cannonading which the Gaspee
opened upon the brig thundered upon
their ears, and at once drew their attention.
“What can it be? I fear my father
is in peril!” exclaimed Barbara, with
filial alarm.
“It is no doubt the schooner of war
that went down the bay just after sunset
firing at some vessel that tries to
elude her,” answered Martin.
“That vessel must be my father's!”
exclaimed Barbara.
“Fear nothing, maiden. He is safe
in the hands of One who is over us all.
Let us see that this youth is first cared
for; for there may be boats sent after
him. He must first be concealed.”
“And where?” asked Barbara,
shrinking from the heavy roar of the
cannon, which at the same time gave
her a momentary light by which she
saw that the stranger was not only young
but, though pale, very handsome; and
her interest in him became at once
deeper.
“In my own house,” answered Margaret.
“Nay, not there. He will not be
safe there, for it will be one of the first
places, being so near the shore, that
will be searched.”
“No, I have made a place there so
secret that no human eye can detect it.
Weeks,” she muttered, in an under
tone to herself, “weeks on weeks did I
labor at it after my boy was stolen, to
hide him in should he ever return. It
must now conceal this youth instead of
my son. But all is ordered right.—
Come, young man, follow me if you can
walk, and if you do not feel strong
enough, lean upon my arm and this
young maiden's.”
“No, thanks to you both, ladies, I
can walk well. It was only fatigue,
and I am strong again. You seem to me
to be two angels sent to my relief. Your
words of kindness, after so many years
of bondage and harsh language, deeply
affect me. It is gratitude and joy
rather than weakness, that agitates my
voice. I will go with you, if you can
take me to a place of security for a day
or two till I can escape up the bay.—
But if my presence is to endanger either
of you, I will not go with you a step
farther.”
“It is my command that you go with
us, young man,” answered Margaret,
kindly, but firmly. “Where I shall
hide you, a Sleuth-hound could not find
you out, though they should hunt you
with one, as they have done others.”
“He had best go to my father's for
security,” said Barbara. “They will
not think of searching his house, while
yours would be sure to be visited.”
“No, no. I will not let him leave
me. I must protect him for my boy's
sake. How do I know but that he has-seen
him ayond the seas, and has heard
him speak of me.”
“That voice becomes more and more
familiar. It must be she. Thou hast
a son then, away. Tell me what his
name is!” cried the young man, deeply
moved, while he impulsively grasped
her hand.
“Martin Manwaring!”
“My mother! my beloved mother,”
he cried, casting himself into her arms.
“I am thy son. I am Martin, so long
lost to thee. God has heard my prayer.”
“Thou art my son. I know thee
now. My heart has been yearning toward
thee. Now am I ready to die in
peace. Let me fold thee closer to my
heart, my child. Oh, it is thy kiss
Let us kneel here in silence, my son.—
Barbara kneel with us here. Let us
thank God ere we speak or move a step,
or word. This moment of reunion is
sacred and should be offered to God.”
Margaret knelt then upon the moss-covered
rock, and Martin still clasped to
her bosom sank also by her side. The
maiden knelt by them; and for a moment
the three were silent in a deep
heartfelt offering of gratitude to heaven
Barbara's heart was as full as theirs;
for she rejoiced for her rejoicing, and
his, and for herself; for a secret delight
took possession of her soul at the consciousness
that the youth so long cherished
in her remembrance knelt so close
to her.
“Now we have tbanked God, the giver
of all good, and the restorer of the
wanderer, let us rise and go forward to
a place of safety; for we have, indeed,
a treasure now to conceal. And I wish
to have a light to behold my son's face
once more. Joy! joy. I will hold thee
fast, my son, lest this should prove all a
dream. I will cling to thee, for thy presence
has given me back all my reason
and affection. I feel that I am human
again, that the storm of madness will no
more sweep over the placid ocean of my
being.”
“Madness, mother?”
“It is nothing; heed me not. I have
thee once more, and the past is to be buried.”
“Wonderful, that I should first be met
by thee, dear mother. I know not how
to express in words my joy. I am overpowered
with too much happiness.”
“You need not talk now. You are
safe and that is all I wish now to know.
We will talk when we reach home.”
“I am so rejoiced to find that your life
is preserved, my dear mother,” he said
as he walked on by her side, while Bar
bara walked on a little ways before them;
“for I have not heard from thee since
I was taken.”
“My dear, dear boy! nor I of thee!
I had long since numbered thee with the
dead; and now to meet thee and to be,
as it were thy preserver, is enough to
overthrow my reason had it not been
wrecked before; but it has restored it to
me; for I am now myself again. Dost
thou know this maiden?”
“I have wished to ask, mother.
“Not now. I will tell thee, if thou
dost not recognise her when we get to
the cottage.”
Barbara had hastened her steps as she
thought Margaret was about to divulge
her name, forgetting that he had never
heard it, and she was relieved when she
postponed the intelligence to ascertain if
he would recognize her.
“And I should like to see if he does,”
she thought; “for this will be proof to
me whether he has remembered me.”
She still kept some distance ahead and
they soon reached the hut, and upon
coming up to the door, Martin stopped
and seemed overcome with his feelings.
“How familiar all is here. I never
expected, my dear mother, to stand again
where I now stand.”
“And do not linger there now, my
dear boy. Danger may meance you
from without, and you forget that you
are wet through. But I will run in and
strike a light. I have not seen your
face yet, my boy.”
“I hope you will find that it is still that
of Martin, with all I have passed
through,” he answered. “Is it possible
I am here again?”
“Your happiness at once more returning
home,” said Barbara, with emotion;
“must be very great. I feel that I can
beholding your mother.”
“I am too full of joy, lady. This
is the happiest moment of my existence.
An hour ago I was a prisoner in chains
on board a king's ship, and now I am
in the hands of friends and hear the
kind voice of my mother, a voice that
has not been heard by me save in
dreams, for five years. I thought as I
revived upon the rock and heard her
speaking over me, that it sounded like
my mother's voice; but I was afraid to
hope for so much bliss. The voice of
those we love we can never forget.”
“Now, my dear boy,” cried Margaret,
coming out of the hut whither she
had gone to light a lamp, “now come
and let me look on thee. Thou wilt find
me greatly changed, I fear, for I have
been sorrow's child since you were torn
from me.”
He hastened forward and entered the
hut, in which a lamp burned brightly upon
the table in the centre. As he came
in Margaret raised the lamp to his face
and gazed upon it, while Barbara with
curiosity came forward to see him.
“I should know thee in India, my
dear boy. The same eye, and smile,
and noble brow; but pale, as thou
oughtest to be afterthy fatigue in swimming
so far. And how tall, and handsome
you have grown. Behold him,
Barbara. Is there in the colony a handsomer
youth to look upon?”
Barbara dropped her eyes and deeply
blushed before the admiring, surprised,
and delighted gaze of the young man;
for she had hardly time to cast a look upon
him and recognize in the mould of
manly beauty, the features of the fisher's
boy, before she felt that she was recognized
by him and was compelled to
drop her eyes before his eager, earnest,
joy-bewildered gaze.
“Mother, dear mother, pardon me.—
But tell me—”
“Do you recognize her, Martin?”
interrupted Margaret, her eyes gleaming
with delight.
“The same I met and gave the shells
to, mother, only, if possible far more
beautiful in the bloom of maturity. It
is she. For I have never forgotten her,
and even believed I knew her voice, but
dared not hope for so much happiness
all at one time. I have waited with as
much impatience for the light to reveal
her countenance as you have for it to
look at me. But I am no doubt surprising
you, lady, by my words and
speaking of an event that you have long
forgotten.”
“I have not forgotten you,” answered
Barbara, with ingenuous frankness.
“But until this evening I knew not who
it was who was so generous as to fill up
my basket of shells with his own treasured
ones.”
“And from that hour I have loved to
think of you,” answered Martin, with
emotion; “and this little broach I have
preserved through all my vicissitudes as
the dearest jewel that earth could bestow
on me; for it was your gift.” As he
spoke he opened his jacket and displayed
appended to a steel chain the little
brooch she had so long before bestowed
upon him.
| CHAPTER XXI. The free-trader, or, The cruiser of Narragansett Bay | |