University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Rokeby.

As the Skipper strode towards the town, his dogged
air and lowering brow evinced the disquiet of his spirit
at what had just occurred. He was nettled by the
maiden's rejection of his proffered gift, and a still
deeper feeling of resentment agitated his mind against
the Secretary. Far other man was he than he was
deemed by the burghers of St. Mary's. In truth,
they knew but little more of him than might be gained
from his few occasional visits to the port in a calling
which, as it brought him a fair harvest of profit, laid
him under a necessity to cultivate, for the nonce, the
good opinion of his customers by such address as he
was master of.

Cocklescraft belonged to that tribe of desperate

men, until near this period in the full career of their
bloody successes, known as “The Brethren of the
Coast.” His first breath was drawn upon the billows
of the ocean, and his infancy was nursed in the haunts
of the buccaneers, amongst the Keys of the Bahamas.
When but a lad, attending upon these wild hordes in
their expeditions against the commerce of the Gulf, he
chanced to attract the notice of the famous Captain
Morgan, whilst that most rapacious of all the pirate
leaders was preparing, at Jamaica, for his incursion
against Maracaibo. The freebooter was charmed
with the precocious relish for rapine conspicuous in
the character of the boy; and, with an affectionate interest,
took him under his tutelage, assigning to him a
post near his person, rather of pageantry than service
—that of a page or armour-bearer, according to the yet
lingering forms of chivalry. The incredible bravery
of the buccaneers in this exploit, and their detestable
cruelties were witnessed by this callow imp of the
sea, with a delight and a shrewdness of apprehension
which gave to his youthful nature the full benefit of
the lesson. He was scarce two years older when,
in the due succession of his hopeful experience, he
again attended his patron upon that unmatched adventure
of plunder and outrage, the leaguer of Panama;
and it was remarked that amidst the perils of
the cruise upon the Costa Rica, the toils of the inland
march over moor and mountain, and the desperate
hazards of the storming of the city, the page, graceful
and active as the minion of a lady's bower, and
fierce as a young sea-wolf, was seen every where,
like an elvish sprite, tracking the footsteps of his
ruthless master. The history of human wickedness
has not a more appalling chapter than that which records
the fate of the wretched inhabitants of Panama
in this assault; and yet, in the midst of its shocking
enormities, the gay and tasseled familiar of the ruffian
pirate chief tripped daintily through the carnage, with
the light step of a reveller, and pursued the flying
virgins and affrighted matrons, from house to house,
as the flames enveloped their roof trees, with the
mockery and prankishness of an actor in a masquerade.
This expedition terminated not without adding
another item to the experience of the young free-booter—the
only one, perhaps, yet wanting to his
perfect accomplishment. The Welsh Captain, laden
with spoils of untold value, played false to his comrades,
by stealing off with the lion's share of the
booty; thus, by a gainful act of perfidy, inculcating
upon the eager susceptibility of the page an imposing
moral, of which it may be supposed he would not be
slow to profit.

Such was the school in which Cocklescraft received
the rudiments of his education. These harsher
traits of his character, however, it is but justice to
say, were, in some degree, mitigated by a tolerably
fair amount of scholastic accomplishment, picked up
in the intervals of his busy life amongst the scant
teaching afforded by the islands, of which the protection
and care of his patron enabled him to profit.
To this was added no mean skill in music, dancing,
and the use of his weapon; whilst a certain enthusiasm

of temperament stimulated his courage and
even whetted the fierceness of his nature.

Morgan, having run his career, returned to England,
a man of wealth, and was knighted by the
monarch, in one of those profligate revels by which
Charles disgraced his kingly state; the page was, in
consequence, turned adrift upon the world, as it is
usual to say of heroes, “with no fortune but his
talents, and no friend but his sword.” Riot soon exhausted
his stock of plunder, and the prodigal licentiousness
of “The Brethren of the Coast,” forbade
the gathering of a future hoard. About this date the
European powers began to deal more resolutely with
the banditti of the islands, and their trade consequently
became more precarious. They were compelled,
in pursuit of new fields for robbery, to cross
the isthmus and try their fortunes on the coast of
the Pacific—whither Cocklescraft followed and reaped
his harvest in the ravage of Peru: but in turn, the
Brethren found themselves tracked into these remoter
seas, and our adventurer was fain, with many of
his comrades, to find his way back to the coves and
secret harbours of Tortuga and the Keys, whence
he contrived to eke out a scant subsistence, by an occasional
stoop upon such defenceless wanderers of
the ocean as chance threw within his grasp. The
Olive Branch was a beautiful light vessel, which, in
one of his sea-forays, he had wrested from a luckless
merchant; and this acquisition suggested to him the
thought that, with such necessary alterations as
should disguise her figure and equipment, he might

drive a more secure, and, perchance, more profitable
trade between the Atlantic colonies and the old
countries; so, with a mongrel crew of trusty cut-throats,
carefully selected from the companions of
his former fortunes, and a secret armament well
bestowed for sudden emergency, he set himself up
for an occasional trader between the Chesapeake and
the coast of Holland. A lucky acquaintance with
the Cripple of St. Jerome's gave him a useful ally in
his vocation as a smuggler; the fisherman's hut, long
believed to be the haunt of evil spirits, admirably favoured
his design, and under the management of Rob,
soon became a spot of peculiar desecration in popular
report; and thus, in no long space of time, the gay,
swashing cavalier, master of the Olive Branch, began
to find good account in his change of character from
the Flibustier of the Keys into that of smuggler and
trader of the Chesapeake. He had now made several
voyages from St. Mary's to the various marts of
Holland and England, taking out cargoes of tobacco
and bringing back such merchandise as was likely
to find a ready sale in the colonies. His absence
from port was often mysteriously prolonged, and on
his return it not unfrequently happened that there
were found amongst his cargo commodities such as
might scarce be conjectured to have been brought
from the ports of Europe,—consisting some times of
tropical fruits, ingots of gold and silver, and sundry
rich furniture of Indian aspect, better fitted for the
cabinet of the virtuoso than the trade of a new province.
Then, also, there were occasionally costly
stuffs, and tissues of exceeding richness, such as cloth
of gold, velvets of Genoa, arras tapestry, and even
pictures which might have hung in churches. These
commodities were invariably landed at St. Jerome's
Bay before the Olive Branch cast her anchor in
the harbour of St. Mary's, and were reshipped on
the outward voyage. The Cripple of St. Jerome's
had a few customers who were privileged at certain
periods to traffic with him in a species of merchandise
of which he was seldom without a supply at his
command—chiefly wines and strong waters, and
coarser household goods, which were charily exhibited
in small parcels at the hut, and when the bargain
was made, supplied in greater bulk by unseen
hands from secret magazines, concerning which the
customer was not so rash as even to inquire—for Rob
was a man who, the country people most devoutly
believed, had immediate commerce with the Evil
One, and who, it was known, would use his dagger
before he gave warning by words.

The open and lawful dealing of the Skipper, in the
port of St. Mary's, had brought him into an acquaintance
with most of the inhabitants, and as his arrival
was always a subject of agreeable expectation, he
was, by a natural consequence, looked upon with a
friendly regard. His address, gaiety of demeanour,
and fine figure—which last was studiously set off to
great advantage by a rich and graceful costume—
heightened this sentiment of personal favour, and
gave him privileges in the society of the town which,
in that age of scrupulous regard to rank, would have

been denied him if he had been a constant sojourner.
Emboldened by this reception he had essayed to
offer some gallant civilities to the maiden of the Rose
Croft, which were instantly repelled, however, by
the most formal coldness. The Skipper was not so
practised an observer as to perceive in this repugnance,
the actual aversion which the maiden felt
against his advances to acquaintance; and he was
content to account it a merely girlish reserve which
importunity and assiduous devotion might overcome.
His vanity suggested the resolve to conquer the damsel's
indifference; and as that thought grew upon his
fancy, it, by degrees, ripened into a settled purpose,
which in the end completely engrossed his mind. As
he brooded over the subject, and permitted his imagination
to linger around that form of beauty and
loveliness,—cherished as it was, during the long
weeks of his lonely tracking of the sea, and in the
solitary musings and silent night-watches of his deck,
—a romantic ardour was kindled in his breast, and
he hastened back to the Port of St. Mary's, strangely
wrought upon by new impulses, which seemed to
have humanized and mellowed even his rude nature:
the shrewder observers were aware of more gentleness
in his bearing, though they found him more
wayward in his temper;—he was prouder of heart,
yet with humbler speech, and often more stern than
before. The awakening of a new passion had overmastered
both the ferocity and the levity of his character.
He was, in truth, the undivulged, anxious,
and almost worshipping lover of Blanche Warden.

When such a nature as I have described chances
to fall into the loving vein, it will be admitted to be
a somewhat fearful category both for the lady and
the lover's rival. Such men are not apt to mince
matters in the course of their wooing.

This was the person who now plied his way towards
the port, in solitary rumination over two distinct
topics of private grief, each of a nature to rouse
the angry devil of his bosom. He could not but see
that his first approach towards the favour of his mistress
had been promptly repelled. That alone would
have filled his mind with bitterness, and given a
harsh complexion to his thoughts;—but this cause of
complaint was almost stifled by the more engrossing
sentiment of hostility against the Secretary. That
he should have been rebuked for his behaviour, by a
man,—and a man, too, who evidently stood well
with the lady of his love; taken to task and chid in
the very presence of his mistress,—was an offence
that called immediately to his manhood and demanded
redress. Such redress was more to his hand than
the nicer subtleties of weighing the maiden's displeasure,
and he turned to it with a natural alacrity, as
to a comfort in his perplexity. It is the instinct of a
rude nature to refer all cases of wounded sensibility
to the relief of battle. A rejected lover, like a child
who has lost a toy, finds consolation in his distress
by fighting any one that he can persuade himself has
stood in his way, and he is made happy when there
chances to be some plausible ground for such a proceeding.
The Skipper thought the subject over in

every aspect which his offended pride could fancy.
At one moment the idea of quarrel with the Secretary
pleased him, and almost reconciled him to the
maiden's coldness; at the next he doubted whether,
after all, she had in fact designed to repel his friendship.
He vibrated between these considerations for
a space in silence: his pride quelled the expression
of his anger. But by degrees his quickened pace
and sturdier step, and, now and then, that slight
shake of the head by which men sometimes express
determination, made it plain that the fiery element in
his bosom was rising in tumult. At length, unable to
suppress his feeling, the inward commotion found utterance
in words.

“Who and what is this Master Secretary that hath
set the maiden of the Rose Croft to look upon me
with an evil spirit? I would fain know if he think
himself a properer man than I. Doth he stand upon
his fingering of a lute, and his skill to dance?—Why
even in this chamber-craft I will put it to a wager he
is no master of mine. Is he more personable in
shape or figure?—goes he in better apparel? or is
that broken English of his more natural to the province
than my plain speech, that he should claim the
right to chide me for my behaviour? Is it that he
hath a place in the train of his Lordship? Have not
I served as near to a belted knight—lord of a thousand
stout hearts and master of a fleet of thirty sail?
—ay, and in straits where you should as soon expect
to meet a hare as that crotchet-monger. A bookish
clerk with no manly calling that should soil his ruff

in the space of a moon! By Saint Iago, but I will
put him to his books to learn how he shall heal the
stroke of a choleric hand, when the time shall serve
to give him the taste of it!—Mistress Blanche would
not be importuned—indeed! And he must be my
tutor to teach me what pleaseth Mistress Blanche.
He lied—the maiden did not mislike my question;—
she but hung her head to have it so openly spoken.
I know she doth not set at naught my favours, but
as damsels from custom do a too public tender of a
token. Old Anthony Warden counts his friends by
their manhood, and he hath shown me grace:—his
daughter in the end will follow his likings—and as
the father's choice approves, so will her's incline.
Am I less worthy in old Master Warden's eyes, than
yonder parchment bearer—that pen-and-ink slave of
his Lordship's occasions?—he that durst not raise
his eye above his Lord's shoe, nor speak out of a
whisper when his betters are in presence? What is
he, to put me from the following of my own will
when it pleases me to speak to any maiden of this
province?—I am of the sea—the broad, deep sea!
she hath nursed me in her bosom,—and hath given
me my birth-right to be as proudly borne as the honours
of any lord of the land. I have a brave deck
for my foot, a good blade for my belt, the bountiful
ocean before me and a score of merry men at my
back. Are these conditions so mean that I must
brook the Secretary's displeasure or fashion my
speech to suit his liking?—We shall understand each
other better, in good time, or I shall lack opportunity
to speak my mind:—I shall, good Master Verheyden,—you
have the word of a `Brother of the Bloody
Coast' for that!”

Before the Skipper had ceased this petulant and
resentful self-communion, he found himself in the
neighbourhood of the Catholic Chapel, nearly in front
of the dwelling of father Pierre, when the good
priest, who was at this moment returning from noon-day
service, took him at unawares with the salutation,—

“Peace be with you, son!—you reckon up the
sum of your ventures with a careful brow, and speak
loud enough to make the town acquainted with thy
gains, if perchance some of the chapmen with whom
thou hast dealing should be in thy path. How fares
it with thee, Master Skipper?”

“Ha, Mi Padre!” exclaimed Cocklescraft, instantly
throwing aside his graver thoughts and assuming
a jocular tone. “Well met;—I was on my
way to visit you: that would I have done yesterday
upon my arrival, but that the press of my business
would not allow it. You grow old, father, so evenly
that, although I seey ou but after long partings, I can
count no fresh touch of time upon your head.”

“Men of your calling should not flatter,” said the
priest smiling. “What news do you bring us from
the old world?”

“Oh, much and merry, father Pierre. The old
world plies her old trade and thrives by it. Knavery
hath got somewhat of the upper hand since they
have quit crossing swords in this new piece of Nimeguen.

The Hogan Mogans are looking a little surly
at the Frenchman for cocking his beaver so bravely;
and our jobbernowl English, now that they can find
no more reason to throttle each other, have gone
back to their old sport of pricking the side of our
poor church. You shall find as many plots in London,
made out of hand and ready for use in one
month, as would serve all the stage plays of the
kingdom for the next hundred years—and every plot
shall have a vile Papist at the bottom of it,—if you
may believe Oates and Bedloe. I was there when
my Lord Stafford was made a head shorter on Tower
Hill. You heard of this,—father?”

“Alack! in sorrow we heard of this violence,” replied
the priest,; “and deeply did it grieve my Lord
to lose so good a friend. Even as you have found it
in England, so is it here. The discontents against
the holy church are nursed by many who seek thereby
to command the province. We have plotters
here who do not scruple to contrive against the life
of his Lordship and his Lordship's brother the Chancellor.
Besides, the government at home is unfriendly
to us.”

“You have late news from England?” inquired the
Skipper.

“We have,—and which, but that you are true in
your creed, I might scarce mention to your ear—
the royal order has come to my Lord to dismiss his
Catholic servants from office—every one. His Lordship
scruples to obey. This, Master Skipper, I confide
to you in private, as not to be told again.”

“To remove all!” said Cocklescraft. “Why it
will sweep off his nearest friends—Anthony Warden
and all.”

“Even so.”

“There is fighting matter in that, upon the spot,”
exclaimed the Skipper. “By St. Sebastian, I hope it
may come up while I am in port! The Collector,
old as he is, will buckle on his toledo in that quarrel.
He has mettle for it; and I could wish no better play
than to stand by his side. Who is this Secretary of
my Lord's private chamber? I met him at the Collector's
to-day.”

“Master Albert Verheyden,” replied the priest.

“I know his name—they told it to me there—but
his quality and condition, father?”

“You may be proud of his fellowship,” said father
Pierre; “he was once a scholar of the Jesuit school
at Antwerp, of the class inscribed `Princeps Diligentiæ,'
and brought thence by my Lord. A youth,
Master Cocklescraft, of promise and discretion—a
model to such as would learn good manners and
cherish virtuous inclinations. You may scarcely
fail to see him at the Collector's: the townspeople do
say he has an eye somewhat dazzled there.”

“Craving pardon for my freedom, I say, father
Pierre, a fig's end for such a model!” exclaimed the
Skipper, pettishly: “you may have such by the
score, wherever lazy, bookish men eat their bread.
I like him not, with his laced band and feather, his
book and lute: harquebuss and whinyard are the
tools for these days. I hear the Fendalls have been

at mischief again. We shall come to bilbo and buff
before long. Your Secretary will do marvellous service
in these straits, father.”

“Son, you are somewhat sinful in your scorn,”
said the priest, mildly; “the Secretary doth not deserve
this taunt—”

“By the holy hermits, father, I speak of the
Secretary but as I think. He does not awe me with
his greatness. I vail no topsail to him, I give you
my word for it.”

“The saints preserve us from harm!” said the
churchman. “We know not what may befall us from
the might of our enemies, when this hot blood shall
sunder our friends. In sober counsel, son, and not
in rash divisions shall we find our safety. It doth
not become thee, Master Cocklescraft, to let thy
tetchy humour rouse thee against the Secretary. It
might warrant my displeasure.”

“Mea culpa, holy father—I do confess my fault,”
said the seaman, in a tone of assumed self-constraint
—“I will not again offend; and for my present atonement
will offer a censer of pure silver, which in my
travels I picked up, and in truth did then design
to give, to the Chapel of St. Mary's. I will bring
it to the chapel, father Pierre, as soon as my vessel
is unladen.”

“You should offer up your anger too, to make this
gift acceptable,” returned the priest. “Let thy dedication
be with a cleansed heart.”

“Ha, father Pierre,” said the Skipper, jocularly;
“my conscience does easily cast off a burden: so it

shall be as you command. I did not tell you that
whilst my brigantine lay in the Helder, I made a
land flight to Louvaine, where a certain Abbot of
Andoyne,—a pious, somewhat aged, and, thanks to a
wholesome refectory! a good jolly priest,—hearing I
came from the province, must needs send for me
to ask if I knew father Pierre de la Maise, and
upon my answer, that I did right well, he begs me
to bring his remembrance back to you.”

“I knew father Gervase,” replied the priest with a
countenance full of benignity—“some forty years
ago, when he was a reader in the Chair of St. Isidore
at Rome. He remembers me?—a blessing on his
head!—and he wears well, Master Skipper?”

“Quite as well as yourself,” replied Cocklescraft.
“Father, a cup of your cool water, and I will depart,”
he said, as he helped himself to the draught.
“I will take heed to what you have said touching the
royal order—and by St. Iago, I will be a friend in
need to the Collector. Master Verheyden shall not
be a better one. Now fare thee well, father. Peregrine
Cadger shall have order to cut you off a cassock
from the best cloth I have brought him, and
little Abbot the tailor shall put it in fashion for you.”

“You are lavish of your bounties, son,” replied
the priest, taking Cocklescraft by both hands as he
was now about to withdraw. “You have a poor
churchman's thanks. It gives me comfort to be so
considered, and I prize your kindness more than the
cassock. A blessing on thy ways, Master Cocklescraft!”

The Skipper once more set forth on his way towards
the port; and with a temper somewhat allayed
by the acting of the scene I have just described,
though with no abatement of the resentment which
rankled at the bottom of his heart, even under the
smiling face and gay outside which he could assume
with the skill of a consummate dissembler, he soon
reached the Crow and Archer. From thence he
meditated, as soon as his occasions would permit, a
visit to the Cripple of St. Jerome's.