University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
SIMPLY, LEGS AT OUTLAWRY.

Sailors ashore have a proverbial character for rollicking.
So, too, is High Life Below Stairs matter for the proverbialist.
Colts on a common, boys in the holidays, girls at a match or
merry-making: fools all, you say. Oh, ridiculous moralist! throw
off your cloak of wisdom for a while, as Prospero does his magic
garment, and relieve your shoulders of the dignity which should
break any camel's back. Do not require us to apologize for these
silly ones, because you claim to be wise or virtuous. “Shall there
be no more cakes and ale,” because you have come to your inheritance
from Solomon? Sessa! let these children slide; and stop
your ears at the uproar, but do not complain, lest Apollo stretches
them for you to the dimensions which he gave to those of Midas.

Great is the uproar, wondrous the antics, measureless the fun,
among our rollickers on shore! Is it Bo-peep, Hide and Seek,
Hunt the Slipper, or only a new fashion of the fandango? The
apes — the urchins — the grimalkins — the donkeys! what are
they after? What a charivari! Jack Tar, Ben Bobstay, Jim
Bowline, Bill Bowsprit, Mike Mainsail, and a score besides, are
all busy in a merry contest for the hand of Sylvia, that model
among mulattresses.

And all this to the perpetual clang of Phipps's fiddle; and the
yell and laugh chase each other through the woods, till every
sleeping echo, starting up in terror, screams it out again from
swamp and thicket!

And Sylvia, how she runs, and skips, and bounces! What
legs she shows! They toss her about, the Jack Tars, from hand
to hand, like a bird from the shuttle; yet, with catlike agility, she
keeps upon the wing, and out of all clutches. There! Ben Bobstay
has her — no! she slips through his fingers. At the very
moment when he shouts, “Shiver my timbers, but I've got her,”
she breaks loose and skips away, with a joyous yell of her own,
that sufficiently testifies her sense of freedom, and her own fun in
the chase.

She rather likes this rough usage; is evidently nowise disinclined
to “the situation;” and takes good care not so far to distance
the pursuer as to discourage his pursuit. Sylvia, poor
thing, is neither fun nor man hater; and, in the absence of other
people, held the tarry breeches folks to be quite passable, and by
no means to be despised. She is sufficiently removed from her
own set to have no dread of vulgarity. And this humble self-estimate
is always a commendable virtue among our colored Christian
brethren. We commend her example to her race, especially
at this philanthropic era. Let them not despise the whites too
greatly because they have so especially won the admiration of the
Caucasian world. Let them sometimes condescend to a dance
and fling with their ancient master, if only to show that they do
not pride themselves upon their elevation beyond the usual scale
of humanity!

Sylvia is just now a model, not only of modesty, but agility.
But the odds are against her. Sailors have great virtues in their
legs also, and there are twenty pair now busy to circumvent her
one. Ah, poor Sylvia! Jim Bowline, this time, has got the
weather-gauge of her; Bill Bowsprit, with great arms stretched
wide, is ready to cut her off from port; and that famous reefer,
Jack Tar, has taken her amidships; i. e., around the body.

Ha! no! Bravo! Bravissimo! She eludes the pack.

“Well done, Cutty Sark!”

What a leap was that, involving prodigious muscle, and a liberal
display of legs!

But it is a last effort. She flags. They surround her. She
can no more escape; and, encircled by their outstretched forms
and arms, she is constrained to join in the fandango.

Never was there such a scene. It is at its height when the

Señora Zulieme, attended by her cavaliers, comes upon the
ground.

Zulieme is ready to die of laughter. She cheers, claps her little
hands, and finally, in a very convulsion of merriment, flings
herself fairly upon the shoulders of the more courtly of the two
lieutenants, and screams her laughter. And, taking advantage of
her “situation,” perhaps misconstruing the action, Molyneaux
wraps her in close embrace, and snatches a kiss from her mouth!

The act is requited, quick as lightning, with a slap, laid on his
cheek soundly, and with all the breadth, and weight, and muscle,
of her little hand. And she tears herself away from his clutch,
and says, very coolly — as if the girl simply resented the impertinence
of the forward boy —

“Look you, Molyneaux, don't you try that again, or you shall
have it harder. I don't like such play. I won't have it.”

Play? Molyneaux looks confounded. He never meant it for
play. He can not well understand her. Molyneaux, you are to
remember, is only a cavalier, not a philosopher. He was trying
to teach her serious things, however, and she takes it all for fun;
but for a sort of fun for which she simply has not a bit of taste.
What a strange sort of education she has had!

The kiss was seen, was heard; and so — much more certainly
— was the slap!

And the horse-laugh of Eckles, followed by that of all the
sailors, echoed throughout the circle, and somewhat diverted the
merry crew from the humors of Madame Sylvia.

Molyneaux, with red face, shot a thunderbolt from his eyes at
Eckles, which only made him laugh the more.

But the sports went on. Phipps's fiddle was working wonders;
and, as if wholly forgetting kiss, slap, and all offence, Zulieme,
laughing all over, threw herself into an attitude, winning, voluptuous,
graceful, stretched out her arms to Molyneaux, and challenged
him into the charmed circle; and, not slow, the lieutenant
leaped forward, wondering still at her capricious temper — ice and
fire by turns — and joined in the passion-feeding movements of
the fandango.

This was Zulieme's great accomplishment. In this she excelled
all her sex. Her whole person was suited to it. Exquisitely
modelled, lithe, graceful; her tastes harmonized wondrously with

her person, to exhibit all its charms, in the most capricious and
voluptuous movement. Every limb consorted with the action.
The whole contour of her figure was developed, in all its symmetry,
roundness, beauty, ease, and freedom. And the expression
of face, eyes, mouth, speaking to and with each several gesture,
combined to make the successive movements so many studies for
the artist; each constituting a scene to itself, but all happily
blended, so as to form a story of eager passion, with all the fluctuations
of love, in the usual caprices of young and amorous hearts.
Looking at her, you are reminded of what Ulysses says of
Cressida: —

But we should be doing Zulieme injustice were we to apply this
language to her. She deserves it in appearance only. Were she
a Greek, or an English woman, it might be true. But it is not
in her heart or her passions that her offence lies. It is because
she possesses “wanton spirits,” not wanton desires, that she plays
the voluptuous one. It is with her just so much play — nothing
more. She is an actor, and in her part of the play. In our present
sense of the word, she is not voluptuous. She is, in fact,
rather cold than passionate. Her blood dances to the intoxication
of music — not her head or heart. The dances suffice her — are
sufficiently compensative in themselves, conduct to nothing, and
rather relieve passion than provoke it. The character of such a
woman is not an uncommon one, even with the sterner Anglo-Norman
nature. She will suffer the passionate embraces of
Lieutenant Molyneaux in the dance, but not otherwise. She will
float with him in the languor of soft music, or dart and bound to
his persuasions, when the violin discourses with enthusiasm; but
if he ventures to kiss her, she will slap his face! There is something

serious in kissing which she will not suffer; none in dancing,
waltzing — though these sometimes demand pretty close hugging
— none in fandango, or castanets; none, in brief, in the fashions
of her country, which train the sexes to familiarities, through
these media, which, in the case of other nations, more intense and
of colder climates, would inevitably awaken all the storms of
passion.

And thus it is, that, while the blood of Lieutenant Molyneaux
courses through his veins like a lava flood, the bosom of Zulieme
Calvert beats as temperately as if she lay at ease in her verandah,
while the sweet breezes of the southwest swept over with an
ever-fanning wing, waiting upon the drowsiest empress that ever
sate on the cushions of apathy.

Lieutenant Molyneaux broke down in the dance. But there
was no breaking down in Zulieme. She challenged Eckles to the
encounter; caught him by the arm, forced him into the ring, and
soon laughed merrily, as, after a series of horrible leaps, bounds,
and “cavortings,” he succumbed also, throwing himself down upon
the sward, and declaring himself “all a jelly!”

Zulieme leaped into a grapevine; swang; called for her guitar;
played awhile; and, while she played, Molyneaux placed himself
behind her, and with officious hands upon her person, kept lady
and swing in gentle motion; and with all this, she took no sort of
offence.

But, anon, she tired of the guitar and swing; leaped down,
turned to Molyneaux, forced him anew into the waltz, and betrayed
as much grace, elasticity, and vigor, as before.

We are free to state, that, however grateful to our lieutenant,
to be able to grasp hand, and arm, and waist, and to feel her warm
breath upon his cheek, he was himself troubled with a shortness
of breath, and a heaviness of limb, which made his movements
almost as awkward as those of his junior officer, Eckles.

And even while they thus swam and danced together, in that
wild, warm, fantastical movement of the American Spaniards — an
exaggeration of all that is wild and voluptuous in the dances of
the Spaniards in the old world — in the regions Biscayan or
Andalusian — there came other spectators to behold the scene.

On the edge of the little amphitheatre, thus occupied, suddenly
stood Harry Calvert and his faithful follower, Jack Belcher. The

former leaned against a tree, with folded arms, and watched the
scene for a while with a gloomy but vacant aspect. He had
emerged from the sylvan recess of the latter, ere he had approached
him, and found Belcher in waiting. The more violent
emotions of the captain were then subdued, but a deeper tint of
sadness had overspread his countenance; and, as now he gazes
upon the voluptuous and fantastic sports of his wife with his
young and amorous lieutenant, it is, perhaps, quite pardonable
in his faithful follower to assume that some portion of the ferocious
sadness of his features may be caused by the lady's levity, to
call it by no harsher name. And, almost unconsciously, Belcher
says to him — as it were apologetically —

“It's the custom of the people, sir; she means no harm.”

“Surely, she means no harm! It is all child's play. Songs
and dances — fools and fiddles. Surely, no harm. Surely not,
Jack.”

And, speaking thus, Harry Calvert turned away, almost contemptuously,
and moved slowly out of the woods.

Was it pride, was it indifference, that rendered the captain
heedless of this loose indulgence of festivity on the part of his
wife — these freedoms of her sex, so unfamiliar to English eyes,
which, in spite of his apologies, revolted those of Jack Belcher?
or was it obtuseness? Had the sensibilities of his master become
so callous, or brutified, that he neither saw, nor cared to see, how
eager was the embrace of Molyneaux, how heedlessly Zulieme
yielded herself to his embraces? He could see the satyr in the
eyes of the former — what was it in those of the latter which made
him indifferent? Perhaps he knew her sufficiently. Perhaps —
but wherefore farther supposes? Enough, that he says, moving
off, with Belcher close following:—

“A child, Jack — a mere child. Child's play all. Happy
that there is neither thought nor memory to stir up passion, or
make it bitter! Zulieme is simply a happy child.”

And the two walked together along the shores; and their farther
talk was of the ship, cargo — anything but love or woman.
And, as they went, the darkness came down, and the moon shot
up into the heavens, and the stars stole out; and fires were lighted
in the woods where the revellers still lingered; and while Zulieme
strummed the guitar, and sang some of those wild ballads, Moorish

or Castilian, in which the latter language is so prolific, the
merry Jack Tars turned their dancing into a drinking party, and
the clink of the cannikin served to soberize their antics, in gradually
bringing them into the province of drunkenness! We have
no homily for the occasion. They were less virtuous in those
days than we in ours.

Meanwhile, not an ear heard the dip of that paddle which
slowly traced the windings of the marsh on the other side of the
bay — not an eye beheld that “dugout” of the redman, as it
slowly swept along under cover of its green fringes, a mere speck
in the moonlight, across the bay, and into the very creek where
our cruiser lay at her moorings. But a little while had elapsed,
when the sharp, snakelike eyes of the Indian warrior watched the
revellers as they lay, or sate, or danced, or slept, around their
fires; never fancying that, even then, there was one near who
made nice calculations of the number of white scalps which might
be taken, were there with him, instead of one, but a score of his
lithe and active warriors!

And the two redmen stole away from their place of espionage
in the gorge of the forest, and behind its thickets; and soon the
little dugout, which had been simply attracted by the shouts
of the revellers to see, stole once more quietly out of the creek,
and took its course for the open bay. But, this time, not without
observation. Calvert and Belcher were upon the headland as it
went. The keen ears of the former heard a sound of paddles;
the keen eyes of the latter detected the slight dark speck, as it
rounded the opposite point into the full blaze of moon and starlight;
and the summons:—

“Who goes there!” was only a moment quicker than the pistol-shot
which aimed to punish the insolent refusal to answer.

That pistol-shot, ringing clear over the creek and forest, brought
the revellers from the thicket. There was prompt pursuit. But
the canoe of the redman was nowhere to be found. Belcher then
reported that which he had before discovered, and rightly divined
this to be the same canoe which he had seen several hours before,
steering for the unknown island of Kiawah.

“The Indians are not here yet in any numbers, sir, but it's
well to look out for them, now that fish have begun to bite.”

“Nay, 't will not need. We shall be gone to-morrow.”

At this moment, our captain and his follower were joined by
Zulieme and Molyneaux, closely accompanied by Eckles, Sylvia,
and the rest. The pistol-shot had served to end the revel. Of
course there were a thousand agitating queries, which were soon
answered, but without satisfying anybody. When Zulieme found
that nothing could be known, she was all reproaches to her lord.

“To break up the dance just when it was so delicious. I was
so happy. And why, Harry, didn't you come and dance with
me, instead of this Molyneaux? He's so slow, and he wears such
tight breeches, that he can do nothing in them. Now, Harry, you
can do so much better, and you wear such loose breeches, and
you can stand it so much longer!”

Calvert smiled sadly, as he chucked her silently under the
chin. Belcher noted that when Molyneaux presented himself, his
master smiled again; but he fancied, this time, that it was quite
another sort of smile — that there was something sinister in it —
which, had he been the object, he should not have wished to see.
And Belcher had his own cogitations in respect to this difference
of smile.

“It's one thing for the señora to be free in them Spanish
fandangoes; but it's a very different thing for such a person as
Lieutenant Molyneaux to have the freedom too. Oh, yes, indeed!
That 's a difference! She's not thinking at all: but what's he
thinking about all the time? Oh! I know him — and I reckon
the captain knows him too. His thinking, indeed! The goat! the
monkey! But let him look to it. I remember that sharp smile of
Harry Berkeley — Calvert, I should say — from the time when
he was only knee-high to a cocksparrow; and when he smiled so
through them half-shut eyes, there was mischief in it; and he 's
one to work with a word and a blow; and the word is just so
much thunder, always after the flash.”

Like all favorite body-servants, Jack Belcher had his omens
and memories together.