University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
SNUG HARBOR.

The moon had gone down, but the night was one of many stars.
The seas were rising, with the winds fresh from the south. The
mists of evening had all lifted from the ocean. The land lay defined
on each hand with perfect distinctness. The little city
which rose between the twin rivers of Kiawah and Etiwan, or
as the English called them, the Ashley and Cooper, grew momently
more and more plain to the spectator in the foreground.
On the right, silent as stars and midnight, the narrow islet lay
which we now call Sullivan. Then, it was a well-wooded strip,
almost to the beach; but, then, it had but a single dwelling,
where a watch was maintained of four men, under a corporal, in
a petty blockhouse, defended by an ancient sixpounder of iron.
It stood not far from the present fortress. The forests were subsequently
cut down, for the very reason that they served to conceal,
from the eyes of the city, such cruisers as the “Happy-go-Lucky”
— a little less innocent in fact — a pirate craft, which, at
one period, lay in wait for ever at the entrance of the port, ready
to dart forth on the unsuspecting merchantman. Equally bare of
inhabitants, and even more dense in forest, was the opposite shore,
now known as James island.

Not a sound of human life came from either side. The guard
at the blockhouse slept, no doubt. It was midnight. The city
lay buried in deep sleep; and so the progress of the “Happy-go-Lucky”
was unnoticed. She clung as closely as possible to the

southern side of the harbor, sheltered in some degree by the
shadows of the forests. And thus ran the cruiser when Zulieme
Calvert made her appearance on deck. Calvert was already
there; had, indeed, navigated the craft into the harbor; and was
still engaged, knowing thoroughly the route, in steering her for
Ashley river. Every officer and seaman was at his post, and a
like silence with that of sea and shore, and midnight, prevailed
throughout the vessel.

Zulieme crept to the side of her husband with some timidity.
She had not quite recovered her confidence in herself — certainly,
was not yet prepared to resume her wilfulness after the scene of
the previous evening. Besides, she was impressed by the novelty
of her present progress, and the new objects which employed her
thoughts: thus entering, at midnight, by stealth, the harbor of a
foreign state and people, among whom, as she had been told,
lurked some angry terrors for her husband. The very silence
which prevailed in the vessel, still pressing on her course, was
calculated to awe the glib spirits of the thoughtless creature into
reverence. And so, creeping quietly to the side of her husband,
she watched his progress, as, with a single word, “larboard” or
“starboard,” or “port” — or a mere waving of the finger — he
directed the movements of the helmsman.

“Oh! what is that, Harry?”

She pointed at the mud reef, on which, at this day, stands Castle
Pinckney. It lay immediately upon their right. Then, it was
but a mud-reef, having on it a single cabin, near which stood a
heavy framework of timber, the uses of which Zulieme could not
conjecture. It stood out clearly defined in the starlight, as the
eye ranged up the Etiwan, a well-known object to the eyes of our
English — not so familiar to those of the Spaniard.

Little did poor Zulieme dream of the answer she was to receive.
Calvert looked as she bade him, and quietly putting his hand upon
her shoulder, said, in impressive but low tones, scarcely above a
whisper:—

“That, Zulieme, is the gallows — that is where they hang the
pirates!”

And such, in that early day, was the only use of the reef.

“Ah, Dios! Oh, horrid! And just at the entrance of the city!
Oh, what a horrid people!”

What Zulieme ascribed to the popular taste, was, in that day,
supposed to be the public policy. They hung men then, “pour
les encourager les autres;” and the more conspicuous the place,
the greater the elevation — the larger the crowd of spectators —
the more horrible the writhings of the victim — the more beneficial
the example to society.

Whether we are justified in hanging a man as a warning and
example, is a question which we do not care to discuss. There
are so many crimes which are justified by law and society, that
one feels it a mere waste of time, if not of temper, to endeavor
to prove their absurdity. We will, accordingly, suffer the poor
Zulieme to suppose that the whole practice was the result of pure
British taste; a taste by the way, which, however sanguinary, was
not a whit more so than that of her own people, whether under
the rule of old Spain, or of its creole progressistas who succeeded
the Castilian. “But the garote,” says our refined Spaniard, “is
surely not the gallows.”

But the “Happy-go-Lucky” has left the gallows islet. She is
rounding Oyster point — not a fine stone parapet as we now behold,
girdling a famous drive, but a mere strip of sandy beach, over
which the waves are breaking with the gentlest murmur. We are
now in Ashley river — the Kiawah of the redmen, a fine broad,
poetical stream, an arm of the sea rather than river — here a mile
wide, and of sufficient depth to float a seventy-four. The green
marshes bound us on either hand. To the left you see the opening
of Wappoo. At high-water, our low, light-draught cruiser
might pass through it, and make her way, by a back door, again
into the Atlantic. But a couple of miles above, and we pass the
primitive settlement of Sayle, where the first settlers of Charleston
drove their original stakes, little more than twenty years before.
But we stop not here. Our vessel presses on, several miles beyond,
where the stream narrows, where the marshes grow less
vigorously; where the oaks bend down and kiss the waters; and
the marl crops out, seeming, in the moonlight, like a marble margin
for some green islet in the Adriatic. We glide into the mouth
of a creek on the western bank of the stream, which is thickly
fringed with oaks and cedars. Here we shall lie snug, secure
from any passing scrutiny. Our sails are quietly furled, and the
masts of our cruiser are almost hidden among sheltering pines.

By the time that all this was effected, the day had dawned upon
river and forest. Watches were set upon the vessel, and the
larger proportion of the crew disappeared from sight, seeking
sleep either in their bunks, or in the shelter of the woods. Meanwhile,
a small scouting party had been sent out, under Lieutenant
Eckles, whose business it was to explore the thickets for a circuit
of a mile or two all about. It was important to assure themselves
that no encampment of the redmen was within the immediate precinct.
They might prove as mischievous as a gipsy band in the
neighborhood of a hen-roost. Another small party crossed the
river, in order to scour the woods along the opposite shores.
These precautions taken, Calvert, who had not closed his eyes for
thirty-six hours, threw himself down in his berth, leaving Molyneaux
in charge of the cruiser.

It was fortunate for our captain that custom had trained him to
sleep promptly, as soon as the exigency had passed which kept
him wakeful. Habit had made it easy for nature thus to recuperate
after excessive toils. He slept, even as the honest laboring
man does, as soon as he touched his pillow. But we do not
venture to affirm that he slept so peacefully — that he had no
dreams. For, even as he slept, Zulieme stole into the cabin and
looked steadily into the face of the sleeper. He was murmuring
in his sleep; and again did the ears of the watcher catch from his
lips, as she had done more than once before, the name of one, to
hear which always brought a flush upon her cheeks. She had too
often heard it; and that, too, mingled with language of such tender
interest, such fond reproach or entreaty, as to awaken in her
heart, so far as that could be roused by such feelings, those of distrust,
jealousy, and a vexing suspicion, not only of the past, but of
the future. She little dreamed that the occasion was rapidly ripening
which would mature suspicion into conviction, and convert a
vague jealousy into a source of absolute fear, if not hate and
loathing. But we will not anticipate.

Enough, that the lips of the sleeper moaned and murmured —
that his sleep was troubled — that he writhed upon his couch,
under emotions which were now those of tenderness and grief, and
anon, by quick transition, of anger and threatening violence. And
over his sleeping hours — not many — that erring but beautiful
child of the sun brooded with changing moods, drinking in the

while a bitter aliment, which served to strengthen those feelings
which work for the enfeebling of the better nature. Sometimes,
too, you might note that what she heard served to impel her to
like exhibitions of her own secret nature. Her cheeks flushed,
her eyes flashed, her lips muttered, also, in broken speech, of vexation,
or hate, or mortified vanity, and, more than once, you might
see her grip, with nervous hand, the jewelled toy of a poniard,
which she almost always wore at her girdle. It was only when
her lord subsided into deep slumbers, which naturally fell upon
him in consequence of his long exhaustion, and ceased to writhe
with torturing thoughts, or to moan with mortified affections, that
her muscles grew composed, and that she stole away from the
cabin, not satisfied, but in silence.

She stooped over him, down toward him, as about to kiss him
ere she went, but suddenly drew back, muttering —

“No, I won't! He cares nothing for my kisses. He shall
seek them before he gets them.”

And she ascended to the deck. There she joined Molyneaux;
and, after awhile, under his assurance that there was no danger
from the redmen, strolled out into a grove of great live-oaks, attended
only by Sylvia. Three hours might have elapsed, when
she returned to the vessel, re-entered the cabin, and found Calvert
not only awake, but busily engaged with papers at the table

“You do n't ask where I 've been, Harry.”

He nodded his head, and showed himself incurious. She was
piqued.

“You might ask. You might go with me, Harry, and see these
beautiful woods; such great trees, all green, with such mighty
arms! I 've been climbing trees, Harry. You should have seen
me.”

To all this there was only a vacant shake of the head. She
looked at him with vexation.

“How long, Harry, are you to keep at these papers? and when
will you go ashore with me?”

“If you wish it, now, Zulieme.”

“Oh, I 'm tired now! but if you 'll promise me after dinner.”

“After dinner be it, Zulieme: I shall have to leave you to-night.”

“Leave me, and to-night? and what for, pray?”

“To go to Charleston.”

“But if you can go there, why can 't I, Harry?”

“It is necessary, as I thought I had already told you, that I
should go thither, if only to see if I can do so with safety.”

“Well, that seems to me very foolish, Harry.”

“Perhaps so, Zulieme; yet it is the best wisdom that I can
command under the circumstances. You will suffer me to judge
of it, however, in my own way, as it is my neck, and not yours,
that is mostly in danger.”

“Pooh! I do n't believe your neck 's in any danger at all. You
gave me one fright about that matter, Harry, last night, but sha 'n't
give me another. I know something, I tell you; and I can see
that you do n't want me to go to Charleston. I know. I 'm not
so deaf that I can 't hear; and I 'm not so blind that I can 't see.”

“What do you know?” said he, gravely. “What new discoveries
have you made in the last three hours? What have you
seen? what heard? What fool, or scoundrel, has been filling
your ears, in this little time, with nonsense?”

“Oh! no fool, and no scoundrel — unless you call yourself by
these pretty names. But I know what I know, and you get no
more out of me.”

This was said with a childish sort of triumph, mingled with a
look of suspicion and a meaning shake of the head. He surveyed
her, for a moment, with a glance of impatience, which had in it
something of contempt; but the expression soon changed to one
of sadness, as he said, resuming his papers —

“It is hopeless, Zulieme, to keep you in one settled impression
of mind. You will not rest till you do the very mischief that I
fear. You are warned — God knows how solemnly warned; but
the warning passes off, like a bird's song in a drowsy ear, and all
exhortation is hopeless. Before I depart to-night, I will give you
all the information I can as to what I intend for you and myself.
Leave me now, if you please.”

“Ah ha! I 've vexed you again — and you do n't want to know
what I know. That 's because you 're afraid, Harry.”

“Perhaps so; but go now.”

“Yes, you may well drive me away; for I know you hate me.
There 's one you love better, Harry. There 's that Olive, that
you talk of in your sleep.”

He looked up.

“So, you have again—”

“Yes, indeed, and you again blabbed all about her.”

“I have told you more in my waking moments, Zulieme, than
I ever uttered in my sleep.”

“Ah! but you do n't know that.”

“I think so. I meant to do so. But it matters not how you
hear, Zulieme. It is impossible that you should grow wiser from
any communication.”

“Oh! I 'm a fool, of course.”

He resumed his labors. She walked round him; he never
looked up. Suddenly she clapped her hands over his eyes, and
laughed out, though with some effort.

“You sha' n't write any more, Harry.”

He offered no resistance, uttered no complaint; but, quietly
laying down the pen, seemed resolved to wait patiently her
movements. She released him, and, looking over his shoulder,
said:—

“Now you could eat me up, Harry, and without salt. Are you
not in a fury now?”

He did not answer. She looked into his eyes. The sad,
resigned air which he wore seemed to say — “This foolish creature
saved my life; her father's fortunes have repaired mine; I
owe her everything; I must bear with everything.”

She seemed to read this in his expression.

“Do n't look so, Harry, as if you had to take it from me,
whether you would or no.”

“And I have, Zulieme.”

“Why? If you hate me, Harry, say so.”

“But I do not hate you, Zulieme.”

“But you do n't love me, Harry, any more!”

He was silent.

“Yes, I understand it. Well, if you tell me go from you, I 'll go.”

“Whither would you go?”

“Anywhere; but I would n't stay with one who wants to be
rid of me.”

“If you desire to leave me, Zulieme, you are free. But you
must take the ship. She is rightly yours. She was bought with
your father's money.”

“Oh! Harry, do n't fling that money into my face. I 'd rather

you 'd beat me at once. I do n't want the money, Harry. I only
want you to love me as you should.”

“Love! Alas, Zulieme, love is not for me now. But if you
desire my love, why do you not submit to my wishes? why thwart
and strive against me always?”

“Do I?”

“Even now—”

“And when I 'm trying to be fond with you, Harry, you call
it striving against you. If you had any love for me, Harry, you
would n't call it so. What am I to do? You do n't give me anything
to do; and I want to go with you wherever you go. Let
me go with you to Charleston, and I won't vex you any more.
But if you go and leave me here, what will I be thinking all the
time? That they 've put you into the calaboose, and are going
to garote you — gallows you, I mean.”

“Your presence might help me to it, Zulieme.”

“How? I would fight for you!” And she griped her little
poniard with a sudden hand.

“Go, go, Zulieme — I believe what you tell me — believe that
you would fight for me with your feeble strength, and perhaps not
shrink to die for me; but your presence would only embarrass me
in Charleston, and might lead to the very danger that we fear.
At all events, I must first see how the land lies. I have friends
there. I must communicate with them. If they report favorably,
I will take you to the town. Let that content you.”

We need not pursue this dialogue. It was resumed at evening,
just before Calvert's departure. Zulieme was still very troublesome.
It was to his credit that he was still as patient as before.
Again she reproached him with want of love; and, without contradicting,
he sought to soothe her. In a fit of childish anger she
beheld him leave the vessel. Lieutenant Molyneaux entertained
a very different feeling; but he concealed it under an appearance
of great demureness, and a profound attention to the instructions
given by his superior. Under cover of the night, Calvert dropped
down the river in one of the small boats of the cruiser. He was
accompanied by four men as rowers. To Jack Belcher, who
expected to accompany him, he said, briefly, but in significant
tones, which reached only the ears of that faithful fellow:—

“No, Jack, your place is here. You will need to watch. I

will be back in forty hours at most. Should I not, then, remember
my commands. You know where to seek the boat — the old
creek, the shell bluff landing: the three pines, and the hedge of
myrtle. In our next trip, I shall need you with me; but not
now. Good-by, old fellow.”

The oarsman put out with a will. In a few strokes the boat
was out of sight of the vessel, and Calvert surrendered himself
up to his own dark musings, which did not need to receive their
color from the night.

“After all,” he thought to himself, “what need I chafe? Were
she less a child, less foolish, what would it better my condition?
Even were I in no bonds — were I as free as air — of what avail
now, since she, for whom I could wish to be free, is in bonds no
less heavy than mine? Look which way I will, the cloud rests
upon the prospect; and such a cloud! I am so deep in despair
that I am above anger.”