University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DESOLATE HEART.

But we are not to suppose that the dangers of the Happy-go-Lucky,
and her valiant captain, were set at rest by this prompt
practice. True, Gideon Fairchild was laid by the heels, and kept
on short commons, in the hold of the saucy cruiser; and his brother
in grace, the goodly Job Sylvester, wist not, all the while, but
that he was fast making his way to the king's cruisers at New York.

But Job was not the less active because he had set certain
wheels in motion. He was one of a tribe which habitually keeps
all its wheels in motion. He was not the person to fancy anything
done, while anything which he could do remained undone;
and the king's reward of five hundred pounds exercised such a
potent effect upon his pious fancy as to keep him sleepless in
fruitful meditation upon the plans which should render it of easy
and safe acquisition. He gave the world credit, now that his cupidity
was aroused, for a vigilance, cunning, and energy, like his
own; and perpetually trembled lest some person just as 'cute
and clever as himself, probably with better luck, should interpose,
at a drowsy moment, and rob him of his prey.

No sooner had he got the despatches from the governor, and
started Gideon on his route, than he began to reflect upon the
readiness with which the former had yielded to his wishes. He
suspected the governor — it may be as well said here as elsewhere
— and began to feel some doubts of his good faith, when he recalled
the facility with which he had obtained his object. He
had expected his excellency to evade his application — to make

light of his arguments, and to put him off for a season; and had
already made his calculations that he should have finally to appeal
to some of the members of the council whom he knew to be much
more honest in their desires to carry out the ostensible objects of
the king's proclamation.

That Governor Quarry should have foreborne the formal publication
of the government missives against piracy — should have
given no circulation to the fact that a heavy reward had been
offered for Calvert — was, of itself, sufficiently suspicious; and Job
was not the man to be put at fault by any such pretexts as those
which had quieted Sir Edward Berkeley. Of course, his suspicions
were rendered lively by a degree of knowledge which he
possessed, through former associations, in respect to Quarry's flexibility
of conscience, of which Berkeley and the rest of the council
were either wholly or mostly ignorant.

He was morally sure of Quarry's corrupt practice, and shrewdly
suspected that no small share of the piratical profits had gone into
the pockets of the government official. With this knowledge,
and these suspicions, he was not satisfied to rely upon the governor's
good faith, even now, when the promptness of the latter,
in complying with his application, might well have disarmed the
suspicions of less cunning persons. He did not, accordingly, relax
his watch or exertions; but, affecting the utmost confidence
in the official, he put on a frankness of speech which, for him,
required no little effort. When he came for the despatches at
three o'clock, he said, in reply to the renewed question—

“What more do you think necessary, Master Stillwater, for securing
the pirate?”—

“Nothing just now, your honor. As yet, I 've got no clues to
his hiding-place. But, when I 'm sure that he 's in town, and can
find out where he is, then I shall come to your excellency for the
necessary force for his capture.”

When he was gone, and Calvert came forth from the chamber
where he had heard everything, the governor said—

“I fancy I have disarmed that scamp of all suspicions.”

“Not so,” answered the more sagacious cruiser. “You have
surprised him, that is all. But he has no more faith in you than
before. Surprising him by your promptness, without disarming
his suspicions, has only made him more vigilant. He knows

more than he has told you. When a cunning fellow, who is cold-blooded,
as all merely cunning people are, puts on a voluntary show
of frankness, he is then most dangerous. In his frankness he is
ostentatious. Of course, he has his object in it. You must be
more than ever vigilant. He will be communicating with the
council. Have you a trusty rogue whom you can put upon his
heels? You must have his movements watched. Be sure he
will watch yours, and I must relieve your house of my presence
this very night.”

“Where will you go?”

“Better that you should know nothing. I will take care of
myself. I will see, too, that he is watched.”

We need not pursue the conference, which was one simply of
details. That night, Calvert left the governor's mansion as darkly
as he came. He soon found another hiding-place under the
guidance of Franks, with whom, and Belcher, he had a long conference.
With the latter he crossed the river to Gowdey's castle.
Here, another conference took place, between these parties; but
this chiefly contemplated other matters. Gowdey made a rough
map, at the instance of Calvert, showing the topography of all the
region lying along the coast from the Kiawah to the Stono rivers,
and to the Edisto beyond, and inland up to the barony of Sir
Edward Berkeley. The routes were described, their bearings
shown, and all the distances accurately given.

“The ship must shift her ground, Belcher. She must run
round, in a few nights, to Cooper river; run up out of sight from
the harbor; and we must discharge the rest of the cargo in the
woods above. But I have told Franks everything on that head.
The rest remains for you. You will go with me to-night. Gowdey
will let you have his horse. You must see the governor to-morrow,
Gowdey, and get his sanction, if possible, for picking
up a score of stout fellows. Tell him everything, which you
yourself know, which justifies us in suspecting these red men of
mischief. If still he refuses to give you the men, get them yourself.
Here is bounty-money; and I will see that you have six
months' pay for a dozen at least.”

At midnight, Calvert and Belcher were upon the road. By
dawn they were on the banks of the creek in which the Happy-go-Lucky
was harbored.

Calvert's coming was a surprise; even the wonted audacity of
Lieutenant Molyneaux failing him for a moment. He had not
looked for his superior from this quarter. But, whether Calvert
had suspicions or not, he never gave the slightest indication of
them. He was simply taciturn; he had no reproaches; spoke of
the discipline of the vessel; and gave his orders with regard to her
future disposition, only leaving the period of the ship's removal
in doubt, to be determined by his further orders through Belcher.
But he made a selection of a dozen of his best marines, put
them under an orderly, bade them be in readiness for any call,
and keep their weapons ready. To both lieutenants he said, at
parting:—

“Let these men march the moment Belcher calls for them, and
he will assume the direction of the party until he joins me. Let
him be implicitly obeyed. Meanwhile, have the ship ready to
move with the first wind, and as soon after Belcher brings my
orders as possible. You can not be too vigilant, gentlemen. The
Indians are growing numerous, and you must watch the land as
well as the river. See that your men do not wander. They
will be cut off. Of course, you have suffered none of them to go
to the city?”

This was said carelessly, affirmed rather than asked. He did
not wait for the answer, which he would have found a confused
one. The suggestion somewhat agitated Molyneaux. We shall
see hereafter, perhaps, that the first lieutenant was even more of
an offender than Calvert thought him. But, when Belcher, after
they had left the ship, and remounted their steeds, proceeded to
certain detailed passages in respect to his dealing with the discontents,
Calvert silenced him.

“I know all that you would say, perhaps more than you guess.
I have had other agencies at work, and know exactly how far he
has gone with the men; nay, I could almost put my hands on the
very fellows whom he has corrupted. But his schemes are not
yet matured. Neither his fruit nor mine is ripe. I shall be
able to anticipate all his purposes. He is simply a brave blockhead,
whom Nature never designed for a conspirator. But for the
men themselves, I could almost suffer the fellow to proceed. He
little knows, Jack, how cheerfully I could surrender the little
vessel to her fate, and be content to wear out the rest of my poor

time in the obscurest solitude of sea, or rock, or forest, that an
outlawed heart may find, in which to seek a grave and find
rest!”

Belcher would have remonstrated with this woful self-abandonment,
but Calvert hushed him:—

“Of what use, Jack? Do you not know me by this time?”

“Oh! sir, is there no hope?”

“Hope is the child's star, which it fain would clutch! I have
done with it. I know too much — know all! Life has nothing
in reserve. I can no longer deceive myself with any dream of
my own: how idle to show me one of yours! I tell you I have
grown indifferent to all things in this weary world.”

“Oh!” groaned Belcher, bitterly; and then, as if in soliloquy,
“O for a grapple, yard-arm to yard-arm, with the biggest cruiser
of the dons!”

A sad smile passed over the face of Calvert as he heard the
speech, and he answered mournfully:—

“Do you think, because I am indifferent to all things, Jack,
that I would not do many things — that especially? Yes, I could
pray for that, as the last act to finish the drama fitly. To fight
the dons would be easy; nay, to feel the thrill and passion of the
conflict — as I have felt it when I had a hope — that, too, would
seem natural enough. Do not suppose that, because I have survived
hope, I have survived impulse. I must still, even while I
live, work down these restless energies which find their stimulus
in the very disappointments which follow every effort. They
drive me forward, as a bird before the storm; but I have no aim
— there is no port which I would seek: the bark is rudderless —
she cares not whither she drives.”

Jack Belcher had no answer but a deep sob; and the two rode
on in silence through the thick forests. They met with no interruption.
When, at length, they had reached a point which
Calvert judged to be about a mile from the barony of Kiawah,
he stopped, alighted, and motioned Belcher to do the same. He
then threw himself upon the sward, and, covering his eyes, lay
awhile without speaking. Belcher did not seek to disturb his
revery. When he did speak, his tone, words, and manner, conveyed,
more fully than anything he had said before, the hopeless
apathy of his soul. The mind might be present in it's fullest vigor

— the energies of manhood, the courage, the resolve — but oh,
how mournful the desolation that seemed to wither up the heart!

“The sun shines, I think, Belcher. The sun shines! There
is not a cloud to be seen; and how sweet is the peace of these
forests! if we could only sink into the earth, taking root, and
spreading out, simply to grow, like these trees, and not to feel
anything but growth and sunshine! But such is not for us — not
for me. I have no growth, no sunshine; but I have toils to
achieve, and perils to encounter, nevertheless. Who shall say
when these shall end? It matters little....... I think I have
told you everything. You will do what I have bidden. If aught
happens to me, you know what is to be done. My wife must be
cared for. You will protect her. You know where our treasures
are secured: I leave you in full guardianship of the trust. To
put her in safety once more; to save these poor fellows — ay,
even the faithless among them, and from themselves — is my first
duty. I must do it. I have brought them hither; have done
something toward making their present life acceptable; and this
life is one which is banned by law. I must put them in safety.
I will carry them to the isthmus, provide each with the means of
honest livelihood, and — for the rest! — what more?”

“Yourself!” gasped Belcher.

“It will be time to think of myself when I have done for
these.”

“O my dear master, do not speak so hopelessly! Why should
you not share the retreat that you seek for your people? Why
should we not — your wife, and I, your poor, long-tried servant
— why should we not all live together in some quiet retreat upon
the isthmus? It is a peaceful world — almost to itself — is solitary
enough, God knows, for any sore heart; but the sky is
bright, and the air mild, and the fruits delicious, and the flowers
beautiful. And the señora too! O my dear master! she is a
child, I know, and perhaps will never quite understand you, or
any Englishman; but, as I am a living man, and your faithful
servant, I do believe she loves you as truly as it is possible for
her to love any mortal man. It is not with these Spaniards of
the isthmus to feel very passionately: she 's like the sky, and the
flowers, and the fruits of her country. She 's changeable of temper,
and she can never answer to a strong thought in a serious

soul; but she 's true! and, I tell you — I feel it, I know it — she
loves you, and none but you, and as much as she can ever love
any living man.”

“Why, Belcher, you are eloquent.”

“No, no, master! only my heart is full, and I must talk out or
cry; and — I am doing both.”

“We can not turn the leaves of our lives at pleasure, Jack, and
will what is to be written there. It may be as you say. Did
you suppose that I would abandon you or her? No, no! Let
me suffer as I may, I will be no savage. I have only spoken to
you of my hopelessness; only spoken of things for you to do,
should the Fates deprive me of the power to do. I hold my purposes
subject to my necessities. I see great dangers before me,
and many troubles. To save these very men, against their will
— this is, perhaps, the worst; but it shall be tried. For the
rest — but you already have your instructions. Watch here,
while I sleep for one hour. Then leave me, and find your way
to Gowdey's castle, and help his preparations. Take charge of
the place if he would go to town. I hope to be with you at
midnight.”