Emmanuel Appadocca; or, Blighted Life. Volume 1 of 2

PREFACE.

This work has been written at a moment when the feelings of the Author are roused up to a high pitch of indignant excitement, by a statement of the cruel manner in which the slave-holders of America deal with their slave-children. Not being able to imagine that even that dissolver of natural bonds—slavery—can shade over the hideousness of begetting children for the purpose of turning them out into the fields to labour at the lash’s sting, he has ventured to sketch out the line of conduct, which a high-spirited and sensitive person would probably follow, if he found himself picking cotton under the spurring encouragement of “Jimboes” or “Quimboes” on his own father’s plantation.

The machinery, or ground-work of the story is based on truth—the known history of the Boucaneers. It is scarcely necessary to tell the reader that the other parts are fiction.

The scenes are laid principally in the Island of Trinidad. This is done entirely from natural predilection, for Trinidad is the Author’s native isle, whose green woods, smiling sky, beautiful flowers, and romantic gulf, together with a thousand sweet and melting associations, eternally play on his willing memory, and make him cherish ever the fond hope, that when the spark of life shall have been extinguished, his bones may be deposited on the rising ground that looks over the sea, and that already contains the being who, in death, as well as she was in life, was the object of his deep love and high veneration.

4, Elm Court,
Temple.

February, 1854.

EMMANUEL APPADOCCA; OR, BLIGHTED LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

The canoe held a direct course out to sea the remaining part of the day. This was drawing fast to a close, when there might be perceived, straight over the bows of the canoe, and far, far away, a small dark object that seemed to rest lightly on the horizon, which was, at that moment, illumined by the red rays of the large round sun that was fast sinking behind it.

The head of the canoe was kept direct upon that speck, and the man at the stern seemed to make no more use of his compass.

Such was the rapidity with which the canoe went, borne away, as it was, by the breeze, as well as propelled by the paddles of twelve strong men, that within three hours after sunset, they were close to that which, a short time before, had appeared so small, so shadowy, and so distant.

The object proved to be a low, black, balahoo schooner, whose model, as far as it could be observed by the starlight, was most beautiful. She was built as sharply as a sword, with her bows terminating in the shape of a Gar’s lance, while her stern slanted off in the most graceful proportions.

But the most remarkable part in her build, was her immense and almost disproportioned length, which, combined with her perfectly straight lines, low hull, and the slenderness of her make, gave her the appearance of a large serpent.

Her rigging was of the lightest fashion as two simple shrouds, which supported each mast, and the bowsprit and jibboom stays formed her principal cordage.

There was not a yard, a gaff, or piece of canvass aloft, so that the tall masts remained bare and graceful, shining under their polish. On these accounts, they could not be perceived at any distance, and a boat, discovering the vessel for the first time, would be at a loss to make out what floating object it was.

Her position also, and the manner in which she seemed moored—mastless, as it would appear—was strange and peculiar. She was not swinging to the wind or current, but she rode under a bow and stern anchor, which kept her head directly towards the Dragon’s Mouth, while the rippling waves, that still curled before the gentle night breeze, broke playfully on her side.

“What word?” sounded the hoarse and echoing voice of some one on the deck, as the canoe approached the schooner.

“Scorpion,” the man replied in as sounding a voice, and the canoe boarded the vessel.

The ladders were thrown out over the sides, and the man at the stern jumped nimbly on deck.

A sentinel stationed at the gangway lowered his weapon, and the man at the stern, for so we must still call him, passed.

The sentinel was a tall muscular man of a dark complexion; his face was almost entirely covered with hair, on his head he wore a red cap, he had on a red woollen shirt, his trowsers were black, and were secured round his waste by a thick red sash, in which were stuck a brace of pistols and a long poniard.

These and a cutlass, which he held in his hand, were his only weapons.

As soon as the man at the stern was on deck he was accosted by a tall, thin person with flowing mustachios, and with marks of distinction from the sentinel, both in dress and in his appearance. He was richly and tastefully accoutred. He wore a jet black frock coat, which was richly but simply embroidered with gold; his trowsers were of unspotted white, and displayed neat and highly polished boots; round his waist he wore a richly fringed crimson sash, in which pistols and a poniard were also stuck; and a slender belt supported a handsome sword by his side. His head was covered by a red cap, and rich gold epaulets rested on his shoulders.

“Lorenzo,” said this individual, addressing the new comer in a low and pleasant tone, “I am happy to see you back. Success, I hope.”

“Success,” answered Lorenzo briefly but courteously, “I have three strangers there in the boat, of whom, pray, order your watch to take care; the captain, I suppose is in his cabin, so I shall see him by the dawn of day. Good night, Sebastian, good watch.”

“Farewell,” answered the party addressed, and Lorenzo, our former man at the stern, disappeared.

This short dialogue carried on, as it was, in an under tone, scarcely broke the extraordinary silence which reigned on board the mysterious schooner.

After Lorenzo had disappeared, Sebastian ordered his men to take charge of the three prisoners in the canoe, who were accordingly brought on deck. Jack Jimmy, who after his fear had been lulled by the apparent harmless treatment of the Indians, had fallen fast asleep, was the most struck when awakening, with the extraordinary position in which he found himself suddenly placed. When he got on deck, he stood as if his limbs would not support him; he first looked aloft at the tapering masts of the schooner, then on the deck, and when his eyes fell on the men by whom he was surrounded, he opened his mouth for an instant in mute amazement, and succeeded at length to give expression to his terror in the words—“Garamighty! way me be? Wha dish ya?”

“Softly, my little man,” said the sentinel, in a voice that contrasted strangely with the weak shriek of the terror-stricken Jack Jimmy, “we don’t speak so loud here.”

“Massa, me hush,” was the immediate answer of Jack Jimmy, and he closed his lips as firmly as he could, as an earnest of his determination to keep silence; but in the dark the white of his eyes may have been seen revolving from object to object with the rapidity of lightning.

“Follow this way,” said a man, who had received instructions from the officer, to the prisoners; and he led them down a narrow stair-case to a small cabin in the foremost part of the vessel. “This is where you are to sleep to-night,” said he to them, after they had been ushered in: “do you require anything?”

The captives answered in the negative.

“Well,” continued the man, “make yourselves comfortable for the night, and be awake betimes to-morrow to see our captain—he gets up early.”

He then posted himself at the door of the cabin, with his cutlass in his hand, like one who was to pass the whole night there. Not a sound more was heard on board the schooner that night.

When morning had arrived, the prisoners were brought on deck, and requested to be prepared to appear before the captain immediately.

The strange vessel on board of which they found themselves, could be better examined by daylight than by the dim star-gleam of the preceding night. The long level deck was scoured as white as snow; not a speck, not a nail-head, not the minutest particle of anything could be discovered upon it. The very seams were filled up in such a manner, that the material which made them impervious to water, imparted an appearance of general cleanliness. The halliards were all beautifully adjusted at the foot of each mast, and made up for the moment in the shape of mats, or other fanciful forms. The belaying pins, that were lined with brass, were beautifully polished, while the tapering masts were as clean and as smooth as ivory. The arrangement of the deck, also, was exceedingly neat: nothing but a few beautiful and simple machines for hoisting were to be seen, and in properly-disposed recesses in the bulwarks, glimpses might be caught of the rude instruments of destruction—of pikes that looked horrible even in their places of rest,—axes whose shining edges made the blood run chill, and grappling-irons, whose tortuous and crooked prongs made the nerves recoil with the thoughts of agony which they brought up. An awning, as white as the deck which it sheltered, was spread from the stem to the stern of the schooner.

Men dressed and armed, as the sentinel of the preceding evening, were leaning here and there, conversing together in a low tone of voice.

Of all these things, the one which particularly attracted the attention of the strangers was the extraordinary device that everything on board the schooner bore; namely, a death’s head placed on the crossing of two dead men’s bones. This was imprinted on the rigging of the schooner, on its tackle, on the weapons which were arranged in the bulwarks, and the men wore it in front of their blood-red caps, and on their arms. This strange circumstance had a powerful effect on the prisoners: Jack Jimmy opened his mouth and eyes, and seemed, on contemplating that sign, to devote himself to death already; and the master fisherman became still more anxious than he had been from the first. He recollected that in the various stories with which he and his fellows in the same pursuit had beguiled many a tedious hour, pirates were represented as always displaying a black flag, on which the same sad mementoes of mortality, as those which he saw everywhere on board the schooner, were imprinted.

The thought immediately broke in upon him that he might at that moment be among those lawless men, about whose horrible cruelties he had heard so much, and he shuddered at the reflection.

It is true he had not, up to that moment, experienced any personal outrage or even incivility; but might he not be reserved for those shocking tortures to which he had heard pirates were accustomed to resort, for the purpose of forcing their victims to the confession of what was alike improbable and impossible? His reflections now became gloomy and distressing; and thoughts that rush upon a man only at his last moments, or in situations of imminent danger, began now to force themselves upon him.

This train of thoughts was broken by Lorenzo, who suddenly emerged from the companion of the chief cabin and approached him.

Lorenzo presented quite a different appearance from what he did under his Indian disguise of the day before.

He was cleanly washed of the red ochre with which he had painted his skin; it now appeared fresh and clear, as it was by nature, although a little embronzed by a tropical sun. His features, which could now be properly read, expressed a character of manly firmness, softened by much humanity and tenderness. He wore the same dress as the officer whom he met on duty the previous night, with the slight exception that his red cap was more richly decorated. This seemed to be a badge of distinction, and it could be at once perceived from the manner in which he acted, that Lorenzo was in high command on board the strange schooner.

“The prisoners will not be wanted for half an hour,” he said to the man on duty; “you may retire with them.”

He then went back, and descended the stairs by which he had ascended.

These stairs led to a wide passage in the main-deck of the vessel, which extended from the stem to the door of the main cabin: he turned to the right, and proceeded to the part where that cabin was situated.

He passed by a number of doors and passages, but proceeded straight down the one in which he was, until he arrived at a certain door that stood immediately opposite to him. He then touched a large skull of bronze that grinned hideously on it; it instantly flew open, and he stood before a tall, and full armed sentinel, who, immovable as a statue, looked him fiercely in the eyes.

The officer, without uttering a word, presented the index finger of his left hand, on which there was a large ring, the sentinel quietly stepped aside, and he passed.

He made a few steps, and from another niche in the passage another sentinel presented himself, he showed the ring again and passed; he went further forward, and was again met by another sentinel, he performed the same ceremony, and he was also permitted to pass. He went on and met several others, on whom the ring had the same effect; at last, he arrived at a sort of antichamber, where two black boys, in gorgeous attire, were waiting.

They immediately bent their bodies to Lorenzo as he advanced, and then stood ready to answer him any question he should ask.

“Is your master at leisure, Bembo?” asked Lorenzo.

“He is, senor,” answered one of the boys.

“Say I am here, and desire audience.”

The boy bent his body again and retired.

He immediately returned, and informed the officer that his master desired him to enter, and conducted him to a door.

The officer pressed a skull similar to that with which the reader has already been made acquainted; the door flew open, and he stood in a magnificent apartment, with a young man before him.

The apartment into which Lorenzo had entered, was vast and magnificent in its proportions; it was formed of the whole of the after part of the schooner, and of its entire width. It was richly though peculiarly decorated: the sides, unlike the plain wainscoating of ships in general, were made of the richest and most exquisitely polished mahogany, upon which were elaborately carved landscapes, in which nature was represented principally in her most terrible aspect,—with volcanoes belching forth their liquid fires; cataracts eating away in their angry mood the rugged granite, over whose uneven brows they were foamingly precipitated; inhospitable mountains frowning on the solitary waves below, that unheedingly lashed their base; chasms that yawned as terrific as the cataclasm that might be supposed to have formed them, and other subjects which blended the magnificent with the terribly sublime.

The precious metals were freely used to mark the shades and other points in these highly wrought carvings, so that the fire which the volcanoes sent forth was cleverly represented by gold, the water by silver, and so forth.

Large beads of gold surrounded each tableau, and separated it from the next. On the skirting-boards at the lower parts were carved palezotic creatures, that held between their extended jaws large richly bound volumes, which were secured by springs against the rolling of the vessel.

The ceiling was decorated in the same peculiar manner: the two sides of the celestial sphere were distinctly represented, with the signs of the zodiac and the constellations finished in a perfect style, and scrupulously placed at the correct distances from each other.

The furniture was in exact keeping with this rich, though strange style of decoration. Soft and velvetty carpets covered the floor, or rather the deck; fanciful ottomans, made in the shape of gigantic sea shells, covered with crimson velvet, and decorated with pure and solid gold, were placed here and there. Immense globes of the earth and the heavens, mathematical instruments of the largest size were carefully arranged, and so effectually secured in their position, that they could not be affected by the tossing of the schooner. But what was particularly calculated to attract attention among these various things was a gigantic telescope, whose principal parts stood on a magnificent frame. More than ordinary care seemed to be devoted to this instrument, both to its construction and to its preservation, for everything about it was exquisitely made and polished.

The young man who stood before Lorenzo, may have been about twenty-five years of age: he was tall and slender, but infinitely well formed; his limbs were beautifully proportioned and straight, and his hands were almost femininely delicate, notwithstanding the close construction of the bones, and the hard, wiry sinews, which could be barely seen, now and then slightly swelling the skin.

His complexion was of a very light olive, it showed a mixture of blood, and proclaimed that the man was connected with some dark race, and in the infinity of grades in the population of Spanish America, he may have been said to be of that which is commonly designated Quadroon.

But the features of this femininely formed man were in deep contrast with his make; they were handsome to the extreme; but there was something in his large tropical eyes that seemed to possess the power of the basilisk, and made it difficult to be supposed that any man could meet their glance without feeling it.

This expression was increased by his lowering brows that overshadowed his eyes, and indicated, at once, an individual of much resolution; while his high aquiline nose, compressed lips, and set jaws, pointed clearly to a disposition that would undertake the most arduous and hazardous things, and execute them with firmness in spite of perils.

In brief, the most superficial observer might have read, in the face of that young man, the existence of something within, which was endowed with the power of controlling the most headstrong and refractory,—of quelling the most rebellious spirits.

It required not the discoveries of science to convince men, at a glance of his features, that there was a power in that mind which was reflected on his face, that wherever he was he would be by the necessity of his own mind—pre-eminent and uppermost; that men must, unknowingly to themselves, obey him, and act as he acted.

In addition to those animal attributes, the shape of his head was what the most fastidious could but admire; his forehead rose in the fullness of beautiful proportions, while, at the same time, those skilled in reading others’ sculls would have declared that, with his high intellectual development, he did not lack those necessary moral accompaniments which the Creator, in his wisdom, has providently bestowed for the proper use and regulation of the former.

Withal, however, there might be discerned in the lofty bearing and haughty mein of the young man a stern and invincible pride.

The dress of our young hero was simple; he wore trowsers of the finest and whitest materials, and a Moorish jacket of crimson silk, with large and ample sleeves; round his waist was folded a red silk sash, in which a gilded poniard and pistols mounted with gold, were stuck; his head was uncovered, and his black raven locks flowed over his shoulders in wild and unrestrained profusion.

When Lorenzo entered the cabin the young man was standing by a table, on which lay open a richly ornamented volume of “Bacon’s Novum Organum,” with the books of “Aristotle’s Philosophy” by its side.

It was evident that he was making his morning meditation on those learned tomes.

When Lorenzo entered the cabin he bowed profoundly.

“Good morning, Lorenzo,” said the young man, still maintaining his high posture, and pointed an ottoman to the visitor.

“Well, how have you fared?” he inquired.

“Well, your excellency,” answered the officer, “I have captured a fisherman with his two men, whom I have brought on board for your especial examination. I made my observations during the time that my men were resting, and have to report, that there are several deeply laden ships in the harbour, which, from all appearances, are ready for sea, and will sail within a few days. There seem to be prospects of a rich booty, with very little work for our men. There are no ships of war in the harbour. I have taken the marks and sizes of the vessels, which you will find on this paper, so that the fisherman may be accurately questioned. The ship, about which your excellency especially instructed me, is also in the harbour.” Then, with a low bow, Lorenzo handed a paper to the young man.

“You have done well, Lorenzo,” the latter said, and glanced over the paper for a short time, and, apparently, possessing himself of the information it contained, laid it by.

“Let your fisherman be brought, Lorenzo.”

The officer left the apartment for a time and returned, shortly afterwards, with the fisherman.

The fisherman appeared bewildered by the grandeur of the place, and could scarcely restrain his eyes from wandering distractedly about.

The captain, after affording him some time to regain himself, requested him to dismiss his fears, and assured him that no harm should be done him if he spoke the truth, and began to interrogate him.

“You know the Harbour of Port of Spain, do you not?”

“I do, senor,” replied the fisherman, “I fish in it every day.”

“Do you know the ships that are there now?”

“Senor, I do not know their names, but I know they are nearly all English.”

“Do you know the large ship that is anchored opposite the banks of the Caroni?”

“Senor, as I have said before, not its name; but I know that it belongs to a rich English merchant, and is laden with sugar for Bristol.”

“Do you know when she is to sail?”

“Senor,” answered the fisherman, “not positively, but, from her appearance, I should say she will sail in a day or two.”

The young man proceeded in this manner and examined the fisherman about all the vessels which were reported in Lorenzo’s paper to be in the harbour, but without, at the same time, receiving any more definite information.

After the questioning was ended, he requested the fisherman to be re-assured, and to fear nothing; he then pressed a spring at his feet, and one of the black boys appeared.

“Show this man on deck,” said the captain. The fishermen was shown on deck, where the sentinel duly received him.

“Lorenzo,” said the young man, “by the chart of this island, and, from my own experience, I know that there are only two outlets from this gulf—the Serpent’s and the Dragon’s Mouth. Ships but seldom go through the Serpent’s Mouth, both, on account of its narrowness, and its distance out of the course of those that may be bound for England. It is, therefore, my opinion that the ships, which are now about to sail, will pass by the Dragon’s Mouth; that passage is fifty miles to the north of this. It is my will that five men be sent with this fisherman of yours, to watch the sailing of the ships: go you, therefore, bear the token, and request the officer of the watch to attend to this order. When this is done, come you hither and let me know. It is my will to let the men have pleasure to-day as they may have work shortly.”

Lorenzo bowed and retired: he shortly returned and informed the captain—as the reader must have already discovered him to be—that his order was executed. The captain asked no further questions, but, perhaps from the habit of being always strictly and implicitly obeyed, he never doubted but that things were done as he wished. Such, too, was the discipline that seemed to reign on board of the schooner, that scarcely five minutes elapsed before preparations were made, and a boat, with the fisherman, among others, was duly dispatched to do as the captain commanded.

When the captain was informed that his orders were executed, he pressed again the spring and the boy appeared.

“Sound the gong,” he said: the boy bowed and retired.

CHAPTER III.

No sooner had the captain given the order, than the whole schooner echoed with the deafening sounds of a huge gong, whose noise was sufficient to rouse the soundest sleeper in the lowest recesses of the schooner.

The sounds seemed to possess the power of transforming the vessel, where such quiet and silence a little before had reigned, to a scene of unbounded revelry. No sooner had they fallen on the ears of the grim and bearded sailors, than shouts of joy and mirth burst forth from the same men, who, but a short time before seemed pressed by a paralizing power into discipline, order, and the silence of death.

The deck then suddenly became a scene of the liveliest animation; small groups of men settled themselves here and there, some to sing, others to dance, and others again preferring less boisterous amusement, to listen to the long stories of some weather-beaten son of Neptune.

The jolly songs of all nations, as sung by the different denizens that formed the motley crew of the schooner, rose upon the bosom of the silent gulf. The Spaniard sang his animated oroco songs; the Llanero, who had been seduced away from his native plains to seek as arduous an existence on the boisterous element, chanted the pastoral ditties with which he was accustomed to break the monotony of many a live-long night on the lonely Savanahs of South America; the Frenchman rattled over his lively airs, and the jolly choruses of merry England, too, were not unheard on board of the Black Schooner.

The guitar here and there stimulated the Terpsichorean powers of some heavy sailor, and the schooner rang with the merry laugh of those who listened to the jokes of some funny old tar. Nor were the joys of drinking unfelt. Every sailor had his drinking can by his side, and contentment might have been read on the rigid features of every one as he quaffed the stimulating liquor.

One of the chief subjects of attraction seemed to be an old sailor, whose features proclaimed him a son of distant England, while a deep scar on his forehead, and the brown-baked hue of his face, pointed him out as one who had seen service. He was entertaining those around him with some of his adventures, and was, at the same time, speaking in his native language, which was understood by his hearers. Few, indeed, were the tongues that those men did not know; the wheel of fortune had turned them round and round in their day, and had cast them into many a different place, and there was scarcely a country in the world to which their pursuits had not taken them.

“Yes, by G—d,” the old sailor was saying, “that ere Llononois was the very devil. I remember when he took Maracaybo,—a devil of a fight that was, and no mistake,—three nights in the swamps without bread or grog; I remember when we took that place, there was a poor sinner that we suspected had some dibs. The commodore seized him—devil of a man he was—‘Where have you buried your money?’ Says he—says he—the sinner, I mean, ‘I have no money,’ says he. Says the commodore, says he, ‘you lie, you rascal, and I will make you show me the coffers!’ He took the lubber—by G—d I’ll never forget that day—not I: he took the lubber and tied a line round his head, just as if he would season his head—as I would the main-shrouds—he tied the line round his head, and took a hitch in it with a marlin-spike, and twisted the line until you would ha’ swore it would cut the lubber’s head in two. The sinner sang out murder, but the commodore twisted the more, and asked him for the dibs. He said he had’nt any. ‘Have’nt any, you rascal?’ cried the commodore, in a fury, and twisted the line tighter and tighter, until the eyeballs of the lubber swelled like a rat in a barrel of pork. Lord! I never seed the like—and Jim Splice has seen many things, too, I can tell you—but he still said he had no money. At last the commodore got angry—a terrible man he was when he was not, leave alone when he was—‘Where is your money?’ he cried, more like a devil than a man. ‘I hav’nt any,’ the poor man cried, but that would’nt do: the commodore took his sword, opened the poor fellow’s breast, tore out his heart, and bit it, telling the other Spaniards he would serve them just in the same way if they did not give him all the money they had. By G—d, I’ll never forget that, anyhow! I never seed human flesh eaten afore that—Jim Splice never did—it was too much for me, hearch!” and the old sailor made a hideous grimace. “Yes: I was’nt much longer with that ere Llononois after that, I know. He was a brave man, though, after all, but nothing like our captain. There was a black day for him, however, ay, ay: that ere gentleman aloft keeps a good watch, I know, and he kept a sharp look out on that ere Llononois especially, and had the windward of him in no time. The unfortunate man was cast away afterwards among the same Spaniards, whose hearts he said he would eat, and had to skulk in the woods where he shortly afterwards died of starvation: by G—d, yes, of starvation.”

“And serve him right, too,” the sailors unanimously cried, “what was the use of killing a poor brute when he could get nothing out of him?”

With such anecdotes as this Jim Splice diverted his companions. But there was on board of the schooner that day another subject, which contributed largely to the merriment of the sailors. This was no less a personage than Jack Jimmy. After the examination of the master fisherman, he, together with his companions, had been released from the custody under which they had at first been placed on their arrival on board of the schooner, and after having been admonished that if he threw himself overboard again, as he had once done from the fishing-boat, he would be quietly permitted to be drowned, he was left at full liberty to range the deck at large. When, however, the revelry began, still feeling strange, and fearing lest he should be in the way of the men, he had carefully rolled himself up at the foot of the mainmast, with his head supported by both his hands; and his eyes, the white parts of which could be seen at an extraordinary distance, eagerly fixed on the movements of the sailors. He had sat for a considerable time quiet and unobserved, merely giving vent now and then to his wonder, when that was heightened by any astonishing event in the day’s amusement, by a laconic—“Awh! wha dish ya Baccra debble foo true—Garamighty! look pan dem!”

When, however, the other things which had afforded amusement to the sailors, began to pall; when the dancing had become fatiguing, the songs had been exhausted, and Jim Splice’s stories had lost part of their attraction, the sailors began to look about for other excitement. It was at this moment, an unhappy one for him, that their eyes fell on the unfortunate Jack Jimmy: he was observed in his crouching position, where it was difficult to distinguish him from the ideal of a rolled up ouran-outan.

Struck with the peculiar comicality of the exhibition, the first sailor that remarked him burst out into an immoderate fit of laughter, and then touched his neighbour and pointed him out; the next did the same to his companion, until all eyes were fixed on Jack Jimmy.

“What have we here?” cried a maudlin young sailor, as he stood up and ran towards the object of attraction the others immediately followed.

“Let us see what is in that fellow, mates.”

“Ho, the little prisoner!” rang among the merry men.

Three or four of them immediately tapped him on the head jocosely, and asked him to sing: Jack Jimmy trembling with fear, opened his eyes and mouth at once, “Massa, me no sabee sing,” he replied.

“Come, old boy! stand up—you must sing,” said one of them, and they pulled up poor Jack Jimmy from his recumbent position.

If the appearance of the little man was calculated to raise laughter when he was crouching, it was much more so when he was standing up; and really there was something in him peculiarly comical. He was a little man of about four feet and a half, thickly set, and strong; his face was rounded at the mouth, and his long bony jaws projected to an extraordinary length in front. He seemed to have no brow, there was no distinction between his face and forehead; his huge large eyes looked like balls inserted into two large holes, bored on an even surface, while what was intended for a nose, was miserably abbreviated and flat, added the culminating point to an ugliness which was almost unique. To crown this extraordinary combination, a short crop of scattered hair grew on the top of his head, while the other parts were bare and shining, and now stained a dirty white with water.

Nature did not seem to have been generous enough to accord to him one single redeeming point; his head was joined by a short neck to square heavy shoulders, that rose about the ears of the little man; his legs were of the same shapeless proportions, and terminated at the base in large lumps of flesh, which seen unconnectedly with their appurtenant limbs, would scarcely have been taken for feet, if the short, chubby, and creasing toes, that were fixed to them, had not indicated their nature. To add more to this already ridiculous figure, the circumstance of dress was called in requisition. Jack Jimmy was clad in a dirty, ragged, checked shirt; with lower coverings that were once brown, but which were now of an obscure tawny color, acquired from the many incrustations of dirt that had been permitted to be formed upon them. The sleeves of the shirt were tucked up in a roll which seemed to have become perpetual from the smooth waxing which friction had imparted to it. The tawny trousers were done up in like manner; and on the lower exposed parts of the limbs, might be traced on the black skin, the embedded salt which had settled there while the water trickled down after the plunge of the preceding day.

All these peculiarities, set forth in active prominence by the fear and excitement of the present moment, were quite sufficient to overcome the gravity of more serious men than those who happened, at that time, to be at the height of their merriment.

“Garamighty, massa! me tell you me no sabee sing.”

“Well, you can dance, then;” and one of the sailors took a sword, and made so dexterously at the short legs of the little man, that, to protect those members, he began to jump about like a dancing puppet—to the infinite gratification of the sailors, who roared with laughter. This sport, however, soon ended.

“Hark ye!” said a sailor: “Sambo, if you can’t sing, you must submit to a penalty—bring up the old jib, Domingo,” he added to one of his mates, “or a blanket.”

“Yes, blanket him, ha! ha! ha!” cried all the men, “blanket him, ha! ha! ha!”

With the alacrity that sport alone can give, the sailors immediately brought a sail, into which they lifted the unfortunate Jack Jimmy, who, stupid with fear, all the while was crying—“Tap, massa—Garamighty!—you go kill me,—oh, Lard!—my mamee, oh!”

They raised him on the sail, and began to balance him about, but Jack Jimmy, in the extremity of his fear, apprehending that they were going to do something dreadful to him, took a leap to get out of the sail, and in doing so, was pitched flat on the deck.

He stretched himself out two or three times, feigning the last convulsions of death, and lay at his length with his eyes tightly closed. The sailors laughed; and, seeing clearly, from the heavings of his chest, that he was not so dead as he pretended to be, began to roll him violently about, as they said, in keeping with his own feint, to bring back life. But Jack Jimmy played his part well, and would neither open his eyes, nor show any other sign of existence.

At last, one of the sailors said, aloud—“I know what will bring back the poor fellow: yes, it would be a pity to let him die so; Jack, lend me your cigar.” Jack lent his cigar, and the sailor applied the lighted part to the thick great toe of the would-be defunct. He, however, would not move, but the sailor was persevering; Jack Jimmy remained quiet until the fire had fairly burnt through the thick skin, and had touched the more tender parts; when he felt it he was no longer dead; he sprang up briskly, on his resting part, and, catching hold of the toe, rubbed it with all his might, while he cried out—“Gad, Lard! me dead foo true;—wy—ee bun me foo true—Garamighty!”

The merriment of the sailors was extreme; the schooner rang with their protracted peals of laughter. But while they were thus at the height of their pleasure, the shrill sounds of a fife pierced the vessel; and as if it were the death time of mirth and joviality; it was succeeded by a silence, which can be imagined only, where pestilence has ravaged a population, and has left its gloom, even on the sickly trees and rocks that lay in its devastating traces. It settled itself like a fear-inspiring genius where, but a moment before, was naught but boisterous mirth; the hour of pleasure was passed, that of discipline and order had returned. One by one the sailors retired to their quarters, lifting bodily, along with them, such of their companions as had indulged too extravagantly in the delights of drinking.

To a stranger, the change was extraordinary. It would have been hard to believe, unless one had been convinced by the testimony of his own eyes, that there was a power so infinitely strong, as to control those, apparently lawless men, in the height of their self-willed pleasure; especially, when their spirits were heated with strong drinks, and the fierce propensities of their nature, were roused to a point when it was difficult to restrain them; but such there appeared to be. What was the spring, what the source, what the origin of that extraordinary power? What had the man done, young, as he seemed to be; and solitary, as he appeared, among so many stronger men, to enable him thus powerfully to impose the bonds of discipline, to recall and to sway a number of such men in the midst of their boisterous enjoyment? Was it the recollection of some dreadful deed of firmness, still fresh in the minds and hearts of those stern weather-beaten sailors, that sustained this fear of their youthful captain, or was it the mysterious influence of a curbing and omnipotent mind that chained them to its volition, it is not our part to inquire; suffice it to say, whatever the power, or however acquired, it existed, and that it was strong enough to drive back the sailors of the black schooner to the habitual discipline and order that reigned on its board.

The night was far advanced when the boat, which had been sent on the watching trip, returned.

Lorenzo was immediately informed that a large ship, deeply laden, had passed the “Boca del Drago.”

“Well,” said the officer, to the man who reported these tidings, “you have done your duty faithfully, but you have lost this day’s pleasure; mark it down and the captain will not forget it. Get you to your quarters, and to-morrow be early in my cabin—you may have to appear before his excellency.”

The man made a bow and retired.

CHAPTER IV.

Morning, beautiful and clear, such as it is only in the transparent regions of the tropics, had just come, when, in obedience to the order of the preceding night, the sailor returned to the cabin of Lorenzo. There he was subjected to a more particular examination than the leisure of the foregone night permitted, and he detailed, with accuracy, the various little incidents which had befallen him since he started from the schooner on his commission.

“The ship,” he said, “is very large, and seems to be well manned. There were several persons on board, who appeared to be passengers. We pretended to be fishing, and we pulled backwards and forwards under her stern as she was sailing slowly before the light wind, so that we had an opportunity of observing her closely, and of seeing that on her stern was marked the ‘Letitia’ of Bristol.”

“The ‘Letitia,’” repeated Lorenzo, and a gloom passed over his countenance, as he remained for a minute or two absorbed by some devouring thought.

“Did she seem to sail well?” at length, he asked.

“Senor, the wind was light, and we could not judge of that; but, from her build, I think she would be a clipper,” answered the man.

After Lorenzo had put some other questions to the sailor he dismissed him, and requested that the master-fisherman should be immediately brought. The latter was, in a short time, conducted to the officer’s cabin, where he was interrogated in the same manner. The fisherman said it was the large ship which appertained to the rich English merchant, and of which he had already given information to the captain. The officer dismissed him also, and sought, at once, the captain’s cabin. He communicated the report of the party, and in answer was ordered to go on deck, immediately, and get ready to set sail. When Lorenzo was detailing to his chief the report of the reconnoitring party, the deepest physiognomist would not have been able to discover a wrinkle or a mark in the face of the young man, or to perceive the slightest change in his dark eyes that could indicate the existence of any particular feeling within. He sat like a statue, as silent and as still, with his piercing eyes fixed on the pupils of the narrator’s, who, from time to time, was obliged to look down in order to relieve himself of the torture in which he was kept by the eagle glance of his chief. But when Lorenzo arrived at the part of the report in which the description of the vessel was made, and the name “Letitia” was mentioned, there might be traced around his lips the rudiments of a sardonic smile of triumph—something like the flash of a ponderous cannon when a match is applied in the darkness of night, that dazzles for a moment, and then suddenly dies away in the thick enshrouding smoke that darkly typifies the terrible gloom of the destruction which springs from its midst.

Having heard the report of his officer, the captain ordered him to proceed, at once, on deck, and get ready to set sail. The officer bowed and retired.

When Lorenzo had quitted the cabin, the captain remained sitting in the same position in which he had received the report, and appeared occupied by some preying thought.

“Yes,” he muttered, “‘Letitia,’ that is the name: he goes in it. Speed well my purpose!”

The preparations on board the schooner did not require much time to be completed, and, in a few moments, the captain himself made his appearance on deck. It would appear, that except when the schooner was under weigh, he never showed himself to his crew. Like the priests of yore, who swayed mankind, he was no doubt apprehensive, that if he exhibited himself too frequently to vulgar view, the sailors, in getting familiar with his person, should lose much of the veneration and awe which they unquestionably entertained for him, and which seemed to crush their wills to an implicit and blind obedience to his.

When he appeared on deck, he was attired in quite a different fashion to the one in which he was seen in his cabin. He wore black trowsers, with broad stripes of gold on the sides, and a black frock coat, simply but richly ornamented with embroidery of the same precious metal. The red sash, as usual, was folded round his waist, and supported the pistols and poniard; his head was crowned with a flaming cap, in the front of which was wrought the death’s head and dead men’s bones; while, in addition to these things, a beautiful sword, with gold mountings, hung by his side.

“Weigh,” he said, to the officer on duty, as his foot touched the deck; the vessel was immediately put under sail. The light breeze of the morning filled her well-trimmed canvass, and like a creature of life and grace the Black Schooner began to cut through the water. Scarcely a ripple marked where her sharp keel passed, as she moved gracefully over the quiet waters of the gulf.

The hills of the Bocas gradually arose more and more distinctly before her, as she quickly approached them. No scene perhaps in nature is more beautiful than the one which presents itself to the mariner as he sails through the narrow strait that affords a northern passage from the Gulf of Paria.

Standing in the midst of the clearest waters that bathe in graceful ripplings their luxuriant base, are clusters of small islands that are carpeted to the very beach with fresh and never fading verdure. Like a scene in a panorama, or like the trembling shadows which a tropical moon casts over the silent lake or placid stream, those islands seem balancing over a crystal surface, that shines and sends forth a thousand undulating reflections under the pure and clear rays of an undarkened tropical sun: or, as they recede to the eye, in proportion to the progress of the vessel, imagination might convert them into the terrestrial realities of those variegated spots which the musing poet is fond to contemplate, to follow in their course, to speculate and dream upon, in the transparent and lulling pureness of a summer sky. Above these are seen the blossoming coral-trees with their scarlet flowers, that chequer the densely wooded hills, and stand amidst the dense foliage that surrounds them, marked and conspicuous like thousands of growing wreaths, that administering nymphs eternally offer to tropical nature in gratitude for her marvellous and beautiful works.

Over the shining waters themselves that lave these hills and fairy isles, are seen the long-necked pelican, in its shadowy flight, or its fierce headlong plunge after its watery prey; the spiry smoke, as it ascends from some reed-constructed cottage on the shore; the feathery canoe of some solitary fisherman, playing, like a child of the element, on the beautiful sea; the crooked creeks and receding bays that conjure up thoughts of lurking pirates; the sullen growling of the ocean, in long, high, and heaving swells, as it rolls on the ocean-side: all these mark the entrance of the Boca with the boldest and most beautiful features of natural beauty that fancy, in her wildest reveries, can draw and paint; while the gloomily ascending mountains of Paria, on the left side, with their precipitous falls, to be seen far, far away;—mountains, that stand dark and dismal like sulky lions on the crouch, and seem ready to fall—to fill up the narrow straits below, and to bury, far beneath their weight, the frail structure of fragile wood that intrudes with its rash and venturesome burdens into the very shadow of their black brow, tend to add to the scene a solemn and terrifying effect.

The black schooner glided through the narrow outlet, and rose outside on the boisterous billows of the Atlantic.

The captain paced the deck in deep reflection. His dark eyebrows completely hid his eyes, which remained fixed on the deck. Their long and silken lashes swept the handsome young man’s cheeks, his lips were compressed, and his black mustachios imparted a still sterner, and more terrible appearance to his face. He wore the aspect of one whose resolution was taken to do a desperate deed, and whose nature still refused consent and revolted at the thought, like him who sacrifices to principle, and is doomed to drain a cup that makes humanity shudder.

He had directed the schooner to be steered in the course which the ships bound for England generally take, and men were stationed on her tall and raking masts to keep watch. The day passed: night came; still the schooner held her course, and silence reigned on board. Not a sound was heard, save when the shrill pipe called to duty, or told the hour. The next day came, and with it the order to prepare for fight, still there was no vessel in sight. But the captain was not one to give orders in vain. He knew his vessel, he knew the currents, and could tell the precise hour when he would overtake a vessel of whose departure he was apprized.

The sun was just sinking in the horizon, when the man aloft cried out—

“Sail, ho!—to leeward.”

The captain stopped, and ordered his telescope; with that he discerned a speck in the distance, but far away.

“Keep her away,” he cried, to the man who was steering:—“ease your jib, foresail, and mainsail sheets, Gregoire;”—to the officer on duty; and the schooner edged off.

She sailed so fast that by midnight she was near the object that had appeared in the horizon, and which was now found to be a large ship gallantly careering over the ocean. Her white canvass shone in the moonlight, and the foam that gathered at her bows was brilliant with the phosphorescence of the Caribean Sea.

“Take in the fore-sail,” the captain cried; and that sail was immediately lowered.

The sailors were now all armed with pistols, poniards, and boarding pikes. As they stood grimly gazing on the ship before them, their black beards, red caps, and weapons, looked terribly dreadful, and the idea of some bloody deed could not but be suggested by their appearance.

The fife sounded a peculiar note, and all the sailors gathered at the foot of the schooner’s mainmast. Here may have been heard the low whisperings of comrade to comrade: there may have been seen the fierce eyes of some, flashing, as it were, in anticipation of something congenial. Some may have been observed to stroke their raven beards as if out of patience; others, leaned carelessly on their pikes. When they had properly formed, the captain stopped in his nervous walk, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his lofty and commanding person, said:—

“Associates, you have now another opportunity to revenge yourselves on the world. There,” and he pointed to the ship, “there you have the wealth of some trader, that has neither capacity to enjoy it, nor heart to use it. Remember how frequently you have wanted the morsel which he could so easily have spared, but which you never found. Remember your wrongs and now redress them; take what the world would not afford you. By the dawn of day we shall attack that ship. I expect nothing less than that which I have always found in you, give but your valour, and you shall have the booty—the reward of bravery. Go, rest yourselves until the morning.”

This short speech, he spoke in a clear, deep, and sonorous voice; while the features of the speaker seemed more eloquent than his tongue. The bitterest hatred curled his lip, when he delivered the first part, and animation glowed on his countenance, when he spoke of the bravery of his men.

“Bravo! bravo!” broke out in loud and deep echoes from the assembled crew. The sailors, one by one, returned to the foremost part of the vessel, not without having first cast an inquiring glance at the ship before them. Some betook themselves to their hammocks, and others sat together smoking their cigars and conversing, in a low tone, on the probable events of the approaching morning.

The night waned: and, at last, morning came.

The captain, who, after he had addressed his men, had given orders to the officer of the watch to keep the ship always in sight, but by no means to approach her more closely, had descended into his cabin, now re-appeared on deck. He walked up to the helm, looked first at the compass, and then at the ship that was still a-head of the schooner. The ship appeared now in all her greatness. She was a large merchant-man, apparently, deeply laden, but by no means an indifferent sailer.

“Hoist the foresail,” the captain said, and the sail was again put on the vessel, that seemed to feel it, for she now leapt over the waves like a snake on whose tail some passer-by had accidentally trodden.

“To your posts, my men,” the captain again said, and the shrill fife re-echoed his command.

With the silence of death every man took his station, every gun was manned, every halliard was attended to, while the sides of the deck were immediately lined with men, who were armed with pikes and axes in addition to their pistols and poniards.

It is difficult to imagine the rapidity and calmness with which these preparations were made. We must call to the assistance of our memory the movements of beautifully adjusted machines as they perform their parts, to form an adequate idea of the promptness and ease with which the hundreds of men on board the Black Schooner, executed their captain’s order.

The schooner now drew rapidly on the ship: she was light, and was a fast sailer, and fully felt the light breeze which was blowing at that early part of the morning. Not so with the ship pursued: deeply laden, and comparatively heavy, the light air had scarcely any effect upon her, and she was moving along but tardily. When the schooner had arrived within gun-shot from the ship, at the captain’s order, a gun was fired, and the broad black ensign, with the frightful device of death, ran along the signal-line.

The shot boomed athwart the ship’s bows, but she paid no attention to the signal; on the contrary, additional sails were immediately hoisted, and the vessel was kept freer from the wind. But the schooner still gained upon her.

The report of another cannon, from her side, echoed over the waters: still the ship kept her course. The captain spoke not a word, but looked with haughty calmness on the large vessel, as he stood lofty and erect on the deck, with his arms crossed over his breast. “Launch and man the boats,” he said, after a long space of time had been permitted to escape; a loud cheer, which they could no longer suppress, burst forth from the men. More quickly than we can describe, the hatches were raised, and two boats were immediately hoisted out into the water; twenty men cheerfully jumped into each, and stood ready for the order to shove off.

The boats were towed at the sides until the captain’s voice was heard—“Shove off and board,” he cried, in the same composed and stern manner. A loud cheer from the sailors in the boats, and their comrades on deck, echoed the order. The boats leapt over the long waves under the vigorous efforts of the men. They approached the ship. They stood up, pike in hand, ready to climb its sides.

“Pull, my men,” cried the officer in command, “we take her at once:” a flash was seen on the ship’s deck, a loud report was heard, and, as the smoke ascended, the shattered remnant of the first boat were seen floating here and there, and those who had been in it, and, a moment before, had longed so eagerly for battle, were scattered about on the water dead and horribly mutilated.

The discharge from the ship told with a fatal exactness: the gun, it would appear, had been loaded with pieces of old iron, nails, and everything destructive that could be found; and the charge swept away men and boat with a dreadful crash.

“Lay on your oars, my mates,” cried the officer of the second boat, fierce with anger at the destruction of his comrades: and in a few seconds she was alongside the ship.

“Board, board,”—quicker than thought the assailants climbed the sides of the merchantman, but not to land on deck: a dreadful conflict ensued. The men of the ship resisted valiantly, like those who knew they were fighting for their lives: the foremost assailants were dashed into the deep. They slashed at each other—attacking and attacked. The assailants handled their pikes with fierce and unbreathing vigour, but they seemed to make but little head against the men of the ship. Here and there a boarder was to be seen, to hang to the ship for a moment in his death-grasp, while blood and brain gushed from his cloven head to balance a moment in mid-air, and then fall heavily into the sea.

“Hurrah! hurrah!”—the cries of victory rose on board the British vessel, as assailant after assailant was precipitated into the deep, or sunk under the blows of the men on deck. Now the survivors rushed, for security, into the shrouds; now they clung to the ropes with teeth and feet, while, with their pikes, they kept at bay the opponents on deck. Like famished tigers, that would have their morsel or die, they fought, falling, dying, and almost dead: no shout, no word escaped them, but they did their work in terrible silence. On, on, the English sailors pressed. The shout of victory again rose; but three of the assistants remained—they were partly sheltered in the chains, and fierce as leopards at bay, they felled all that dared approach them; their companions were all cut down or driven over board; perspiration ran down their brawny breasts; blood and foam bubbled from their mouths; and, with eyes as dry and lurid as the famished Panther, they slashed at their hard pressing opponents. Suddenly a loud cheer was heard; it rang over the ocean like the roar of a distant cataract; the still resisting three heard it: a hoarse cry came from their parched and husky throats.

“The ‘Periagua,’”[1] one of them cried, and a long canoe-like boat was seen rapidly approaching from the schooner.

The captain of the schooner himself stood in the stern, cool and collected, with determination marked on every feature. The boat approached nearer and nearer—two strokes more, and she was alongside.

“Now save yourselves or perish:” so saying, the captain drew a plug from the bottom—the water gushed in—the boat began to sink; with the courage of desperation, the pirates sprang on to the sides of the vessel. Their swords glittered in the air, their pikes were worked with the rapidity of lightning, the shouts of the attacked, the yells of the pirates, the splash of the killed, as they fell headlong into the deep, rose wild and appalling on the ear.

The men of the ship received this new attack with firmness: but they had already fought long; they began to yield; their blows fell less rapidly.

“On—on!” cried the captain, and in a moment he himself was on the deck. With a wild yell the pirates followed. The men of the ship now cried for mercy: but the slaughter went on. Revenge directed every blow—every stroke carried death. The voice of the chief was at last heard above the confusion and death-cries.

“Enough: spare and secure your prisoners.”

The word arrested the sword that was raised to deal the last fatal blow, and stayed the pike that had destruction on its point. Every pirate gnashed his teeth because his vengeance was stopped—but who dared disobey?

“Cut the halliards:” ’twas done; and the masts of the ship in a moment stood bare, and she lay floating like a log on the waves.

The deck was crimson and slippery with blood; the sailors of the ship, that had defended her so bravely, lay in heaps, dead and dying.

The commander of the merchantman himself was stretched lifeless on the deck. He had rushed on the captain of the pirates as soon as the latter had gained the deck, and wielding with both hands a ponderous sword, made such a blow at him as would have cut him through; but by a slight movement the intended victim escaped the stroke, and before the commander could recover from the impetus of his own blow, the captain pierced him to the heart with his poniard. Without a groan he fell dead.

As soon as the ship was captured, the captain issued his orders to his men, that their wounded companions should be properly attended to; and the boat which, although it had been swamped, on account of its lightness, had not sunk, should be secured.

These commands were immediately attended to. The pirates forthwith picked up their disabled companions, that still clung to the wrecks of the first boat: or those who, as yet, grasped, in a desperate effort for life, the lower riggings of the ship of which they had laid hold in their fall from the bulwarks or the deck.

The hatches were raised, and they began to examine the cargo. The captain himself, with two sturdy sailors after him, descended the steps that led to the cabin.

Here were three persons apparently overcome with terror. A man of about middle age leant on the panelling of the cabin, with a long musket, surmounted with a rusty bayonet, in his hands, which trembled so much from extreme fear that they were utterly unable to raise the weapon which they sustained. On the floor lay a young lady in a swoon, while over her bent an aged priest, anxiously awaiting the appearance of returning animation.

“Mercy, mercy on us!” cried the first individual, as the captain entered the cabin; “take our money; I have gold there; yes, there is gold in my cabin: but, for God’s sake, spare our lives: for the sake of my children and my family, spare an aged man, whose blood can avail you nothing,” and the suppliant fell on his knees, still grasping the unavailing musket.

“Get up, man: kneel not to me,” said the captain, indifferently. The voice struck the prostrate man like an electric shock; with a sudden start he raised his head, and gazed at the man before him.

“What voice was that?” he cried, and passed his trembling hands over his brow; and like him who labours, by one violent and forcible effort of the mind, to recall a thousand widely distant events; or like him on whom dawns the recollection of some long-passed, but horrible deed, he remained fixed to the spot, with staring eyes and fallen jaws. Again and again, he passed his hands over his brow,—“it was her voice!—what do I hear?—what do I see?—No, it cannot be—yet so like her:—no—yes—yes;—it is—my son.” He started, like one in frenzy, from the cabin floor, and rushed on the pirate chief. The latter drew back.

“Keep away,” he said: “I am, indeed, your son!—secure that man,” turning to his men; and, while giving them this order, passed to the upper part of the cabin, at the same time casting a look of the bitterest scorn on him who had recognised him as his son.

So intent was the aged priest on watching the recovery of the young lady under his care, that he did not even raise his eyes from her face during the above unexpected recognition of father and son. But when the captain approached the object of his solicitude, he suddenly rose, and, throwing himself at his feet, implored him, in the most moving accents, to spare the innocence and honor of the young and helpless lady.

The captain, with what could be construed into a smile, bade him be re-assured.

“Fear not, old man,” he said, “for the innocence and honor of any one on my account; I value my time much, and cannot spare a moment of it, either to blight the innocence or rob the honor of damsels;—continue your attention to the young lady.” He then walked up to the seat at the top of the cabin table, and deliberately and coolly sitting down, ordered his men to search for the ship’s papers and bring them to him.

There was not much difficulty in discovering these, for the steward, who had carefully concealed himself in his pantry during the attack, seeing that there was no longer any bloodshed, now crept out of his hiding-place, and offered his services to the searching pirates, on condition that his life should be spared. By means of his assistance, the papers of the captured vessel were immediately rummaged out, and handed to the pirate captain.

He glanced over them for a time, and at length musingly said, as if speaking to himself,—“The owners are rich, and they can afford to yield up this cargo to better men than themselves.” He then delivered the papers to one of his men, and ordered the passengers’ luggage to be searched. In the trunks of these were found large sums in doubloons and other gold coins,—money that had, no doubt, been destined to the buying of many a European luxury.

The search went on; and when the cabin had been completely rifled of every thing that was valuable, the captain proceeded on deck, and was followed by his men, and the passengers, who were now prisoners.

The pirates had, by this time, thoroughly examined the cargo of the vessel, and had found it to consist principally of the staple productions of the West Indies—sugar and rum—together with a small quantity of other minor commodities, such as tobacco and indigo. A great portion of these light things was already collected on the deck, where the pirates were assembled, waiting for their chief.

“What has she?” inquired this personage, when he gained the deck.

“Sugar and rum, your excellency,” one of the officers answered, and remained in silence before his superior, awaiting his orders.

The captain seemed to consider awhile, and then replied: “Stay here, and retain a man with you.”

The men were immediately ordered to get the boats ready to shove off to the schooner. Whatever light things the pirates could stow away were put into them. The wounded of their party were carefully lowered, from the decks of the captured ship, into the boats. The sailors of the ship, that had survived the action, were placed in the bows of the Periagua; and the prisoners, who, with the exception of the individual who had recognized the captain as his son, were without restraint, permitted to sit in the stern-sheets with the captain; and the young lady, who had now recovered from her fainting sickness, received all the attentions which the most perfect civility could offer, and which were evidently shown with the purpose of smoothing down the strange position in which she found herself. The boats were pushed off from the ship, that was left, sluggishly rolling on the waves, under the charge of the two men.

The pirates shortly gained the schooner, which, during and after the action, continued to lie to the wind, at a short distance from the prize.

Lorenzo, in whose command she was left, when the captain headed the party of the Periagua, stood ready at the gangway to receive his superior. No noise was heard on board of the captured ship or the schooner since the fight: the bonds of the same marvellous discipline seemed, unknowingly to themselves, to control the pirates, even at the moment of victory and exultation; but when the boats came alongside the schooner, human nature, it would appear, refused to contain itself any longer: and those fierce men, who had abandoned the entire world for the narrow space of their small vessel, and the inhabitants of the vast universe for the few kindred spirits who were their associates—that had separated themselves, by their deeds, from the world, the world’s sympathy, and the world’s good and bad, that had actually turned their hand against all men, and had expected, as they had probably frequently experienced, that the hand of all men should be turned against them, could not restrain their feelings of welcome, and three loud and prolonged cheers resounded, far and wide over the silent ocean, as they were wafted, in undying echoes, over the crests of the heavy and heaving billows. As comrade rejoined comrade, their grim and bearded faces appeared to relax from their wonted habit of ferocity, under the influence of a prevailing sense of joy: such a joy, those, alone, can experience who have seen every natural tie break asunder around them—who have felt the heavy hand of a crushing destiny, or have been hunted and driven, by the injustice and persecution of friend or relative, to seek shelter in that desperate solitude, which is relieved, but, by the presence, and cheered, but, by the sympathy of the few, who, like themselves, have been picked out by fate, to suffer, to be miserable, and to be finally, cast forth from the society of mankind.

The captain endeavoured not to restrain the joy of his men; but he sat stern, collected, and unaffected as ever, in the stern-sheets of the boat. No sign of pleasure or displeasure was written on his features: but if any change could be read, it was the passing shadow of a deep melancholy that rested, for a moment, on his resolute brow. Perhaps the reminiscences of some bygone period were playing on his memory; perhaps the recollection of other days led him, in imagination, to some cherished spot, where he was wont to hear the joyful greetings of parent, friend, or lover. Perhaps the remembrance of that one moment, when, even the most unhappy, and the most perverse of men, feel for once, the soothing influence of those mysterious feelings of our nature, that melt, that soften, that gladden, and remain for ever in our recollection, the lonely stars of comfort in the heavy darkness of misfortunes. Perhaps the remembrance of such a moment, now flitted across the memory of the pirate captain.

Whatever was the feeling that cast its hue over his brow, like the passing shadow of a fleeting cloud, it came—in the twinkling of an eye, it passed away; and he remained, again, the inscrutable individual, that he ever was.

The captain, on gaining the deck of the schooner, ordered that the prisoners should be properly treated: “Let, however, that man,” pointing to the person who had recognized him as his son, “be kept in close custody.”

Having said this, he looked around him on the schooner, where the same order reigned as before the attack, and went down into his cabin.

The day was now nearly spent, the sun was setting red, round, and fiery, as it sets only in the tropics.

The light goods, which the pirates had brought with them from the captured ship, and the prisoners, were transhipped into the schooner. The boats were hoisted into their places. The schooner herself lay in the same position—motionless, under its counteracting sails.

Some time had already elapsed since the captain went below, and no orders had, as yet, been given for the night. The officer, whose watch it was, walked the deck in anxious expectation of commands.

The captured ship rolled at some distance from the schooner, and it was apparent that it was necessary to provide for her safety during the night that was now setting in.

The short tropical twilight had nearly passed away, and darkness was gathering on the expanse of the waters, when one of the negro boys, whom the reader may recollect, sought the cabin of the chief officer, and delivered to him the same ring by which, it may be remembered, he, once before, gained admittance into the captain’s cabin. As soon as Lorenzo received the ring, he proceeded to the after part of the vessel and gained admittance to his chief.

The latter was still in his dark uniform and was sitting by the large table that occupied the centre of the apartment. A chart was before him; by its side were, also, the papers which had been brought from the ship.

“Lorenzo,” said the chief to the officer, after pointing to one of the ottomans, “it is my will that our prize be manned, and sailed to St. Thomas, where we shall sell the cargo. To-morrow, we shall deal with our prisoners, and divide the spoils already gathered. Let a sufficient number of men be sent on board the ship to-night, so that she may be properly manned, in case of any change of the weather. Let the schooner, in the mean time, be kept lying to, under her jib; and let the prize remain in the same position—a quarter of a mile from us. At dawn of day, let all the men assemble on the main deck, and wait for me.”

The officer rose and bowed, to depart.

“Stop, Lorenzo,” resumed the chief, “drink some wine:” a spring was pressed, and immediately one of the boys in attendance brought in a richly cut decanter and the necessary accompaniments. Lorenzo and the captain, respectively, filled themselves a goblet and quaffed it off in silence; after which the officer left the cabin.

CHAPTER V.

Obedient to the commands of his chief, Lorenzo drafted a number of men from the crew, and sent them on board the prize ship. The Black Schooner was kept in the position ordered by the captain; the proper watches for the night were set, and those on board the vessel retired to rest.

At the dawn of the next day, a peculiar sound of the fife summoned forth the whole crew of the schooner. In the space of a few moments, above three hundred men lined the long deck.

With the habit of continual discipline, they fell into order so quietly, that the space afforded by the deck of that comparatively small vessel, did not for a moment seem filled by the multitude which gathered on it. The pirates stood accoutred in, what might be called, their holiday dress. Their red woollen shirts and caps were worn with some care; their sashes seemed more symmetrically folded round their waists, and the weapons which were stuck in them, seemed adjusted with more than ordinary attention; while their black beards, faces, and hands, presented that clean, sun-burnt, half-sea, half-land appearance, which we easily discover in the aspect of a sailor while on shore.

The appearance of the crew, as it gathered that morning, contrasted in a striking manner with that which it wore before the attack.

Before the action, the pirates stood like men who were too much engrossed with one idea—one passion—to be capable of any thought which was unconnected with that. Their red caps were drawn carelessly over their heads; their dress was that of men who could not afford a moment’s time to its adjustment, while the wildest ferocity sat on every line of their countenances. On that morning the absorption of mind had ceased; they seemed returned from the engrossing contemplation of the sanguinary and the terrible, to the softer feelings that lend to life those charms, which, empty though they be, still are sufficient to enliven its monotony, and sometimes even to smooth down its asperities. Their habitual fierceness, too, had yielded to the contentment by which they seemed animated, and their features were less rigid, and less ferocious.

The men had been assembled some time before the captain made his appearance: the change which was observed in their aspect, could not be read in his. He appeared the same, sternly collected, individual that he always was.

As soon as he appeared on deck, the officers respectfully bowed. The captain then seated himself on a deck-stool, which had been placed behind a small table for him. The boys, who always attended him, then deposited on the table several bags of money, and disappeared.

“My men,” he said, when he had been seated, “our booty in gold has been small, but we shall, no doubt, find a sufficient recompense for our toil in the purchase-money of the ship’s cargo, which it is my will to take to St. Thomas’ to sell. Six thousand and five hundred dollars is the amount of what we have got. This I shall divide among you, and forego my own share until a day of better fortune. Let the wounded approach.”

Those who had been but slightly wounded in the last engagement, and could bear the fatigue of walking, stepped forward. They received shares larger than those of their comrades in proportion to the injuries which they had sustained. Those who had lost a hand, an arm, a leg, or a foot, received four times the amount of booty; those who had lost an eye, a finger, or a toe, received twice the amount. When the wounded had duly been recompensed, the captain then addressed his men.

“Comrades,” he said, “it was our misfortune to lose some of our brave associates in the fight, let those who were the friends of the dead come forward, as I call over their names, and receive their share:—Diego—who is Diego’s friend?” One of the pirates stepped forward, and, raising his right hand, declared that he was Diego’s friend. The share which should have been that of the dead, was then delivered to his friend.

“Martin,” continued the chief, “who was Martin’s friend?” Another pirate stepped forward, and, raising his right hand, in the same manner, declared that he was Martin’s friend.

The captain went on in this manner, calling over the names of the lost comrades, and requiring to know their friends, until he came to the last of the men.

“Francis,” he cried, “Francis’s friend.” Two men simultaneously stepped forward, and, raising their hands, each declared that he was Francis’s friend. “How is this?” the captain asked, “it is not impossible to have more than one friend, but you know, my men, that it is the custom, on board this schooner, to have but one man to whom his friend may bequeath his share?”

The men then looked at each other: and each looked round at his comrades, as if appealing to them in testimony of his right to be considered the friend of the dead Francis.

“He was my friend,” each said, and looked again at their comrades, in corroboration of his claim; but the pirates uttered not a word in answer to this silent appeal.

“My men,” said the captain, “this has never happened here before: either Francis forgot his honor, when he charged both of you to be his friends, when dead, or one of you forgets his, when he asserts that he is Francis’s friend. Now, Francis is no more, and cannot answer for this; the responsibility of this breach of honor, my men, rests, therefore, upon you: one of you must lie.” The two men looked fierce when the chief coolly pronounced this word. “You know the law—choose your weapons—at six o’clock this evening you must fight: the survivor shall receive the share of Francis.”

A low murmur of approbation rang along the line of the assembled sailors, and the two pretenders to the favour of the departed pirate stepped aside.

After the shares of the wounded had been duly allotted, and those of the dead scrupulously delivered into the hands of their friends; or, if there were no friends of the deceased, carefully set apart for the purpose of having masses said for them, the lots of the other pirates were shared out to them.

The officers of the schooner received theirs first, and those who might be called the common seamen, theirs afterwards. When the distribution was completed, the prisoners and strangers on board were ordered to appear. First came the surviving sailors of the prize ship. Out of the complement of thirty-five men, who had formed the crew of that vessel, five only had escaped death in the engagement. These came forth, pale and haggard, expecting, apparently, to hear every moment the dreadful command which, in some horrible way, should put an end to their existence. The five English sailors, with the exception of one, whose years might be more mature, were in the prime of life, and wore that hue of health which their calling imparts: howbeit the anxiety of the position in which they were placed had had its temporary effect on them.

They approached the captain with an air of uneasiness, turning their hats about in their brawny hands, while divers bumps might have been observed to rise now and then, and disappear immediately on their weather beaten cheeks: probably they were the various protrusions created by the quid, while it went through the many revolutions in which it was then twisted.

“What were your wages, by the month, men?” inquired the captain, when the English sailors stood before him, bending on them, at the same time, one of his searching and stern looks.

The sailors looked at each other, then at the captain, and then at each other again, and could not, apparently, be bold enough to reply, lest the question might, eventually, prove to be some trap by which it was intended to ensnare them into some confession or other that would tend to aggravate their sufferings. The captain neither showed signs of impatience nor renewed his question, but remained still, looking stedfastly on the sailors, with the cool composure of one who does not wonder that others should feel embarrassed in his presence; but, on the contrary, expects a degree of confusion on the part of those who are addressed by him. The oldest man of the five, however, at last spoke and answered:

“Three pounds a month, your honor,” raising his hand, at the same time, to the part of his head where the brim of his hat should have been, if that necessary cerebral protection had happened to be in its proper place at the time, and not in his hands.

“Have any of you received any advances on your wages?” again inquired the captain.

“Half of a months’ wages have been paid at home, your honor,” answered the old tar, of which answer, when he had duly delivered himself, he looked anxiously round at his four companions respectively, and seemed to inquire, “what will this lead to?”

The captain drew from a purse several pieces of gold, which, when he had divided into several small sums, he gave to the sailors.

“There are your wages,” he said, as he tendered the money to them, “for the five months that you have been on the voyage, we give, and do not take from such as you.”

The sailors looked bewildered. They could scarcely believe their ears, and they cast glances of amazement at each other. Even the appearance of money, it would appear, could not re-assure them; they put out their hands to receive the tendered wages like men who were afraid to receive something that was given lest danger should be attached to it.

“We shall land you on the nearest head-land,” continued the captain, “in the mean time, you may enjoy your liberty. If any of you wish to join my men, you can do so. The rules of the ship are few: I require but one thing—obedience. Death is the penalty of the least breach of discipline.”

Having said this, the captain waved his hand, and the English sailors fell back behind the assembled crew.

The master fisherman and his men were next brought forward. They had by this time become perfectly at home in the schooner. The master fisherman found that the life, which he would be likely to lead on board would suit his Spanish blood, and Spanish character, well. Down to that time, also, he had been well treated.

It is true, the discipline of the schooner had appeared to him, accustomed as he was to the free and independent life of one of his calling, rather hard and unbearable; but the good companionship, and the profits of a pirate’s life were sufficient, in his estimation, to outweigh that inconvenience. As for Jack Jimmy, and his other man, they, too, had familiarized themselves with their position: the latter seemed to care but for little, in this world, beside the luxury of eating, drinking, and sleeping. He found the schooner capable of furnishing him with those three things, and was not, therefore inclined, like the generality of mortals, to grumble about more, when he already enjoyed the three elements of his happiness.

The former, Jack Jimmy, it is true, was of a less contented, and more restless disposition; and the order and monotony of the schooner, to say nothing of the continual fear in which he had at first been kept, by the mystery of his novel position, tended to make him long for his own cabin; or, at best, for any other situation but the one in which he was then placed. He became, however, by degrees more satisfied, the longer he remained in the schooner; for, he was not ill-treated in the first place, and the tricks which the men played upon him, the voyage, and the other things—except, perhaps, the fight—which had happened since his arrival on board, contributed, in the second place, to afford that excitement which, it would seem, his nature craved.

As the master fisherman appeared, the captain delivered to him a purse, and said:

“That will compensate you for the time you have lost: you will be landed soon, you, and your men.”

Jack Jimmy had followed his master, or rather had been thrust forward with him, in a state of nervous trepidation. The movements of the little negro were as brisk and as rapid as those of a monkey. His head turned on his shoulders like a weather gauge in a storm, while his large white eyes were stretched open to their utmost width. His head seemed to be turned forwards, sideways, and backwards at the same time. One would have said that while he looked before him, he was afraid he should be struck backwards, or sideways; while he looked sideways, that he should be struck either from before or behind; and while he looked backwards, he was afraid that he should be struck from before or from the side.

He was going on thus, like an automaton in violent action, when the sound of the captain’s voice fell upon his ear. He seemed, at that moment, struck motionless. He fixed his eyes on him, lowered what supplied the place of eyebrows, opened his mouth, threw his head and neck as far forwards as he could, and remained rooted to the spot in deep examination of the young man before him.

This did not last long; for, with his, usually rapid movements, he threw himself at the foot of the captain, before he had quite finished the few words which he had addressed to the master fisherman, clasped his knees franticly in his arms, and yelled out,—“Garamighty! da ee—da ee—da me young massa.”

Jack Jimmy sobbed aloud, as he the more tightly clasped the knees of the captain. The latter looked down calmly and coolly on the little man, seemed to recognize him, but said not a word to him.

Pained by the apparent forgetfulness of his young master, he raised his head, and, looking imploringly up to the captain Jack Jimmy cried out, piteously:

“You no know me—you no know me, massa—you no know Jack Jimmy—you no ’member Jack Jimmy in de mule-pen—you—”

“Yes, I do recollect you, Jack Jimmy,” interrupted the captain, “but you must neither make such a noise here, nor continue where you are.” He made a sign with his hand, and two men stepped forward and led away the affectionate Jack Jimmy.

“Ah! my young massa,” continued the affectionate negro as he was taken away, “ee bin da gie me cake—he bin da gie me grog—an when dey bin want foo beat me ee bin da beg foo me.”

When Jack Jimmy had been led away behind the assembled crew, and had been prevailed upon to become silent, which change did not take place in him until he had been threatened to be again rocked in the sail, the priest and the young lady were, in their turn, led forth. The former, although it was perceptible that he anticipated the gloomiest results, still had a resigned and serene air. He looked calmly on all that had taken place that day, and, perhaps, there might be read in his eyes a certain expression of surprise, that the pirates did not at once act with that blood-thirsty ruffianism which he had been accustomed, from his earliest schoolboy readings, to attach to men of that abandoned life.

The young lady was, naturally, much more affected by the circumstances of her situation; kindness, however, had not been spared to reconcile her to it as much as possible.

Lorenzo had been strictly enjoined to show all marks of attention to her; and he seemed not to have required the positive command of his chief to do so: for she had at her command the chivalrous devotedness, which great beauty always draws from even the most stoical of men. She was exceedingly beautiful; such a species of beauty that we meet only in the tropics,—a beauty which we can compare to no known standard: something that belongs entirely to the warm clime by which it is produced; something that is more of the fanciful than of the real. She was of a middle age, slender, and of a perfect figure; her features were delicately and nicely chiselled; her complexion was of the clearest white, tinged with the slightest olive; her dark brown hair hung over a high and nicely moulded forehead, while her dark gazelle-like eyes imparted to her face a character of tenderness and softness.

The officer had exhibited the greatest solicitude on behalf of the fair captive from the moment she came on board the schooner; and now, when she stood on deck, weak and nervous, he might have been observed, from time to time, stealthily to give her as much assistance as the rules of the vessel permitted, and to pay her, perhaps, more attention than even the commands of his chief could have been intended to require of him.

When the priest and young lady stood before the captain, he spoke but very few words to them.

“You will be landed,” he said, as he looked at the two persons, “with the others, on the nearest cape.”

He waved his hand, and the captives were led away.

Lastly, the man who was found in the cabin of the captured ship, armed with a musket, and who had called the captain his son, was then led forward. Unlike the other prisoners, he was strictly guarded, and seemed to be treated with a severity that was the very opposite of that moderation which had been so generally and unexpectedly shown to the other prisoners that were in the same situation with himself.

The captain cast a stern and penetrating look on him, as he was brought before him, and said, in his stern indifferent manner:

“Prepare, to-morrow, for your trial; you know your crime.” As he said this, he waved his hand.

The prisoner seemed tongue-tied for awhile, his countenance betrayed the most despondent fear; he seemed to become conscious, at once, of some great offence, under whose weighty recollection his whole faculties appeared overwhelmed.

He stood before him whom he called his son, and seemed to entertain for him more fear than any of the stranger prisoners who could claim no relationship or parentage to move his pity or secure his forbearance. He could not utter a word for the short moment that he stood before the captain, but when the pirates, who guarded him, laid their hands roughly upon him, to pull him away, the fear, the surprise, the consciousness which, till then, had deprived him of speech, lost their power under the influence of the terror that now seized him.

“But—what—what is my offence? how dare you? My own son, to—” here one of the sailors, who guarded him, threw his sash over his head, and bound it so tightly behind, that not even a murmur of the unfortunate prisoner could be heard, as he was led away to the foremost part of the vessel.

The chief now rose and retired. The crew silently returned to their own quarters, and the Black Schooner which, a moment ago, was full of animation, was now left again quiet and apparently solitary, gracefully riding over the sparkling waves under her jib and half-mainsail.

CHAPTER VI.

The captain had retired from the deck of the schooner but a short time, when the sounds of the gong, which was the usual instrument for announcing a day of pleasure to the sailors, echoed over the vessel. The sounds were received with joy, and, in a short time, the deck of the schooner again presented the scene of life, which it had done but a few moments ago, but which had been momentarily succeeded by the contrasting stillness of death.

On this occasion, however, the sailors were not standing in the stiff restraint of discipline and duty, as then, but they delivered themselves up to enjoyment with all that impetuosity of pleasure, which strict constraint and proper separation of relaxation from labour necessarily produce. No boisterous mirth, nevertheless, obtained among them now, as on the other day. They were occupied in either speaking about the prize-ship, and the prospect of their booty, or in speculating upon the enjoyment which their share of the mornings’ division would procure them, when they should be allowed a day’s sport in some friendly harbour. The liquors, which they had taken on board of the ship, circulated freely around, and the choice tobacco which had also fallen into their hands, contributed largely to their gratification.

The English sailors, who had been induced to make themselves easy by the forbearance with which they were treated, and had been invited by the pirates to mix in the merriment, joined freely in the carousals of the day. By that mysterious sympathy which instinctively exists between people of the same country, and children of the same soil, they had been drawn together around Jim Splice, and were now expressing their surprise at what they had seen, and experienced on board the Black Schooner.

“Ay, ay, shipmates,” said Jim Splice, in answer to them, “you have come from a far country, hav’nt you? ha, ha! you thought you were done for, eh? when you saw our pikes, and our skull and bones; ha, ha! my hearties, you did’nt know us: and, when you came on board, you expected to be made to walk the plank, eh? We don’t look for men’s lives—what booty does that give? we look for something better; and if you, or that stupid skipper of yours was’nt foolish enough to fire upon us, why, we would have taken your money and your ship, to be sure, but those comrades of yours, that have now gone to their reckoning, would be here now, to take a glass of grog with old Jim Splice. But, by G—d, that was a reg’lar rattler that you gave the first boat—I never seed the like. It was foolish, though; what could your skipper gain by that?”

“Why,” replied one of the sailors, “you see we had but one gun to fire salutes with, and our skipper had it loaded with all kind of material, and pointed it himself. He thought, you see, you would have cut away after the first discharge, you see.”

“Then, by G—d,” replied Jim Splice, “he counted without his host, my hearty; no one has ever seen the stern of this here Black Schooner,” striking the deck on which he sat, with his hand, “as is commanded by that ere captain you spoke to this morning; and you may take my word for that, I know. That man that you saw this morning, I tell you, is the very devil, when his blood is up; he fights like a tiger—a reg’lar tiger.”

“But, who is that old lubber that looked so miserable this morning—him who was guarded?”

“We don’t know much of him,” answered one of the sailors, “but I have heard our captain say that he was a rich old codger. I know he sent on board as many hens and sheep as would keep us on fresh provisions all the voyage if it had’nt so happened as we were taken. But why was he guarded that way?”

“Hum—no one knows,” replied Splice, “I guess there is some misunderstanding between him and our captain; if so, God help him! for those who have misunderstandings with our fire-eater never get on well, I know; old Jim Splice would’nt be in that lubber’s ducks for the richest West Indiaman that ever carried sugar, I know.”

Here Jim Splice remained silent for a few moments, during which time he seemed to be wrapt in serious reflection.

“By G—d,” he continued, “I was saying, yes—yes—I saw him once—ay, our captain, punish a shipmate that had’nt obeyed orders, and I sha’nt forget that, I know. Those that sail well with our captain are treated like his children, but God help those who cross him in his tack, all young and quiet as you see him!”

Splice became again silent, and looked absorbed, as if his memory was returning to some bygone scene in his chequered life.

“But, my hearties,” he said, when he had been silent for a considerable time, “will you go ashore, or remain with us? This is the schooner for any man of spirit; by G—d! I should’nt leave this ere craft if they would give me the finest palace to-morrow. Here we lead the lives of men—ay, tough brave men—ay, no lubberly coxcomb to make us jump about, or talk to us in oaths, by G—d, no. Every man here is a man; he has only to observe discipline, that’s all, no mistake there, my boys; overboard with any one who does’nt keep the rules—ay, this is the craft, my hearties. But what is the matter there?” as he said this, he pointed towards the bows of the vessel, where three men were standing, and seemed to be objects of attraction to all the other pirates, for the eyes of the whole crew were turned towards them. “Ah! I see,” observed Jim Splice, “it is my two shipmates of this morning, that are going to fight it out. That’s a bad business: we never see things of this sort on board this here craft; two men never claim the share of a dead comrade.”

It was, as Splice had justly remarked, the two men, who had claimed the portion of the departed Francis, under the pretence of being his friends. The other person, who was standing by them, was the officer of the watch, whose duty it was to see the order, which the captain had given in the morning, carried into effect. As soon as it was six o’clock, he had proceeded forwards, and reminded the parties that the time for the duel had arrived. He found the two men, who were about to join in deadly fight, drinking with their comrades, apparently thoughtless of the bloody deed which they were now bound, by the order of the captain, to execute. One of them, however, did not seem as gay as usual, although he made strong efforts to conceal the thoughtfulness which now and then shewed itself in his dull and uneasy manner. It might be imagined that some serious thoughts of parent or child were forcing themselves on his unwilling memory; or, perhaps, remorse for some deed that was horrible even to his piratical conscience was at that moment haunting him.

When the officer had reminded the two men that the hour was come, they proceeded with him to the bows of the schooner.

The officer placed himself by the combatants with the evident purpose of being a witness, or, rather, the witness, to the deed.

The two men, who were to fight, proceeded in the mean time to prepare for the combat. They undid each his sash, and folded it carefully round his left arm, examined the edges of their poniards, and placed themselves in attitude, with the left arm raised, as if supporting a shield. This was done with the most astonishing coolness, not a word was spoken between the antagonists, not a malignant or malicious glance escaped from either the one or the other, but the features of the two men that faced each other were locked in that grave fierceness which is too deep to be expressed by changes of the countenance.

Having completed their preparations, the intended combatants stood for a time inactive, each apparently expecting the assault of the other, and displaying in their manly attitude the muscular fulness, bold glance, and resolute eye, which we admire in the statues of the ancient gladiators that art has bequeathed to our contemplation. They seemed by no means eager to assail each other; they evinced not the impetuosity of men who rush on each other in the out-burst of their rage: they seemed to be about to do something which they were, indeed, obliged to perform, but from which their natures revolted; their blood was too cold for the deed; the small portion of a dead comrade was too little to fire their spirits and spur them headlong on each other. Still they were obliged to fight. When both had stood, however, in this manner for a long time, the one who in the morning had first claimed to be Francis’s friend, suddenly rushed on his antagonist, and raising his poniard on high made at his opponent.

By a sudden movement of the body the latter avoided the blow; as quick as thought the other drew himself up in his former position, and before his antagonist could regain the equilibrium which he had partly lost by bending his body to avoid the blow, he aimed a deadly stab, and the glistening poniard descended in sure destruction on the left breast of the stooping antagonist; but a dexterous parry with the muffled arm averted the blow, and the poniard passed harmlessly through the scarf. The apathy or indifference which existed at the beginning had now passed away, and the fight began to warm. The two fighters plunged with desperation at each other, but both seemed equally expert in the use of their weapons. With the agility and the pliability of serpents they avoided each other’s blows by the rapid movements of their bodies, while their feet scarcely moved from the place in which they were at first planted. On—on they rushed at each other, but in vain: they were well matched. The fight now became still more animated; anger, rage, disappointment, could now be read in the grim faces of the combatants; their nostrils distended wide with fatigue, the perspiration poured down their dark faces, and their lips, curling high with rage and scorn, exhibited their clenched teeth, white and glistening beneath the shadow of their black mustachios.

With a dreadful thrust, one at last buried his poniard deep into the neck of the other.

Exasperated by the cut, the wounded man made a desperate rush on his antagonist, who bent his body a little to the side and gave way to the assailant. Borne away by his own impetus, and already weakened by the wound, he staggered forwards a little, and fell flat on his face. The victor waited for a moment for his antagonist to rise, but the unhappy man had received his death-blow, and remained prostrate on the deck. The other, after this, did not seem to take the slightest notice of his opponent’s fall, but proceeded with coolness to unfold his sash from around his arm and to wipe his bloody poniard. The officer on duty immediately went to the assistance of the fallen man, and summoning two of the men of his watch, ordered him to be removed from the deck. The two sailors bent over the wounded man to lift him, but they were sullenly repelled. He was the pirate that had claimed the share last.

“Leave me,” he sullenly cried, “leave me, I say; let me die here.” The sailors drew back.

“Come, comrade,” said the officer, “you cannot expect us to let you remain here—remove him, my men.”

The sailors endeavoured again to lay hold of the man, but, with the impulsive strength of death, he brandished his poniard about him and kept them away.

“Let me die here, and be damned to me!” he exclaimed, “I was not Francis’s friend, and I have deserved to be killed this way,” and he churlishly dropped his head on the deck.

The sailors, who stood around the dying man, were surprised and shocked by his confession, for no instance of such base falsehood had ever been known before on board the Black Schooner. A strict sense of honor was maintained among the pirates. This was not only enforced by the stringent laws which existed, but was cheerfully cultivated by the men themselves, from motives not only of obedience, but self-preservation, for they were fully persuaded that the least breach of honesty among themselves, would be the end of their individual security, and the dissolution of their society.

Besides, to men of such dispositions, accustomed as they were to act openly and to hazard their lives boldly, such acts of calculating meanness were naturally disgusting.

It may be said that the very illegitimate pursuit in which they were engaged was itself dishonesty, but it is to be recollected that they considered piracy not in the shocking light in which better and more delicate minds justly view it; but they looked upon it more like adventures, in which men of spirit could engage with as much honor, as in fighting under the banners of stranger kings, for the purpose of conquering distant and unoffending peoples. They viewed, therefore, this act of meanness, on the part of the fallen man, with disgust, and the commiseration which was at first so spontaneously shown as to an unfortunate party in a duel, was immediately withdrawn when the dying man disclosed his crime.

The officer who witnessed the combat, upon hearing the confession, proceeded immediately to Lorenzo and reported the circumstance. That officer heard him with much concern: he knew the extreme penalty that was attached to such an offence, and his heart was sickened at the thought of an execution. He listened to the report of the officer until he had finished, and remained silent for a time, apparently meditating either intercession or some other means of avoiding the fatal punishment which he well knew the crime of the man would entail. Every hope, however, seemed to give way in succession, for, after he had remained silent for some time, he said, shaking his head:

“I wish to Heaven that man had never come on board the schooner, or that he should have died, at least, with his own secret. I shall communicate these things to the captain: but I pity the poor fellow.”

Accordingly he left his cabin, and got access to that of the captain, when he repeated the report of the officer on duty. The captain heard him with the same grave and apparently apathetic coolness which characterised him, and then repeated, in his deep sonorous voice, the fatal sentence—“Let the punishment be executed upon him.”

While Lorenzo was communicating the latter part of the intelligence, there might have been discovered a slight falter in his voice, and some embarrassment in his manner. He seemed to tremble at the consequence which such a short sentence would produce, while he himself was under the sad obligation of pronouncing the words which would bring about the fatal results that he seemed to dread so much. He, however, had managed to inform the captain of the poor man’s crime, and he still hoped that the circumstance of his being already at the point of death, from the wound which he had received, would suspend the punishment which he but too well knew would follow that which, in the Black Schooner, was accounted the highest guilt.

Lorenzo, therefore, anxiously watched the countenance of his cold and stern commander, in the hopes of being able to read in the expression which his report would produce, something that would lead him to believe that the unhappy culprit should be spared the horrors of an execution, when the hand of death seemed to be already laid so heavily upon him. But the features of the captain changed not: it is true, the minutest scrutiny may have detected a transitory alteration in the eyes, but that was more terrible than assuring. It lasted but for a moment, the face wore its own cold severity when the fatal “let the punishment be executed upon him” was pronounced.

Lorenzo silently rose, bowed, and retired. No man ever pretended to advise the chief; he seemed one who held counsel but with himself, he carried his discipline and his doctrine of expediency so far, that he never permitted either the suggestions of his officers, nor heard the prayers of mercy when once his commands were issued. Lorenzo knew that: more tender than his pursuit should have made him, he felt deeply for the wretched man who was doomed, that hour, to die for the satisfaction of the rigid laws of the schooner.

When Lorenzo left the cabin of the captain, he went on deck, where he gathered the men about him. These had continued in their places during the duel and the scene which ensued, apparently unaffected and unmoved by what was passing before them. During the most animated part of the combat, they had become as silent as if they were dumb, while their eyes were rivetted on the two who were fighting. But as soon as the duel was over, they fell again into the strain of mirth and revelry, which had been for a short time suspended, and the stabs and passes of the late combatants became the subjects of an animated conversation and of criticism.

But as soon as the wounded man had made known his crime, a general indignation seemed to seize the pirates.

They talked low and sullenly, and appeared to expect every moment something whose anticipation already had the effect of damping their hilarity.

Lorenzo repeated to them, for the sake of form, that which they already knew, and then repeated the sentence of the captain. The pirates spoke not a word, but a deep silence reigned among them. The officer of the watch was then requested to cast lots among his men for two who should execute the sentence. The two on whom the lot fell, preceded by the officer, shortly came up to the wounded man. They seemed very much dissatisfied with the duty that had devolved upon them.

The officer bent over the wounded man and reminded him that he had violated the most binding of their laws, and, at the same time, had exposed the life of a comrade to his own poniard, when he knew all the while that he had no right to contend for the portion which had been bequeathed by one dead comrade to another. He repeated the usual sentence passed in that case, and stated that the captain had also ordered its execution, and told him that within a few moments he should no longer live.

“Have you,” he asked, in conclusion, “any request to make?”

“No,” answered the wounded man, with the same sullenness as before.

The two men now raised the culprit on the bulwarks of the schooner. One of them supported him there, while the other proceeded to attach to his legs two cannon-balls, which were strongly tied up in pieces of old canvass. The culprit watched these preparations with the most unmoved indifference and most sullen cynicism. By this time he had lost a great quantity of blood, and his face was horribly pale and haggard, and wore under the shade of his malignant eyes an expression of deep malice, accompanied with a spiteful feeling against all men on account of the disappointment he had met, and the discomfiture which he had experienced in the fight. He spoke not a word; not a tender feeling seemed to warm his heart at that moment. The many years which he had, no doubt, passed among those from whom he was on the point of being cast away for ever, seemed not to recall to his gloomy recollection one single happy, or convivial moment which he might fondly contemplate; nor did the remembrance of some distant friend, of mother, or sister, or of wife, appear to force itself upon the man, whose moments were now numbered; but stolid, cold, and sullen, he lay on the bulwarks—on the brink of his existence.

The chest and other effects belonging to him were now brought and placed also on the rails. To them were also attached cannon-balls, and they were supported in that position by one of the men who seemed to await the orders of the officer.

They had not to wait long: the officer made a sign, and the wretched man, with his effects, was precipitated into the deep. A few bubbles arose to the surface, and the ocean rolled on over the executed pirate. Not an eye followed the splash, not a pirate looked where the waters had settled for ever over their victim, but the crew seemed to erase, at once, from their recollection the existence of their late dishonest comrade. They still sat at their cans, but the elasticity of the revelry was broken, to those grim men themselves such a death was solemn: the recent execution damped their spirits, and their pleasure was no longer like pleasure. The men and the officer returned to the duties of their watch. The sun sank in the horizon, night came, silence resumed its wonted reign, and the Black Schooner rode in the stillness of the deep over the long lazy billows of the Caribean Sea.

CHAPTER VII.

As soon as the sun had risen the next morning, the crew was again summoned to the main deck. They appeared, as on the day before, in their best costume, and fell into the same order.

The seamen, who belonged to the prize-ship, together with the master fisherman and his men, were placed by themselves, while the priest and the young lady were, as a mark of distinction, accommodated with deck-stools apart.

As soon as the men had assembled, the captain made his appearance on deck. He was appareled in the uniform, which it would appear he always wore when he was out of his cabin: the deep red cap, with the skull and cross bones, also covered his head. The expression of his features, if possible, was that of even more gravity than usual, and the melancholy cast which stamped that gravity was, perhaps, somewhat more deepened. He seated himself immediately on a chair, which was ready there for him, and ordered the prisoner who, the day before, had been dragged away to close confinement, to be brought forward.

This individual was immediately escorted from the forward part of the vessel, and placed in the space reserved within the two lines of pirates, and face to face with the captain.

The prisoner was a man somewhat above the ordinary height, of a demeanour which might have once been, to a great extent, commanding, but which seemed to have parted with whatever of native dignity it possessed, in proportion, as the spirit of excellence and elegance, which usually imparts character to the exterior, gave place to thoughts either of sordid pursuits, or to mean and selfish cares. He was now slightly bent, more, perhaps, from carelessness to his gait than with age: for his years could not have been very many. His hair, that still grew thick and bushy, was only just beginning to show a silvery tinge. His features were marked and manly, and must have been, at one time, very handsome, though now they were stamped with a disagreeable appearance of coldness and selfishness, which was calculated to arouse, at once, in a stranger’s mind, a strong prejudice against the individual; while his sharp, twinkling, cozening eyes, in particular, that shone from under a veil of shaggy eyebrows, that flew from object to object, that rested on no man for a moment, nor dared meet the glances that they encountered, conveyed immediately an idea of the lack of that firm, unequivocating honor which is essentially necessary in the constitution of a proper character.

When the prisoner was placed before him, the captain fixed upon him a deep, penetrating, and earnest look, that made him cower, and then slowly and solemnly pronounced these words:—

“James Willmington, before God, and in the presence of these men, and in the name of Nature, I accuse you of having violated one of the most sacred and most binding of her laws; of having abandoned your offspring; of having neglected the being whose existence sprang from yours, and for whom you were bound by a holy obligation to care and provide.”

The captain paused for a moment, and still kept his penetrating and unaltering eye fixed on the prisoner. The latter, on hearing this charge, raised his eyes in affrighted surprise, but quickly looked down as he met those of the pirate captain, while his color came and went.

“You shall be witness against yourself: because, although I lately took proper measures to make myself certain, that you were the individual who was indicated as the person that was my father; still, not having ever known you, and not possessing any tender instincts to guide me with regard to you, I should have always felt some slight doubt about your identity, if your fear, and miscalculating cunning had not, the day before yesterday, unwarily betrayed you into an avowal which, I must admit, I was not ready to hear from your lips. These men shall be your judges. You will be permitted full liberty to express yourself, at the proper time, as freely as you may think proper, omitting nothing that you may believe to be conducive to your safety. I shall reserve to myself the part of passing sentence upon you and of directing its execution; and I promise you, that whatever defence you may be able to make shall weigh as heavily as lead in your favour: for I should be loath to punish you if even you can contrive to justify yourself.”

“But what is the meaning—?” the prisoner began to inquire.

The captain pressed his finger firmly on his lips, and Willmington was daunted into silence. The pirate captain then went on:

“I need not now call it to your recollection,” he said, “that I am your son. Your memory, which all along was so unfaithful on that point, seems to have suddenly improved, when you saw me in the cabin of the ship which I had taken, and then you remembered well that I was your son. By your own confession, therefore, I am saved the trouble of proving for my satisfaction the natural connexion which exists between us. It is, therefore, undoubted and settled, that I stand towards you in the relation of son to father, or, in other words, speaking more scientifically, I am your immediate progeny. This is clear. Now, by certain feelings which are implanted in us, and which are considered the laws of the Creator, written on the heart of man at his creation, we are admonished that the care of those who spring immediately from us, is one of our principle duties. But, as we are so apt to mistake habits for innate feelings, perhaps it will be better and safer, not to proceed on this one, however strong or indisputable it may appear. Let feeling, therefore, or instinct, be entirely eliminated, and let us appeal to Nature herself in her manifestations—to Nature that never errs. You admit that I am your son—your offspring; you owed me as such offspring, at least, protection until I was strong enough to provide for myself and to avoid injuries. Contrast now your conduct with your duty. You are aware, that from the hour of the birth of this, your son, up to this, you have never taken the trouble even to inquire what had become of the being of whose existence you were the secondary cause; whether the mother, of whom he was born, had survived to nurture him; whether he was exposed, in the helplessness of infancy, to the privations which overwhelm even maturer age; or, worse still than all, whether he had fallen into stranger’s hands, to be the humble object of capricious charity. You did not trouble yourself to learn whether the cold winds froze him in the very beginning of life; whether he was a prey to the beasts of the woods, or whether the vultures of the air had pecked or torn him, or had fed upon him; he was forsaken, and left unprotected by the person who had given him life—life, which with kindness is made happiness itself, but which by unkindness is rendered worse than the bitterest misery. The tiger will tear to pieces the bold intruder that menaces, nay, that approaches its cubs, and, fiercely fighting, will die for the protection of its young. The solitary bird of the desert will open its vein, and make its parched young ones drink of its life blood, then die; the venomous serpent will writhe and twist under the fiercest foe for its hatchling; but you, unlike the tiger, the bird, or the serpent, not resembling even the most ferocious brute, or the lowest reptile that crawls upon this earth, you cast away from you, and shut out from your mind and heart, until a cowardly consideration for your own safety made remember it, the blood of your blood, and the flesh of your flesh, which even the common affection that you have for yourself—your very essential selfishness itself—should have made you love and cherish; or, at least, feed and water. I am your son; I charge you with having abandoned me from childhood; what defence can you make? I give you ten minutes to reflect and to answer.”

The pirate captain then ceased: his eyes were fixed on the deck, his arms were crossed over his breast, and his features were locked in cold but firmest determination, and he had the air of one, who was resolved to go through a prescribed form with patience and precision. The men embraced the opportunity afforded by this pause to interchange looks one with the other. Their usual ferocious character of mein was heightened for the history which their chief had just partly related, no doubt recalled to the greater part of those men who stood that morning on the deck of the Black Schooner, the injustice, whether real or merely supposed, with which they had been treated by others. Victims to wrongs and injuries which others had heaped upon them, they had permitted their feelings to become cankered. Accustomed for the most part to the circumstances of an easy, and as far as some of them were concerned, an estated position, they could not in the hour of adversity, bend to the petty pursuits of life, while their pride, at the same time, would not let them lead a different sort of existence among those who were either their companions or their inferiors in their better days.

Turning their backs on pretended friends and unkind kindred, they had fled to the protection of the sea, where they could enjoy the doubtful comfort of their misanthropy to the full, and feed at pleasure on their own griefs; while their sword was ready to be used as well for pleasure as for booty, against the whole world to which they at the same time boldly and fearlessly gave defiance. The recollection of other days, however, fell upon their spirits, and how scared soever their sensibilities might be by a thousand scenes of blood, how hardened soever by long familiarity with misery, still those impressions to which in the day-dreams of their youth they had fondly bound their happiness, could not but be awakened by the tale that seemed to hold up to each of themselves the fleeting reflection of their own hopeful, but long since spoilt and blighted existence.

It was resentment, so strong as to have primarily germinated disgust in their hearts, and next a distaste for the society of their species, that had made them separate themselves from mankind and wander misanthropically about, until they eventually found themselves combined with others as unfortunate, as unenduring, and as proud as themselves; it was resentment of injustices of a similar nature to the instance to which their chief was a victim, that had changed their lot, and hating still the causes of their unhappiness, they were eager to wreak vengeance upon any individual to whom they could bring home any such offence. They interchanged fierce looks with each other, cast now and then dark and boding glances on the prisoner, and portentously stroked their dark and flowing beards. As for the prisoner himself, he appeared confounded; still there was not that vacant appearance of embarrassed simplicity about him which we generally observe in those that are innocent when unhappy circumstances put them at a loss. His was a distressing confusion—the confusion that conscious guilt, too clear to admit of even the shifts of equivocation and falsity had produced—a confusion that was doubled by the mortifying, degrading, and overwhelming fact, that his accuser, the witness, and the sufferer from his offence was his own son. The guilty father therefore stood dumb before the son—the judge.

The ten minutes had now elapsed, the captain raised his head, and said,

“Do you then say nothing in your defence?”

“I—I—I do not understand what all this means,” at last Willmington falteringly said.

“So much the worse” dryly observed the captain.

“You charge me with an offence,” continued Willmington, “which you make worse than it is; you must remember men are not punished in society for such offences, and I do not see why I should be ill-treated on its account, when others are not.”

An indistinct smile played about the lips of the captain, as he answered,

“That is no defence.”

“Beside,” Willmington went on to say, “what right have you to constitute yourself my judge?”

“The right,” answered the captain, “of an injured man, who avenges the wrong done to himself, and also to one who was his nearest and dearest blood, and whose memory demands justice.”

“But, by the laws, a man cannot redress his own wrongs,” said Willmington.

“By what laws?” inquired the captain.

“By the laws of the land,” answered Willmington.

A sneer was to be traced on the rude lineaments of every pirate’s face, when this answer was given.

“Look up there, man,” said the captain, as he pointed to the black flag that was floating gracefully from the half lowered gaff, “while that flies there, there is no law on board this schooner save mine and great Nature’s. Look around you, on the right and on the left, you see those who know no other laws but these two, and who are ready to enforce them. Look still farther around, you see but a waste of water, with no tribunals at hand, in which complaints may be heard, or by which grievances may be redressed. Place no hope, therefore, on ‘the laws of the land.’ Have you any thing more pertinent to urge?”

“I have to request,” replied Willmington, still more embarrassed, “to be landed with your other captives, that is all.”

“Is that all?” coolly observed the captain; then turning to his men, he said, “my men, you have heard my accusation against this man. He seems unable to defend and justify himself. It is my intention to punish him by making him suffer that which I have had myself to undergo. Be you witnesses that I have given him a fair and open trial.”

“Bravo, bravo!” ran in deep, but subdued tones along the ranks of the pirates.

“Listen to your sentence, James Willmington,” continued the captain, “you are guilty, in my opinion, of the greatest crime which an individual, as a man and a father, can commit. You have prostituted the law of nature to your own selfish gratification, perjured yourself, and given that life for which you neglected to provide and care. I have afforded you an opportunity of showing yourself innocent—if you could—of this grave charge. You have not been able to do so. The punishment I design you is this: you will be cast adrift on the ocean; you will have an empty cask to rest upon; you refused me bread—I refuse you shelter on board of my schooner; you are guilty of what we all on board this vessel abhor; you are, therefore, no proper companion for us, and you must be thrust forth from among us. I shall, however, take care that you should survive as long as possible, that you may be the more able to realize the pangs of that famine which I endured by your heartlessness. In two hour’s time the sentence shall be executed. Prepare to meet your Creator. Lead him hence.”

“Good God,” now cried the prisoner, his eyes seeming to be about to fall from their sockets with fear, as the full extent and reality of his danger, now clearly struck him, “good God, surely you do not mean to murder me: have mercy on me, I beseech you.”

The captain did not raise his eyes from a paper which he had taken from the breast of his uniform, and which he was then reading. “But,” continued the prisoner, as the pirates prepared to drag him away, “remember, I am your father, you owe me honour and respect—how dare you, raise your hand against your parent?”

The captain at these words suddenly raised his head, and cast an angry and steadfast look on the prisoner, and after the lapse of a few seconds, during which he kept his eyes still rivetted on him, he said, with biting scorn—

“Remember that you are my father! you ought to ask me to forget it. It is because I remember you are my father that I shall now prepare for you your just measure of suffering. It is very probable you never expected to be called one day to account by the son who was the fruit of a delightful indulgence, but which was to be considered no longer than during the short space which it afforded you pleasure. Very little do you, and such as you think, when in the turpitude of your perjured souls, you delude the confiding and helpless things who sin from too great a confidence in your protestations of honor, or rather, are too innocent to detect your falsehoods, that the beings to whom you may give life are things who like yourselves may possess feelings, and who may one day seek to avenge the treachery practised on their mothers. Selfish man! your selfishness pursues you at the very moment when your existence is in all probability about to end. You crouched to me, and sought to propitiate me by a show of paternal sensibility, when you saw me enter with my friends the cabin where you stood writhing in your terror, and to-day you again remind me that I am your son. Now your paternal feelings are very strong, and your memory remarkably faithful when you expect to save your life by remembering me. But you, of course, recollected nothing of me, nor were you so feelingly sentimental when I once wrote to you for the mite, which you would never have missed from your treasures. Your selfish artifice shall avail you nothing here. In two hours, as I have said, you will be cast adrift on the ocean. Men, lead him away.”

CHAPTER VIII.

Willmington was taken away and confined to the part of the schooner in which he had been kept since his arrival on board. The crew remained in profound silence, in the same order, and the captain was silently studying the paper which he had in his hand, and from the perusal of which he had a little before raised his head to address the prisoner.

After the lapse of a few moments, he handed it to Lorenzo, and requested him to have a machine made according to the plan set forth in it.

The chief officer bowed, and took it to the officer of the watch. The captain then slowly rose, cast a look around him on the ocean and at the prize-ship, then descended the cabin steps.

The men dispersed, and, in a short time, the deck remained in the occupation of those only whose duty it was to keep watch at that time.

At the bows of the schooner a carpenter was now to be seen busy at work. He was labouring in the greatest haste. Before him was a plan, and a young officer, the one in command, might be observed now and then to leave the sacred boards of the after-deck, and walk forward to inspect the thing that the man was constructing.

Two hours had now elapsed since the captain had passed sentence on the prisoner, and the time had now arrived to execute it.

The moments that completed the two hours had scarcely fled, before Lorenzo came on deck. He proceeded immediately to inspect the machine which he had ordered to be made, in obedience to the commands he had received.

The captain himself, a short time afterwards, made his appearance. The machine was ordered to be brought to the gangway, where he carefully examined it. It was made of an empty cask, to which something like the keel of a ship was attached. This appendage was covered with heavy sheets of lead, for the apparent purpose of being made to keep downwards, and so to prevent the machine from rolling over. The upper part was provided with a wooden seat, made in the shape of a Spanish saddle, the bows of which rose very high, and were crowned with a piece of flat board, which seemed intended to answer the purpose of a shelf.

When the captain had examined this machine, he ordered that a few biscuits should be secured on the shelf above mentioned, and, at the same time, commanded the prisoner to be led forth.

In the mean time, the deck had become again crowded, for every one knew what would take place at the end of the two hours, which had just expired. But the pirates were not now drawn up in the same order as before. They crowded in the foremost part of the vessel, some lounged on the bulwarks, others bent over the riggings, watching, in moody calmness, what was going on. No one dared assist in the preparations except those who formed the watch of the hour. The captive priest, also, with his beautiful ward, stood leaning on the taffrail of the schooner, isolated, as it were, amidst the many that were on board the vessel.

The prisoner was brought forward to the gangway. He was haggard and worn: the feelings of the two hours which intervened between him and that doom, which was worse than death, concentrated as they were into the intensest agony, preyed like gnawing worms upon his body.

“Hear my last prayer, for mercy’s sake!” he cried, with passion, to the captain, as he threw himself at his feet, “oh! spare me this dreadful death; give me but life, and I shall give you all I have.—Can you treat your father in this manner? Oh, my son—my good son—my beloved son! I shall give you all my property—if—”

“Bind his arms,” said the captain.

The arms of the prisoner were immediately seized; he resisted madly and violently, and, in the strength of desperation, he shook off the first pirate that attempted to lay hands on him. But he was quickly mastered, and his arms were tightly tied with small cord behind his back. The machine was now supported perpendicularly, and it resembled, as it stood in that position, a horse ready saddled.

The prisoner became still more agitated and terror-stricken when his arms were bound, and his cries were more piteous and heart-rending.

“Oh! ask mercy for me, my men,” he cried, imploringly, to the pirates around him, whose coolness seemed to mock his wretchedness, “I shall make you all rich; do not—do not throw me into the sea. Holy father, holy father,” looking towards the priest, “you may succeed, you may move him, you may curse him; ask mercy for me—do not let me be drowned.”

“Put him on,” the captain said.

The wretched man was lifted bodily, and laid astride upon the cask.

“Curses on you! do not—do not, for your soul’s sake, murder me,” he cried, and struggled like those who alone can struggle who see death before them.

But it was of no avail. The pirates seized his legs, and tied them tightly underneath the cask, so that the miserable prisoner had not the power of making any other movements except that of inclining his body a little backwards and forwards.

“Fix the tackles.” The tackles were adjusted.

“Fiends! hell hounds,” he yelled out, as the first strain of the ropes was felt on the cask, and laid hold of the pirate that was next to him with his teeth—another strain, and he held between his teeth a shred of the man’s woollen shirt.

The cask was hoisted up, to be let down overboard. The cries of the fated Willmington increased still more—he roared franticly. The cask with the prisoner balanced between the masts of the schooner for a moment, in cruel suspense, while not a sound was to be heard, except his hoarse, pitiful, and moving cries.

The pirates looked on with sullen calmness; the captain was the same imperturbable man. But the priest could not withstand this moving scene; he threw himself at the captain’s feet, and earnestly begged him to show mercy:—“mercy,” he added, “that was the most acceptable offering to heaven.”

“Good priest,” answered the captain, “if you can soothe the end of that wretched being, do so. But pray not to me, I never change.”

Slowly—slowly—slowly—the cask, with its living rider, who was shrieking like the damned, was lowered: it reached the water: the tackles were unfastened, and away, away, it slowly floated on the long high waves that bore it rapidly from the schooner.

The roars and cries of the prisoner rang over the silent sea. Every eye was rivetted in awful intentness on the cask and its burthen. The captain alone was turned away from the direction where his father lay pinioned on a cask at the mercy of the winds and waves. He cast but one glance on the cask as it was lowered into the sea, and never looked at it again.

Indifference—indifference, as cold and as icy as death, indifference, such as nature can admit but only when every fibre of feeling is burnt into hard callousness by the searing iron of some deep unpardonable offence, had wrapped its clammy folds around his heart.

Reader, have you ever felt the absorbing love that sank and merged your existence into that of a cherished object, and have you ever felt the gall of sneering ridicule from her? If you have, then you know the feeling that possessed the pirate captain. Have you ever demanded bread from a parent whom you may have loved to excess and received a stone, or have you ever asked water from the author of your existence and received poison? Then you can fancy the captain’s sentiments, or have you ever, while straining your industry and energy to the utmost, been ground down to misery and despair by him from whom nature taught you to expect love and protection, while he himself was rioting in profuse abundance? if you have, and we trust heaven has always preserved you from such a bitter experience, you can then realize the feeling which existed in the bosom of the pirate captain.

“Make sail,” the captain said to the officer of the watch, after he had cast a glance on the horizon.

The schooner which, during all this time, was lying to the wind under only a half of her mainsail and jib, was immediately put under the press of all her sails. She had shot a-head for some yards, when the captain gave orders to change the course.

“Ready about.”

“Ready about,” was echoed forwards in the firm disciplined tones of the sailors.

“Hard a-lee.”

“Hard a-lee,” the man at the helm answered.

The helm was put down, and the long snake-like schooner bore up gracefully to the wind, the sails fluttered for a moment, and she leaned smoothly on the other tack.

Like a dolphin she cut through the water; the spray played about her bows, and the waves barely touched her sides as she glided through them.

A signal had been made to the prize-ship, and she, too, was put under full sail.

Away—away—the schooner went, and left far, far behind, the wretched being who had been thrown overboard. He could scarcely now be seen, it was but when the cask rose and fell on the crest of the heaving billows that a glimpse could be had of him. But his cries still reached the flying schooner. They gradually grew fainter and fainter; then they came like the intermittent moans of agony, low, and few, and far between, and then they were heard no more.

The captain gave his orders to the officer on duty to steer a certain course and then left the deck.

The day had by this time passed, and the fleeting twilight of the tropics was yielding to the darkness of night. The crew of the schooner betook themselves to their respective quarters. But the priest and his ward still lingered on the deck. Their strained eyes were fixed in the direction where the cask and its load had disappeared, and fancied they saw, every moment, the unfortunate Willmington rise, now and then, in the dim crepuscule. But they watched in vain, and saw not what they imagined they did. Far, far out of sight was the cask already borne, and Heaven only knew whether the living being, that rode upon it, still drew the breath of life.

Saddened by the event of the day, they at length, in melancholy silence, left the deck, when the darkness had increased and had deprived them of the power of continuing their useless watch. Night, then, closed over the Black Schooner; and the faint ripplings of the water as she glided through, were the only sounds that might fall on the listening ear.

CHAPTER IX.

Silence reigned over the schooner. The pirates had retired to their hammocks, and all, except the men of the watch, were wrapped in sleep.

In his cabin, in the centre of the vessel, Lorenzo sat alone and pensive. The hour when he ought to have betaken himself to his berth had already long passed, but he still sat in his chair at the head of the table that stood in the middle of his cabin. He was still dressed in his uniform, nor were his arms even removed from the sash that bore them.

He sat gazing silently on the lamp which burnt suspended from the deck. One would have imagined he was in deep contemplation of that vessel, if the vagueness observable in the fixed gaze of his eye, did not too plainly tell that the subject of his thoughts, the object of his contemplation was not the thing which was at that moment before him, but some other which was in his mind.

The flying hours passed: Lorenzo was still sitting in his chair in the same absorbed contemplation. Now a placid smile would play over his features, now they would be locked in the fiercest sternness. There seemed to be in him at that moment a conflict of emotions deep and violent.

At last, as if he had taken a final resolution, “I shall do it!” he exclaimed. He then drew from a desk materials for writing and penned a letter.

When this was done, he took off his boots, put on his slippers, and enveloped himself in his thick boat cloak.

He then cautiously opened the door of his cabin, in which the light was carefully extinguished, and went out.

He proceeded down the long passage which led to the captain’s quarters, and in which opened a door that led to the cabins occupied by the priest and his beautiful ward.

Stealthily and quietly Lorenzo moved down the passage; a lamp faintly burnt at some distance from the entrance to the captain’s cabin, and by its dim light might be seen the dark outlines of the men who, at intermediate distances, guarded the corridor.

Lorenzo could not but feel some alarm when his eyes fell upon those tall forms, for he was conscious that he was treading on forbidden ground, where, to be found without the ring—the usual passport—was instant death. Such was the rigour of the discipline in which alone suspicion could hope to find security.

It is true he was not within the circle of the captain’s quarters, but, nevertheless, his being discovered in the passage at that time of night, and in such guise, would lead to consequences equally as fatal, as if he had trespassed on interdicted ground.

His careful concealment of his person, and the change of his boots, would have worn such an aspect of conspiracy in the eyes of his superior, that nothing could have been strong enough to blot out the distrust which the latter would ever afterwards entertain of him, if even the consideration of his services and old friendship should have proved strong enough to induce the captain to spare his life.

The thoughts rushed in an instant on the officer as he stood for a moment looking at the erect and steady sentinel at the end of the passage before him.

They fell on him with all the weight and dreadful truthfulness which they possessed. He remained for a moment irresolute, but at length the daring spirit which his mode of life had fostered, and that indescribable feeling people call love, but which is as incomprehensible as it is omnipotent in its influence, nerved him against the danger which he apprehended, and he took two or three steps forwards with the same caution with which he had come into the passage. But he had gone only a few steps when he saw that the attention of the sentinel was drawn in his direction. The latter had changed his straightforward look and was seemingly endeavouring to discover some object which had attracted his notice up the passage.

Lorenzo stood—his worst fears he thought were about to be realized. He saw at once the certainty of his being detected, and the consequences of that pressed on his mind.

The thought, too, which always afflicts ingenuous minds, when they are conscious that they are not culpable of an offence from which they instinctively recoil with horror, but with which circumstances conspire to charge them, fell heavily and miserably upon him.

The most desperately situated always hope—there is a hope almost in despondency itself; Lorenzo still hoped, in spite of the peril before him, that he would escape discovery. He knew that he could not be seen by the sentinel in the darkness of the passage, and expected that the latter would turn away, when he found that nothing was to be seen. Lorenzo, therefore, remained quietly where he was. The sentinel continued to gaze earnestly up the passage, and at last came out of his niche, and began to walk straightway towards Lorenzo.

“I am lost,” the officer said to himself, and at once made up his mind to stay where he was and surrender to the sentinel. The man came towards him, but there was such indecision in his walk, that the officer could not fail to perceive, at once, that the man on duty was only taking a walk to see if there really was any one in the passage, without being actually certain of his presence.

“There may be a chance of escape, yet,” he said to himself, and drew himself closely up against the side of the passage.

As the sentinel approached, his anxiety increased. The sentinel drew nearer and nearer: the officer drew himself up closely—and more closely; the sentinel was now but a few steps from him, he pressed still more closely on the side. Gently it yielded, and Lorenzo caught himself as he was just falling in the inside of a cabin.

With wonderful presence of mind, he closed the little door that had admitted him, and heard the heavy footsteps of the sentinel as he passed it on the outside.

With breathless anxiety he listened to the steps; he heard them diminish until the sentinel had arrived at the extreme end of the passage, and heard them grow more and more distinct as he returned at the same leisurely pace.

Again and again the man on duty passed his door; it was, therefore, clear that he had not been discovered; but, as his anxiety about the man outside diminished, new fears arose with regard to the place in which he found himself. How was it that the door of that cabin had been left open, when such regularity usually existed on board the schooner? Was there any one at the time in the cabin? if so, the same danger that threatened him outside would meet him within: for self-preservation had taught every officer, and every sailor of the Black Schooner, that their safety could consist only in the strict observance of its laws in their own persons, and the rigorous enforcement of them in others. Every one seemed to know, instinctively, that the chain which was so variously formed, could be preserved only by a careful protection of each particular link. Lorenzo knew if any one was in the cabin, and if he were there seen under such circumstances, the person would make it a point of duty to report it to the chief. His alarm, therefore, which had partly subsided, grew again upon him. He remained in the deepest silence and attention, listening to the steps of the sentinel outside, who was still patroling the passage from his niche to its extreme end.

He endeavoured, also, to listen for the breathing of any one that might be in the cabin, for he wisely concluded, that if any person was there, he must assuredly be asleep, or else he should have heard him when he accidentally tumbled in. But he heard nothing.

His anxiety, however, was not satisfied. He crept softly by the bed, and listened again, but still he could hear nothing; he passed his hand over the narrow berth, but there was no one there.

“Ah! I see,” the officer said to himself, “it is the cabin of José.”

It was the cabin of the officer who was then on duty, and Lorenzo breathed more freely; but his anxiety was soothed down for a moment only, for he immediately recollected that the night was already much spent, and that the watch on deck would shortly be relieved; his difficulty was thus in no manner removed. He reflected for some time, and concluded, in a sort of despair, that fate was determined to ruin him, and he calmly yielded himself up to the unfortunate destiny which seemed to pursue him that luckless night.

He calculated that within half an hour’s time the watch of José would have expired, and that he should surely be discovered when that officer came down to his cabin. There might be a chance—though a desperate one—of escaping the certain detection of the sentinel outside, although suspicion would inevitably be raised: but that was the less of the two evils that beset him. He resolved, accordingly, to wait until the watch on deck should be near expiration, and then to make a desperate effort to escape from his dangerous position.

He remained, then, standing by the door, on the outside of which the measured footsteps of the guard were still heard. The time passed away, and the sentinel still walked the passage. The watch was nearly expired and he was there still.

“All is lost,” Lorenzo said to himself, and then he drew up his cloak around him in that resolute manner that indicates the determination which, from its extremeness, becomes the kindred of despair; as he drew his cloak around him, something fell from it: it was the letter which he had written. He felt about for it in the dark until it was found. It seemed to revive the feelings which had begun to slumber under the absorbing solicitude for his own safety.

“Shall I have put myself in danger and still not succeed in sending this?” thought he, “what advantage do we derive from all our acquirements, our high and glorious reputations, our friendships, our exposures, and our perils?”—he hastily reasoned—“if we are driven by the necessity of preserving these to sacrifice the happiness which we fondly hope to realize from them? away vain and timid thoughts—I will hazard everything; but, happen what may, I shall send this.”

Having come to this resolution, Lorenzo waited until the sentinel had arrived at the head of the passage, and had, on his return to his niche, passed the door of the cabin in which he was concealed: he then opened it softly, and stepped into the passage: and, gathering himself up closely under its side, began to retire with as much caution as he had come in. He kept his eyes all the while fixed on the sentinel or his shadow, so that he might easily anticipate his movements, in case he was discovered.

He had reached the top of the large passage, and was about to take the one which led to his own apartments, when the footsteps ceased, and the man drew himself up as before in his niche. It was evident that whatever suspicions he may have entertained at first had now entirely vanished, and that the greater part of the continued walk which he took, was intended more for his own recreation than for the interception of any one who he might have suspected was trespassing on the circle of his guard, for he seemed to be entirely given up to his own reflections. Lorenzo stopped when he saw this; he mused for a moment, but his resolution was not long in being taken. He bent himself on his knees and hands, and crept down the passage again; he stopped several times to study the movements of the sentinel, all which times he seemed to be the more assured of his safety; he crept in this manner until he reached a certain door, and was now but a few yards from the man on duty. The latter seemed still absorbed in his own thoughts; Lorenzo drew the letter from his breast, and pushed it under the door. As he supported himself on one hand, in doing so, the vessel lurched, and the hand holding the letter struck against the door. The sentinel raised his head for a moment, but, concluding that it was the inmate of the cabin who had struck by accident against the partition, he relapsed into his meditative state.

Lorenzo drew himself carefully back in the same manner as he had gone forwards. When he got to the head of the passage, he jumped on his feet and hastened to his own cabin.

He had scarcely shut the door, when he heard the heavy footsteps of the officer, who had now been relieved, on the companion stairs as he descended to his cabin.

CHAPTER X.

On the next morning when Agnes—by that name the priest called her—the fair captive, was going towards the door of the cabin which was given up to her use, she beheld a sealed letter at her feet. After her first surprise had somewhat lessened, she remained standing for a time in deep reflection over it, endeavouring to conjecture whose it might be, to whom addressed, and what could be its purport. At last, being unable to restrain her impulse of curiosity, she took it up and saw that it was for her. But the superscription was in the handwriting of a man—and not that of her guardian.

What mystery could that indicate? What could it portend?

Before opening the letter, the beautiful young lady remained for a long time gazing on it, while at the same time she was led away into a train of strange and complicated thoughts. Could that letter be, she inquired of herself, the forerunner of some attempt that the pirate captain contemplated against her safety and honor? She trembled at the thought: she recollected that among the outrages and ravaging descents of the Boucaneers, their cold-blooded cruelties upon the sex were not the least of their horrible deeds; and should this captain now design to add her to the multitude of those of her condition, who had been sacrificed to the profligacy of similarly lawless men?... It is true, up to that time, she had been treated with an amount of respect and kindness that could not be exceeded even by the fastidious solicitude of the most polite, or by the benevolence of the most virtuous; and this captain seemed to be somewhat different from the heartless freebooters of whom she had heard: but might he not carry under that stern, and apparently callous exterior, designs which would be the more to be feared as they should be the more premeditated. If so, what chance had she of resisting him? Words would not prevail with him; entreaties could have no effect on him; for she had seen him send his own father adrift on a cask on the wide ocean, and every thing, and every one on board of that schooner seemed to give way to him and sink under his will: what could move him,—what protect her?

A blush suffused her beautiful face. She was inclined to fancy that there might be one on board who would protect her. But yet they were both pirates, and why should she expect that they should incur one another’s displeasure and enmity for her sake—an unfortunate captive. But although Agnes feared, still there was hope in her. Something told her, perhaps her own heart, that mysterious and unerring index of the truth, that he who had been so attentive to her from the moment when she set foot on board the schooner—that Lorenzo would defend her.

There is a mystery of mind, a language of thought, and a sympathy of soul, for which the greatest philosophers are still unable to account. There is that which conveys from the loving to the loved a mute and silent intelligence: there is that in us which converses without being heard, which communicates without being seen, and even while the tongue is tied and the eye is closed, tells to those we love of the sentiment that we foster and cherish in our breast. The mind of the young lady told her that Lorenzo would protect her innocence and honor, and she was somewhat calmed by this assurance, however slight and ungrounded, a more sceptical thinker would no doubt have considered it. Escaping in this manner from these unpleasant and dark thoughts that alarmed her, she was immediately recalled to herself, and proceeded to open the letter. She hastily and eagerly glanced over it, raised her head for a time, and then read, and read, and read again.

The letter was this:—

Agnes read this over and over again in nervous trepidation, then folded it, and put it by.

She was a victim to strong contending emotions. She felt she knew not what for Lorenzo, but he was a pirate. She could not imagine that she loved: no, she did not; but she was grateful to the man as she had always seen him, gentle and kind, and apparently unstained by any crime: but she recoiled from the pirate. It would appear that even her gratitude could not succeed in mantling the hideousness of that name. Yet he was always so respectful to her! Could a pirate at heart be so? And if he were a pirate, such as she had heard those men were, could he write to her in that manner? No, it could not be. And joy glistened in her face as she seemed to congratulate herself on having come to a conclusion that was so favourable to Lorenzo.

Upon this she seemed to fall into an agreeable reverie: pleasure seemed to play on her face, as she thought she had successfully washed away the stain from the man on which her sentiments had already been anchored. Distressing thoughts, however, will force themselves on the happiest moments of our existence. At the height of her self-gratulation, the idea of the pirate again occurred.

“But who is he?” she inquiringly muttered, “what is he—a—? Oh! no, I cannot, I will not, I must not think of him,” and she burst into a flood of tears. She wept and wept: now roused herself to extraordinary firmness, and resolutely dried her tears, but it was to let them flow in larger and fuller currents a moment after.

She was weeping over the ruined hopes of her own feelings:—of her first love.

Agnes had been born and brought up in the seclusion which necessarily surrounds a residence in the West Indies. She had seen but few persons besides the neighbours that had their plantations in the vicinity of her father’s estate. She had never met any one on whom she could pour out the love that a tropical nature had lavished upon her. Her feelings at the moment when she got into the position which led to her meeting with Lorenzo were strong and fresh, and were in that state in which the mysterious law of human sociality required, that they should find an object on which they could alight and rest. They had alighted on Lorenzo—not by reasoning—not by calculation. They had alighted on Lorenzo, because they had alighted on him. Her feelings had flown and rested upon him, either independently of her volition, or so closely united with it, that it was not possible to say whether she loved, because she chose to love, or whether she loved because she found herself loving.

Such was the nature of her love: but if nature had implanted in her, feelings that were so strong, pure, and good, education had taught her that to control them was also necessary. She reflected that, above all instances, that was the one in which she required all the power that she might possess to restrain herself; for common prudence itself, unassisted by the imparted precepts of propriety, was sufficient to make her careful how she fostered the feelings, which had already risen in her breast.

Lorenzo was a stranger to her and hers, and the little that was known of him was disadvantageous to him, for it consisted of the certainty that he was a pirate—an outcast of human society. That was a sufficient consideration, and when the full force of it fell on the mind of the beautiful girl, she wept. She wept the tears that are the bitterest—the tears that flow when we are called away, by the dictatorial voice of principle and duty, from the pursuit of some fond object on which all the feelings of our nature are concentrated, and which we had complacently looked upon as the magnet of our happiness. On the one side she had her will and her affections; on the other she had the danger of an ignorance which was broken only by that which made it still more horrible.

Like one, therefore, who is resigned to death, from the sheer insipidity of disappointed life, Agnes sat weeping in her cabin.

The tears fell not with the vigour of energetic sorrow, such as when the soul concentrates her strength to mourn away with one effort some heavy grief, but they dropped with the languor of oversettling despondency, such as when even the full tide of anguish cannot wash away the rooted sorrow.

She was in this condition, when the priest knocked at her door and entered.

“Was she ill?” the good father inquired, “she had remained so long in her cabin that morning?”

“No.”

“Ah! but you are weeping: cheer up, child; come, come, dry those tears: you are, I see, thinking of home. Yes: there is a great difference between your good father’s house and this vessel; but do not give way to sorrow, my child, we must be thankful to Providence for having delivered us from the death and dishonour which, it is likely, would have overtaken us if we had fallen into other hands, and we must not repine at its dispensations in any instance: cheer up. Besides, I have just been told to get ready to go ashore; they will put us on land soon, I suppose, although I cannot see it as yet myself.”

Agnes saw very clearly that the good father had mistaken the cause of her grief, and was not a little glad to observe that he had so readily attributed it to the reminiscences of home. She remained silent. But the priest had only increased her embarrassment of mind, by the news which he brought, and which, he considered, as indeed he himself had felt them to be, the most joyful; for she learnt by his report that she was to leave the schooner: she was glad, and, at the same time, she was sorry.

She was naturally glad to be again restored to safety, and to revisit that home with its dear ones from which she was so nearly torn away for ever: and she was sorry to leave the schooner, because her heart had already begun to hover about it.

Which of the two feelings was the greater; judge for yourself reader.

Duty, however, and even safety called her away, and she must obey.

“When shall we go from this—when shall we be landed, I mean?” she inquired of the priest.

“I do not know exactly, child, but they told me to be prepared. But you have not, as yet, tasted food to-day; they have brought our morning meal: I have waited for you long,—come in and take some nourishment.”

Agnes briefly excused herself from accepting the kind invitation of the priest.

“She was not absolutely ill,” she said, “but certain thoughts had put her in a melancholy mood, and she felt no desire for food.”

She insisted, at the same time, on his going to take his morning repast.

He hesitated for some time to leave her, but was, at length, prevailed upon to go, by her persisting assurances that she was not ill.

Left to herself, the innocent girl gave vent again to her tears; but she had not now any opportunity to indulge her feelings, for she was soon aroused from her sorrow by the re-appearance of the priest who invited her to go on deck.

They went up together.

The long schooner was now lying on the waves like some fish, that had concentrated its strength for a dart, waiting for its prey. She rose and sank with the waves, as she lay to the wind, like something that a more powerful hand than that of man had made to inhabit the element on which she so familiarly floated.

The usual silence reigned; every man of the watch stood mute and motionless at his station; the captain himself stood by the steersman with his arms folded across his breast.

The schooner had been thrown in the wind, to wait for the prize ship which was still at a considerable distance, but which was approaching fast under the press of her extensive sails.

She was, as we have said before, a fast sailer, but few vessels could keep up with the Black Schooner.

When the two vessels had set sail together from that part where they had remained since the fight and the capture, it was found necessary to reduce from time to time the sails of the schooner that the ship might be always kept within sight. Notwithstanding this, however, the former had imperceptibly outreached and distanced the latter, and it was now found necessary to put her in the wind, in order to allow time for the ship to come up.

Notwithstanding the information that they would be landed that day, the priest and Agnes could not see any preparations which might indicate such a thing. Far, however, to the east, land might be seen, high and blue, and like a passing cloud in the fleecy atmosphere of the tropics; still no boats were as yet got ready, and not an order was given. In course of time the ship drew nearer and nearer, until she had arrived within but a few yards of the schooner, when she was brought up heavily to the wind; her heavy canvass flapped, the waves broke on her huge bows, and she lay like a sluggish whale.

A boat was launched from the schooner and was despatched with a number of men on board the ship. After the lapse of a few moments, the cutter of the ship was launched, and was forthwith rigged out, and the sails were quickly bent. When this was done she was sailed up to the schooner, where provision to last for three days was put into her, and she stood ready for sea.

Orders were now given for the strangers to come forward and embark.

Lorenzo, who had been in his cabin the whole of the morning, now came on deck. His appearance was not the same as it was wont to be. On his manly brow sat gloomy care and anxiety, and there was even something fierce in the expression of his lips. There was anxiety, deep anxiety, furrowed in his looks, but there were also marks of a deeper and sterner feeling.

When he came on deck, Agnes and her guardian were standing almost opposite the captain, on the starboard side of the vessel.

He saw them, but his eyes could not rest on them. Was he bashful?—was he afraid to meet the looks of a frail old man, and the timid glances of a helpless maiden?—he who had encountered enemies that every human passion had excited and embittered against him?—he whose daily life was a continuous challenge to man, to the powers that ruled the earth, and to the controlless element itself which he had made his home? No, he was afraid of himself: he was afraid of his pride. He had never placed himself before in a position to meet either slight or insult. He expected nothing from humanity, and he never placed himself in a way to be the object of its kindness or beneficence. But love—love—the leveller—had now overcome him: he had declared his feeling to a girl, he had, as he fancied, humbled himself, by putting himself in her power, and his pride was completely at her mercy. He therefore feared to look at her, lest in her looks he might read that which was—oh! more horrible than anything else to his nature—slight, indifference, or contempt. He had had a fierce struggle with himself at first to write the letter which he had put into the cabin of Agnes.

But he had no sooner done so than he repented of his act. The mastery that love had gained over pride was but temporary, it soon ceased, and he was left to be crushed under the tyranny of that unrelenting feeling. How many conflicts such as Lorenzo experienced, are there not? How many hearts that nature formed but to be united and to swell and beat but in the community of each other, have shrunk, withered, and dried away in cold and comfortless solitude, because the love of another could not over-ride the fear of a risk, or an exposure of the love of one’s self! How many a one has traversed this beautiful world, and moved on it as on the barren bareness of a desert land, with no congenial soul to enhance the pleasures of existence by its participation, or to diminish its miseries by its sympathy, because pride forbad him to disclose to some loving heart how much happiness it was in its power to administer.

These feelings, on the part of Lorenzo, did not arise from any low conceit that he entertained for himself: nor were they the emanation of that vulgar selfishness that concentrates existence, the capacity of possessing feelings, the desire of happiness, in one’s single self, and there traces out their bournes and limits; nor did they spring from the senseless and stupid vanity that bolsters itself up in all the “pomp and circumstance” of its full-fed ignorance. No: in the sturdy and the bold, such feelings do not, cannot exist. It was something better—nobler; something that could exist and thrive only in the community of exalted thoughts, and delicate sensibilities. It was a sensitive self-respect.

Lorenzo approached the pirate captain, and saluted him. The latter returned the salute, and, at the same time, fixed his keen eyes on his officer.

We have already said there was something peculiar in the eyes of the pirate captain: there was something that seemed to penetrate the inmost soul, and read the mind, and see what was passing there. This power he used on this occasion. The deep, earnest, steady look which he fixed on Lorenzo seemed to overcome the latter and his eyes bent before it. When the captain had looked long and stedfastly at his officer, he turned suddenly on one side, and seemed to contemplate in the same manner, the fair Agnes, that stood still leaning on the taffrail of the schooner, with her eyes fixed on the deck.

The captain had at once read in the manner of Lorenzo, that he was in love with the beautiful captive. His studious mind had long been exercised in connecting deductions and his deep knowledge of human actions and their springs, enabled him to trace, in one moment, the change which was perceptible in the appearance of his chief officer to its proper cause. He was at once convinced that Lorenzo loved Agnes, and he now looked on her with some interest. One would have said he was examining her in order to discover whether she was worthy of the affection of one whom he prized so highly.

The examination lasted long, and Agnes was justly alarmed concerning the meaning of this scrutiny on the part of the captain.

The persons to be landed were now assembled on the deck of the schooner.

The captain made a sign to the master fisherman to follow him, and he descended the cabin steps. When he had arrived into his apartment, he drew from a case a pair of pistols, and, at the same time, took from his desk a purse of money.

“Listen to me,” he said, to the master fisherman, “you have hitherto acquitted yourself well of that in which I have employed you, and I have rewarded you: now I require your further services.——I shall put you and the captives in a boat in a few moments. There is a young lady among them, together with an old priest: you must take care of her, and protect her. There are arms,” pointing to the pistols, “for you, the others are unarmed. You, with these and the assistance of your men, can defend her against the sailors in the boat, in case any attempt be made by them to use the advantage of number which they possess. There is your reward,” pointing to the purse.—“But, first swear by God and the Holy Virgin, that you will protect her at all risks.”

“Senor, I swear.”

“You shall be the master of the boat, and it shall be yours after you are all landed. Beat up to the land which you see before you from the deck. That is Granada. In three day’s time you will be there. Remember your oath. I never forget to punish.”

“Senor, I shall,” answered the master fisherman, who had all the gravity of the people to which he belonged, half by race and wholly by feelings.

The captain pointed towards the door, and the master fisherman was led away by one of the black boys who was in constant attendance there.

When the captain had disappeared from the deck with the master fisherman, Lorenzo was in a manner recalled to himself. He looked about him, his eyes met those of Agnes. His heart leapt. That look of kindness penetrated his soul; the gloomy conjurings of his pride vanished before it, and he seemed to be in the enjoyment of something to which, up to that moment, he had been quite a stranger. But, may he not have mistaken that expression of the eyes.

He looked again and again—their eyes met. Oh, no, he was not mistaken. He drew towards the young lady.

“Madam,” he began....

“Lorenzo,” sounded the deep voice of the captain, who had by this time come on deck again. He turned round and encountered the reproachful looks of his chief.

He went away from the side of Agnes, seemingly ashamed of having given so much license to his feelings, as to have neglected discipline for their sake.

The captives, the master fisherman, and his men were ordered into the cutter, and the captain himself assisted Agnes and the elderly priest into the boat.

The boat was ready to be cast off from the schooner, when the master fisherman remarked that one of his men was not in it. Jack Jimmy was missing.

“Ho! Jack Jimmy,” went round the cry.

Jack Jimmy “heard it, but heeded it not.” He was standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Jack Jimmy.”

But he took not the slightest notice of the call. At last one of the sailors perceived him, and looking towards him, said,

“Jack Jimmy, will you come along?”

Jack Jimmy still remained silent where he stood.

“Will you come along?” and laying hold of him by the arm he attempted to drag him along.

“Massa, me no go—me no leave dis ya ’chooner as long as massa in ea,” the little man said, with much determination.

“Will you come along sir?” and the sailor gave his ear a twitch—Jack Jimmy passively let himself fall on the deck, repeating—

“Me no go massa.”

But another sailor came up at this moment, and the two of them dragged him along the deck to the gang-way.

“Oh! my young massa,” he cried, as he approached the captain, “let me tap wid you, me no want foo go, me neber leafe dis ’chooner lang you ga—oh let me tap wid you,” and he clasped the knees of the captain.

“Let him remain,” said the latter to the men, who were approaching to drag him away again.

“Garamighty bless you, my young massa—me neber leabe you,” and the tears trickled down the cheeks of the faithful little man.

The cutter was cast off from the schooner, her sails were set and she began to move through the water on her voyage towards land.

In the stern sheets sat Agnes, by the side of her guardian: her handkerchief was in her hands, and her head was bent over the side of the little vessel, and now and then she might be seen to apply the handkerchief to her face as if to brush away the spray of the sea.

CHAPTER XI.

When the cutter was cast off, the sails of the schooner were filled, and she was again put on her course. Joy now seemed to beam on the fierce faces of the sailors, and if they had not been restrained by the discipline of the schooner, it was easy to perceive they would have vociferated their satisfaction in long and loud cheers; but, bound by the iron strength of her laws, they could only manifest the feelings which then animated them by a greater alacrity—if possible—in going through their duties.

The captain had retired, and the command was left in the hands of Lorenzo. That officer stood by himself at the taffrail of the schooner, engrossed by his thoughts, and anxiously watching the little cutter, that was now labouring over the heavy seas, as she sailed gradually away from the schooner, and was bearing from him, perhaps, for ever, that being who first called forth in him the power of that tyrannical sentiment to which Lorenzo, like other men of a less bold and hardy spirit, was subjected.

“She is gone from me for ever,” thought the officer, “and has left me scarcely a hope. Perhaps, yes—no, she will try to forget the pirate.”

Lorenzo strode gloomily away from the taffrail a victim to a multitude of different sentiments, among which the feelings of love, and those of pride in particular, fiercely contended for the ascendant. He could not contemplate a slight. To himself he was ever honorable, beyond the stigma which the world would cast upon him on account of his present condition, and even his love could scarcely move him to forgive one that he might imagine deemed him debased by the position which he occupied; he turned away, therefore, from the direction in which the cutter lay, and endeavoured to call forth different thoughts by the study of a chart which was lying on the binnacle.

The Black Schooner was kept in the same course for two days.

On the third morning, the island of St. Thomas’ appeared. It lay far to leeward, and stretched under the thin clouds, like the blue outline of some great slate mountain. The schooner was again thrown in the wind. The captain, who had exchanged his uniform for a suit of plain clothes, now went on board the prize ship, and was attended by Jack Jimmy, who had been permitted to take his place with the two boys who usually waited on him. The greater part of the schooner’s sails were taken in, and arrangements were made for keeping her to the wind, until the return of the captain. The ship was now steered for St. Thomas’, and her large sails filled with the morning breeze. She rapidly approached the little island, which the policy and wisdom of the Danish government have made the Tyre of the West Indies. The English ensign was hoisted, and the ship entered the little narrow harbour which affords a scanty shelter to the numerous vessels that traffic draws to the place. At that moment it was crowded with hundreds of vessels, as different in their appearance as the various parts the world from which they came. There might be seen the heavy Dutch galiotte, with its crescent form and huge clumsy proportions; the sprightly Frenchman, with its light fantastic spars and long low hull; the Yankee clipper, with its tapering masts and snow-white sails; the Mediterranean faluchas, the sharp schooners from Curaço, and the neighbouring Spanish coasts; all these seemed drawn together for the purpose of commerce, and numerous sailors were to be seen on board their respective ships, busily occupied in taking in or discharging the widely varying cargoes. A few other suspicious low-hulled crafts, were also to be seen in the offing, riding uneasy on short cables, and apparently ready for sea at a moment’s requirement. The appearance of those vessels at once disclosed the business in which they were occupied. They were slavers, or otherwise engaged in some nefarious traffic, in which extraordinarily great fleetness alone could secure them profit, or protect them from certain destruction. At some distance from the town a majestic British ship of war was also riding at anchor.

The prize ship was boldly steered into the anchorage, and was shortly boarded by the officers of customs, who demanded, in the usual manner, to see the ship’s papers. The officers were easily satisfied, for the easy and encouraging policy, which the Danes have been wise enough to adopt, for the purpose of drawing trade to their little island, did not require many forms in the clearance of the ships which might enter its port. To the apparent irregularities in the credentials it was easily answered, that the captain was the owner of the ship and cargo, that he had originally intended to take the latter to an English market, but he had changed his mind, and was desirous of selling it in order to undertake a voyage to some other part of the world.

The captain, after this formality had been completed, went ashore.

On landing, he was immediately accosted by the numerous merchants and others who may be always seen loitering, partly for pleasure and partly for business, in small coteries, about the principal landing places of the West India islands. The quality of his goods, as well as their prices were eagerly inquired into, but no one seemed inclined to purchase. He wandered carelessly about the beach with the wide panama hat, with which he had disguised himself, drawn far over his head, expecting every moment an offer for his cargo; for it is in this manner, and in such places, that the cargoes of ships are frequently sold in the tropics. But no one made an offer; and, tired of sauntering about uselessly, he entered a neighbouring coffee house, and seated himself at the table of the principal room.

It was not long before he was followed in by a young merchant who had detached himself from one of the little groups above mentioned and had dogged him for a long time.

“I shall give you fifty dollars a hogshead for your sugar, and take all,” he said, as he accosted and bowed to the captain, at the same time presenting his cigar case.

“No,” the captain briefly replied, returning the salute, while, at the same time, he accepted the usual West Indian courtesy, and took a cigar from the proffered case.

The merchant sat down at the table too, and requested the waiter, who brought the disguised captain a glass of sangaree, to serve him with the same. He then took out a cigar and began to smoke negligently, as if his mind was as little occupied by thoughts of business as that of a child.

They sat together for a considerable time without exchanging a word—a circumstance of rare occurrence in the talkative tropics, where men endeavour to find in conversation the relaxation which the places of amusement of other countries afford. But the disguised captain was one whose looks did not encourage access, nor was he one whom we would address by mere casualty or for the sake of a moment’s pastime. Without being repulsive in appearance he was from a general manner that could not be easily understood, but which was at once felt, sufficiently uninviting as not to encourage any one to address him unless he himself was the first to speak. The merchant therefore did not feel quite assured and was by no means tempted to open a conversation with him. The disguised captain on his part was from natural disposition and taste, not inclined to exchange more words with the merchant or any other person in the island, than were absolutely necessary to the accomplishment of the object which brought him to St. Thomas—namely, the sale of the ship’s cargo.

But, if looks are in a generality of instances justly accounted deceptive, they can always be considered so with perhaps much more truth in the merchant, whose business it is to assume the air of cold indifference, and to pretend to care but very little about the transaction in question, while perhaps his palm already itches over the bargain which he keenly meditates, and while he is perhaps already feasting in imagination on the princely returns which he anticipates from it.

“Come, I shall give you fifty-five,” the merchant said, after a number of whiffs.

“No,” the captain replied, in the same dry tone as before, looking straight before him, indifferently smoking his cigar.

The pursuits of his life time were so different from those of the generality of men, that besides the stern cynicism in which he had tutored himself, and the habit of contemplation that he had cultivated, he would not have been able to take interest in any intercourse with them. Perhaps, also there was not a little of pride intermixed with his silence. Accustomed to measure the stars, and to associate his thoughts with the sublimity of the heavenly regions, and raised to a proper estimation of himself by the given opinion of the many universities in which he had studied, and which had declared him a man of extraordinary talent, he almost scorned the intercourse of one who could speak to him only about the state of the market, the amount of money that certain individuals happened to possess, and the other things connected with the occupation of buying and selling.

Besides, he had long ceased to hold intercourse with living men—except, indeed, when it was necessary either to command them, to feed them, or to give them drink. He had found that too much evil was mixed up with the little good that he could derive from their society, and not considering that the mere endurance of the former was an object that was so worthy in itself as to command the exercise of his fortitude, he thought it prudent to refrain both from listening to the expressed thoughts of others and intruding his upon them. Books therefore, he made his companions—books, that could not deceive, could not betray, could not be mean, could not be penurious, could not make to suffer, could not disgust; but which contained the best of dead men’s thoughts without much of their vileness.

It was not strange therefore that the two parties sat together silent.

Notwithstanding, however, the existence of this feeling on the part of the captain, his prudence suggested the necessity of saying something in order to enact with exactness the character of merchant-captain which he had for the time assumed.

“You seem to have much traffic in this island,” he said to the young merchant, in compliance with this suggestion of his reason.

“A great deal,” replied the young merchant, “we do business with all parts of the world. Never been here before? Not traded in these seas much I suppose? You do not seem to have been much exposed to the sun.”

The captain made no answer to the last observation.

“We have lately suffered much,” continued the merchant after a pause, “in our trade here from a rascally pirate that scours these seas. One vessel out of three is sure to fall into his hands. By the bye, you who are a stranger in this part of the world, have great reason to thank your stars that you have escaped him.”

“No doubt,” the captain coolly observed and drew a whiff of his cigar.

The merchant, also, drew two or three whiffs, and continued—

“It appears the captain of these pirates is a very remarkable fellow; he seems to care but little about the lives of those who fall into his hands, but contents himself with robbing them in a very gentlemanly and polite manner. Those that pass through his clutches, and put in here, tell such tales of him, that one would almost fancy they had been spell-bound during the time they were his captives.”

“Indeed!” interjected the captain.

“Yes: and the fellow is so remarkably skillful that he baffles all attempts to capture him, and always contrives to escape. They say he deals with the devil; that he knows his vessel, and his vessel knows him, for she does whatever he chooses. Sometimes she is seen in the rig of a schooner, at others in that of a brigantine, or brig, or barque, or—God knows what else.”

“How remarkable!” observed the captain.

“By Jove! that is not all,” still continued the merchant, “he is bold enough to take his prizes into any harbour that may happen to be the nearest at the time—whatever it be.”

“And has he never been discovered?” inquired the captain, as coolly as before.

“Bless me, no! If he does not actually deal with the devil, by Jove! the old boy always seems to help him, for he always manages to sell his booty, and get away before it is known that he had been there.”

“A dangerous man, surely,” again remarked the captain, “I must account myself fortunate, I perceive, that I have managed to bring my sugar safely into port.”

“By jingo! yes——But, a-propos, those sugars, I shall give you sixty dollars,” the merchant said.

The captain seemed to muse awhile and said—

“I shall take sixty, on condition that the money be paid this very moment, and also in gold.”

“Agreed,” cried the merchant, quickly: “wait here for me a short time; I shall bring you the money,” and he went out of the room, with the air of one who was congratulating himself on having achieved an extraordinary feat.

In the course of half an hour the merchant returned, and was followed by a servant, who seemed to be bending and groaning under a heavy bag of money which he was carrying.

“There,” said the merchant, taking the bag from the servant, and laying it down on the table, “there are three thousands six hundred dollars in dubloons, verify them.”

The captain spread the coins on the table, and began to count them.

“It is quite correct—the sugar is yours,” he said, when he had done so, and began to replace the dubloons.... The heavy footsteps of men were now heard on the stairs. They grew more and more distinct, and now they resounded within the extensive room.

“There is your man,” exclaimed an individual, and the captain, on looking round, beheld his father, who was standing in front of a file of marines, under the command of a British officer, who was accompanied by an officer in the Danish civil uniform, that probably represented the local government in sanctioning the forcible capture of a British subject, by British authorities, on Danish ground.

The face of the young captain evinced neither astonishment, nor anger, nor scorn, as he stood looking with indifferent calmness on the warlike intruders.

“That is he—the pirate: seize him! seize him!” cried Willmington, almost mad with excitement.

The officer remained undecided, and gave no orders. He seemed surprised, and inquired, after the lapse of a few moments—

“Is this the pirate?” and pointed towards the captain. “I fancy you are in some error: this gentleman does not appear to have ever left the land; besides, he seems too young to be what you say he is: you surely must have made a mistake.”

Nor was it strange that the officer should thus have felt surprised at the appearance of the captain; for he had expected to find some villainous, yellow-blooded sinister-looking cut-throat, deformed, hacked with wounds, and disfigured with gibbet marks. With this picture of a pirate still on his mind, he had pointed out to him a young man who seemed more calculated to pass his life in quiet contemplation and easy enjoyment, than to take part in the arduous and wearing pursuits of the world, much less to hold the position of a robber on the high seas. Besides, notwithstanding the hardy life which he was obliged to lead, the young man still so sedulously cultivated the refined habits in which he had been bred, and had so carefully kept himself below deck, that he neither presented the rough cast of men of rough usage, nor lost, under a tropical sun, the natural paleness of his complexion.

“It is no mistake at all,” exclaimed Willmington, “I know him well; I cannot be deceived. It is he who had me thrown overboard. Yes, he had me thrown overboard in the sea—to be drowned—to be drowned; but providence has now interfered to punish the perpetrator of the outrage committed upon me. And, and,” he added, “you will now suffer for it,” addressing the captain, while he took the precaution of clinging as closely as possible to the officer. For it would appear that even in the presence of the file of marines the recollection of the empty cask made him nervous.

“Nay, nay, good father,” the captain said, with cauterising sarcasm, “the crime of throwing his kind and loving father overboard, would better suit the jargon that fills the mouths of such virtuous gentlemen as you.” ... A pause ensued.

“His father,”—“Are you then this old gentleman’s son?” inquired the officer.

“He can tell you,” answered the captain. “But I await your orders sir; lead me wherever it may be your instructions to do so.”

The officer seemed more undecided than ever. He looked for an instant at James Willmington, who remained silent, and bent his eyes to the ground as they met those of the ingenious gallant young soldier.

“This is a strange and extraordinary business,” he observed, “I am not aware that my commission obliges me to meddle with such apparently disagreeable affairs. However, young gentleman, for such you seem, and I can scarcely believe that you are what this old gentleman represents you to be, I have orders from my commanding officer, and sanction from the local authorities, to arrest you, provided you are the pirate who scours these seas?”

“It is he—it is he;—I am certain of it: he took our ship; he had me thrown overboard,” vociferated James Willmington, scarcely affording the young officer time to complete his sentence, “I tell you, seize him, seize him!”

Disgusted with this uproarious outbreak, and somewhat stung by Willmington’s imperative manner, the officer turned round to him and said, cuttingly—

“Perhaps, sir, you would have me take a rope and hang him at once: you must recollect, sir that I am not bound to regulate my conduct by any peculiar activity which may characterise your feeling against this person.”

This language came the more readily from the young officer, inasmuch as he felt a prejudice in favor of the captain.

Free, frank, generous, and noble, as those of the order to which he belonged generally are, he could not but feel a certain interest in his prisoner, and he began to speculate on the extraordinary circumstance that a man, such as he seemed to be, should have found himself in a position of so equivocal a nature, as the one in which he was then placed. It appeared strange to him that one who seemed well educated, and who at the same time possessed such gracefulness of demeanour, and elegance of expression, could have freely chosen to herd with the wretched outcasts that usually crown their other numerous crimes with the horrible outrages of piracy: and should thus expose himself, not only to the danger of the horrid death with which such a crime was punished, but to run the risk of entailing upon himself the ignominy which the world, with one accord, unanimously casts upon the pirate. He justly imagined, that to drive an individual, such as he seemed to be, to such a life, there required very great causes, or, at any rate, unusual ones, which may have acted in a more than ordinary manner on a naturally too sensitive mind; and as great afflictions always call forth sympathy from the generous, the imagined misfortunes of the prisoner turned, in an instant, the heart of the officer in his favor. This was the impulsive judgment of the young man.

The noble and fresh-hearted, young officer, that feared not the prejudiced frown of any man, could afford, independently, to take the man as he found him.

“You will go with me,” said he to the captain, “I trust you will see the absolute uselessness of any attempt to escape,” and he significantly pointed to his men. “I shall not put you under restraint if you promise to walk with us.”

“If you will take the word of a pirate,” said the captain, bowing, “I promise to accompany you. If otherwise, I am willing to allow myself to be put under any constraint that you may think proper. I trust, however, that I am incapable of showing myself insensible to the indulgence of any gentleman, and least of all, to a British officer.”

“That is sufficient,” quickly replied the officer.

The party now left the room, and soon reached the boat that was waiting at the beach. They embarked: and, in a short time, arrived alongside the huge man of war, whose sides looked gloomy with the frowning guns as they peeped through the port-holes. As soon as the party gained the deck, the captain was immediately conducted before the commander of the vessel.

He was one of those venerable looking old gentlemen, who are now and then to be casually seen in the walks—of the world, and who when once seen, forcibly draw from us respect and honor,—with locks whose colour had long been worn away by the wind and washed away by the brine, and with one of those faces which tell by their rosey hue and frank openness, in the evening of existence, of a life so spent in duty and honour that not one single repentant wrinkle dared ruffle the brow where loyalty and truth had always sat. He was sitting in an elegant state cabin when the officer brought the prisoner before him. He raised his eyes from off the book which he was then reading, and began to examine him. He said nothing, but could not conceal the surprise which he seemed to feel at the appearance of the individual whom he was examining.

“You seem young to be engaged in such a lawless pursuit, prisoner,” he said after a minute or two.

The captain bowed haughtily.

“You are aware,” continued the commander, “that you are accused of a very heinous crime—that of piracy.”

The captain bowed again in the same manner.

“You know that is an offence which is universally reprobated by all nations, and it is one which in its moral character is the blackest of crimes. It is my duty, therefore, to keep you on board this ship until I can put you in the hands of the authorities, whose business it is to deal with these matters. I shall sail for Trinidad in a few days, and you will remain in custody until my arrival in that island, where you will be delivered up to the civil tribunals.”

The captain calmly bowed again.

“In the meantime,” continued the commander, addressing the father and accuser, “you will be good enough to repeat, in the presence of the prisoner, the accusation which you made in his absence.”

James Willmington, after a pause, then began, his voice trembling with excitement, and ill-concealed hatred.

“As I said before my lord, I, and two other persons, were passengers on board the ship ‘Letitia,’ which was bound for Bristol. We were two days’ sail from Trinidad, when we were boarded by pirates, of whom this man, as we afterwards found, was the chief. After a brave resistance made by our crew, the ship was captured, and I and the others were taken on board the vessel of the pirates. The other captives were treated with much lenity, but I was kept in close confinement, and eventually, by the orders of this man, was even tied to an empty cask, and set adrift on the ocean, to meet there a lingering death, far more horrible than any sudden violence could have inflicted. To prolong my miseries, a few dried biscuits were tied to my cask. A whole day and night I was in this condition floating on the wild waves, and was worn out, and well nigh exhausted with suffering, when Providence came to my rescue. A sloop came sailing by, and with difficulty I made my cries to be heard. I was taken on board, and life, which was fast departing, was brought back by the kindness of the master and crew.

“I had overheard the pirates speak about St. Thomas’ as the place whither they intended to sail for the disposal of the ship’s cargo. I at once resolved to anticipate them if possible, to have the author of my cruel sufferings arrested, and to bring him to condign punishment. For this purpose I prevailed upon the master of the sloop, by offering him a large sum of money, to put in here, where fortunately we arrived before the pirates, and I had, by this happy accident, the opportunity of watching their arrival. This is the man who is the chief of the pirates, and who ordered me to be thrown overboard under circumstances of such refined cruelty.”

After Willmington had spoken, the commander asked the prisoner if the accusation was true.

“True in all things,” said the latter, “in all things, so far as they have been revealed. I admit everything that has been said, but my accuser,” and here he fixed his piercing eyes on his father, “but my accuser has informed you only of the punishment; he has not told you why, when I treated my other captives with such lenity, I practised what he calls cruelties on himself. Perhaps, my lord,” while his lip could be seen to curl with scorn, “perhaps he will tell you that I was only the executioner who inflicted the punishment which one of the most heinous crimes deserved.”

“What do you mean?” inquired the commander.

“Simply,” replied the captain, “that this man is my father. He abandoned me at an age when I was too young to offend, and afterwards refused me bread when I was being famished. In vindication of the violated laws of nature, I, in my turn, abandoned him when he required my aid, and I cast him away from my vessel, when he required its use.”

“Then you are this gentleman’s son? and there are, therefore, family affairs connected with this business?” inquired the commander, with evident surprise, marked on his open and noble face; and, turning to Willmington, he inquired, also, whether he was really his father.

There was no answer.

“Young man,” said the commander, “it was wrong, on your part, to treat your parent in this manner. If what you say is correct, he has treated you unnaturally, but there is One above us to punish such sins, and it is not yours to arrogate the right of taking vengeance, even when you consider yourself injured—recollect,” he said solemnly, “recollect—‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’”

“You speak, my lord,” replied the captain, “as I should expect you to do; but you are scarcely a judge in this matter: you have not had to endure what I had. I can read in you, my lord,—pardon the personality—something which tells me that, if you had found yourself in my place, you would have acted in the same manner.”

In the meantime, a young officer had silently descended the companion-steps, and, hearing the voice of the last speaker, he came quickly forward and gazed in his face, seeming to recognize him.

“Appadocca,” he exclaimed, and eagerly grasped the hand of the captain, “what brings you here? Why you are not the pirate, surely?—it cannot be!”

“Yes, I am the pirate,” the captain calmly replied, while he pressed the hand that had grasped his.

“Good heavens! you deceive me—you—you—”

“Mr. Charles,” sounded the voice of the commander, “recollect, sir, you are in the presence of your commanding officer, and that you are speaking to a person who is under arrest.”

The young officer retired a few steps, conscious that, although he was the commander’s son, he was still subject to the rules of discipline.

Deep anxiety for the prisoner, however, was marked on his features, as his eyes wandered impatiently from the captain, whom we shall now call by his proper name, Appadocca—to his father, and from his father to Appadocca again.

The prisoner was now ordered away, and instructions were given to keep him in close custody. The officer in command, the sentinels, and the prisoner proceeded on deck. The young officer was about to follow, when he was requested by his father to stay.

“Do you know this man, Charles?” inquired the commander, when they were alone.

“If I know him, sir? every man who has studied in any university these seven years back, knows Emmanuel Appadocca. I studied mathematics with him in Paris, sir; and, if you remember, you will find I frequently spoke to you about him.”

“Yes: I think, now, I recollect something of the name. But this seems a strange end for such a man as you always represented him to be.”

“Yes; this does seem a very strange end,” replied the young officer, “and I cannot but imagine that there is some error in all this.”

“That old planter,” observed the commander, “seems, however, to be very positive in his statements; and, in addition to this, appears determined to prosecute him to the utmost.”

“It is to be hoped, sir,” replied Mr. Charles, “that Appadocca will be able to establish his innocence.”

“It is to be hoped, Charles—it is to be hoped,” said the commander, and he took up his book.

CHAPTER XII.

Appadocca was led to a narrow compartment in the gun-deck where he was locked up, and a sentinel was placed at the door.

The unexpected turn that his affairs had taken, seemed to have but little effect on his mind. The sad prospect of being tried like the meanest criminal, and condemned, perhaps, to an ignominious death appeared not to startle his settled cynicism.

When the door of the cabin was closed upon him, after having sat for a time in a deep meditation, he knocked from within and asked the man who kept guard without, for a piece of chalk, which, after some delay, was given to him. With it he began to draw algebraical figures on the boards that partitioned his cabin prison, and seemed engrossed in some deep calculation. In this manner the afternoon passed. When the short tropical twilight came and went, and he was no longer capable of seeing his figures, he seated himself down again and remained so until late in the night, when he stretched himself on the deck for the purpose of going to sleep.

He had not lain down long before the door of the cabin was silently opened, and an individual closely wrapped in a boat-cloak entered. The cloak was immediately thrown off, and, by the light of a small lantern which the stranger carried, Appadocca saw before him Charles Hamilton, his friend.

“Welcome, Charles!” said Appadocca, affecting more than usual lightsomeness, “welcome to my narrow quarters,” at the same time, casting his eyes around the close cabin, which, for the time being, constituted his prison.

“Hush! Emmanuel,” said the commander’s son, “and, for G—d’s sake, do not speak in such a trivial manner, when you are in such a dangerous position. Tell me,” he continued, while the most impatient anxiety could be detected in his tone, “tell me how you could have brought yourself to this melancholy pass.”

“’Twere long to tell, and sad to trace,” replied Appadocca, “as your own most noble and illustrious countryman has it.... But you seem to be entirely cast down with anxiety—bah! banish that, and if you can accommodate yourself on this hard deck, sit down and we shall have a little conversation on ‘the happy days gone by.’”

“Happy, indeed, they were, Emmanuel, and little did I dream when we pursued our studies together, and when I, together with the others, almost worshipped the intellect with which heaven has blessed you, that I should ever have met you as a prisoner on board my father’s ship, accused, too, of such a grave offence as piracy.” This was spoken with such deep feeling, that Appadocca could scarcely continue his tone of assumed gaiety.

“But what is this Emmanuel?” asked Charles, as his eyes met the figures which Appadocca had traced. “Calculations? must I believe that your cynicism can have made you think so lightly of the sad doom which hangs over you as to permit you to work equations and solve problems at this moment?”

“Now, since you are bent upon being very serious,” answered Appadocca, “pray accommodate yourself and I shall speak to you, and as to those calculations, they concern you more than you imagine. Let your ship be in a safe harbour within these two weeks to come: a comet will be visible in seven days’ time, near the constellation of the Southern Cross; the hurricane that will follow at its tail, will be more than many ships will be able to bear. Now sit down.”

The young officer sat down.

“You ask me,” began Appadocca, with his characteristic gravity, which had now returned, “first, how it has happened that I originally found myself a pirate, cruising in the Caribean sea; and, secondly, a prisoner on board your father’s ship. I regret much that even friendship should have interposed to elicit from me a narrative, which I have always desired to carry with me to the—scaffold now, I suppose. Nevertheless, now that I am on the brink of destruction, it may be well to let the world know the cause of my conduct towards the individual whom an unhappy accident made my father;—which conduct, I admit, may now look strange and criminal.

“You remember, when you left the university of Paris, that I was then preparing to compete in the concours for the professorship of astronomy.”

“Which I always believed you would have, undoubtedly won,” interrupted the officer.

“Do not interrupt me. Within a short time after your departure, I received a letter from the faithful servant, who always attended her, acquainting me with my mother’s death. You, who have known the more than ordinary fondness that my mother and I so strongly entertained for each other, can easily understand the overwhelming effect which such an announcement had upon me.”

“I know, Emmanuel—pass over that quickly,” said the young officer.

“Even my philosophy was not strong enough to bear up against it, and I fell into a fever, from the effects of which I did not rally for a considerable period.

“Well, with my mother’s death, my means of support ceased; for she seems to have carefully concealed the fact from me, that all her little fortune had been devoted to my education, and had been expended for the purpose of keeping me, as much as possible, on a level with the station which her ancestors had occupied. I was, consequently rendered incapable of continuing my preparations for the concours, and it became absolutely necessary for me to endeavour to gain my livelihood by my own exertions.

“When the whole of my lifetime, up to that period, had been passed in schools and colleges, you may easily imagine that I was not much adapted to friction against the world, and to fight in the scrambling battle, for bread.

“The only means I possessed was my pen,—precarious means! The only method of procuring food was by writing on those subjects, with which I had, more or less, filled my mind. Paris was over-crowded with individuals placed in a similar position to mine, who, however, possessed the superior advantage of being better able to thrust themselves forward; a thing which I sympathized too little with the world to be able to do. Besides, it was very problematical, whether success in Paris would bring me remuneration that would be sufficient to maintain me in the manner in which I had been brought up;—for you must know that literary men are badly paid in France. I felt, also, a certain disgust in remaining among those by whom I was known, when I fell into a condition which, at best, would be but precarious. For these reasons, I resolved to visit the British capital, where remuneration was reputed to be greater and more secure.

“I left Paris, after taking leave of but few of my friends, and went to London. When I arrived there, I found there were many subjects on which but little had been written; for the genius of the English people calls them a different way from the unprofitable consideration of abstruse subjects. I wrote about these things. I took my papers to the publications of the day. They did not refuse them:—‘They would publish them,’ they said, ‘when there was room.’ That, I found out by experience, was but an excuse. They were not inclined absolutely to refuse the articles, so they had recourse to that shuffling subterfuge, for they had their own friends to serve. I waited long—there still was no room; sometimes, at great intervals, a paper was published, but so sadly mutilated that it became almost absurd.

“In the mean time, the small amount of money which I possessed became more and more diminished; still I hoped. Yes: I had that delusive, cheating, empty solace of the afflicted—hope. Hope, which mankind has complaisantly numbered among its cardinal virtues, because it holds out to each the lighted wisp that leads and leads him on until he finally stumbles into the grave that closes up his existence. All my valuables were disposed of, one after another, and I was at last left without a brass penny—without property, save my telescope. With that I would not—I could not part. I should have more easily yielded up my heart than dispossess myself of my old and only companion.

“Together with the letter which announced my mother’s death, I received a casket which she requested, at her last moments, should be delivered into my hands. I had always been led to believe, that my father had died when I was a child; but in the casket I found a letter, informing me, that he was not dead, and enjoining that I should ever to study to cherish and respect him who was pointed out to me as my sire. My feelings told me at once, that my good mother had been treated with injustice, and vengeance was my first impulse.

“I had always entertained peculiar opinions about women: I had been accustomed to consider her the superior of the two beings; nay, I had gone further: I had considered her one of those benignant spirits which the disciples of the theological system introduce in their allegories,—the ultimate link between this condition and a higher and more refined humanity. I had looked upon her as the embodiment of goodness, that sweetened existence with its smiles, and made sorrow shrink into insignificance by its sympathy; as a being in whom intellect and propensities were happily not made to preponderate over the loftiest attributes of human nature—the sentiments. Holding this belief, I had worshipped her in whatever condition I found her;—in gorgeous magnificence, or in sordid rags, as pure and spotless as the lily, or polluted or stained with foulest crimes. To me she ever was woman, and that was sufficient. On account of this peculiarity, I always looked with horror upon any man that could be base enough to take any advantage of her, or give her pain. Such an individual I considered unmanned and dishonored, and would shrink from him with disgust. Judge, then, of my state of mind, when I discovered that the crime which I abhorred so much was brought so personally under my reprobation.

“In a calmer mood, however, I thought that sorrow and restitution ought to suffice to obliterate crime; that, at least, I should give the offending party an opportunity of remedying the wrong he had done. Perhaps repentance might creep into his soul. I wrote, then, to the person who had been indicated as my father. He was a wealthy planter in Trinidad. I made it known to him that I was acquainted with the secret of my parentage. I described to him the utter distress in which I, his son, was then placed, and besought him to send me a pittance to sustain that life of which he was the cause.

“Months passed, and I received no answer. Certain feelings began to rankle in my bosom; I, however, took care not to be precipitate. Still hope sustained me. I was obliged to pass days together without food. On such occasion, I would stand by some thoroughfare and watch the over-fed passers, and meditate on that strange destiny which gave to some too much, and to others too little.

“One beautiful night, the stars were clearly visible, and I loitered towards one of the bridges that span the Thames, to enjoy the happiness of watching them. There, seating myself down on one of the stone benches, I forgot for a moment my distress, and felt as I was wont to feel in happier days. The night waned:—attracted by the lurid glimmer of Antares, I fell into a reverie on the theory of the starry scintillation. It may have been one o’clock in the morning,—like the labourer whose thews and sinews were relaxed with the day’s unremitting toil; the great metropolis was buried in that comparative repose which it enjoys only at that early hour of the morning. The rattling of numberless vehicles, the shuffling of thousands of bustling wayfarers had now ceased. Nothing was to be heard but the soon-ceasing rattle of some hurrying conveyance, the measured steps of the police officers, or, perhaps, the ringing laugh of some nightly merry-maker. My eyes were fixed on the stars, and I was dreaming on the orbs of space, when suddenly the low restrained sobs of intense agony fell on my ear. I suddenly turned my head, when I beheld a woman standing on the wall, apparently ready to throw herself headlong into the river. She had a child in her arms, and she pressed it to her bosom, while she loaded it with caresses, and bathed it with tears. Her sobs were those of despair. In an instant I comprehended her intention, and creeping silently along the parapet, I suddenly stood up and seized her in my arms. She gave one convulsive shriek and swooned away.

“I had taught myself to look on misery as the actings of certain general laws: I had accustomed myself to look upon the most appalling phenomena of organic and inorganic life simply as the consummation to which they must necessarily come. I had studied to bring down to nothing the revolting aspect of misery, the bloody scenes of warriors weltering in their blood, or the ghastly hue of emaciating disease; but never before that night had there been presented to my eyes such a combination of utter misery, of gentleness, of innocence, of suffering, of goodness, and of despair, as I beheld blended in the woman whom I had thus rescued from perdition.

“She was young, as yet scarcely of the age capable to bear even the ordinary troubles of the world. Her auburn hair floated loose over her shoulders and her pale emaciated face, while the whiteness of her forehead was here and there to be seen between her dishevelled tresses. Her lacklustre eyes were as sunken as if animation had already ceased; a tattered dress hung about her skeleton frame, and her fingers were more like those of a dead than of a living creature. The babe was as pale as the moon that shone upon it. Its sweet little features were locked in a calm lethargic sleep: its spirit seemed to sympathise with that of its mother; whilst neither her alarm and swoon, nor the bleakness of the night, could rouse it from its happy slumber, or draw a murmuring cry from its lips.

“I stood for a long time, supporting the unhappy girl in my arms, anxiously watching the return of animation. Her circulation was slow, for want had fed upon her strength.

“‘Oh, oh!—where, where—am I?—no—no—I am not there’—she wanderingly muttered, as she gradually recovered.

“Her head drooped in silence, as she became conscious of her position and exposure. I questioned her delicately on the circumstances that led to her taking so fatal a resolution as the one which I had, but accidentally, prevented her from carrying into effect. After much hesitation, she told me the story of her misfortune.

“She had been left fatherless and motherless. She had devoted herself to the man whom she had been taught, by his ardent professions, to look upon as her only stay, and whom she still loved; he had perjured himself, and abandoned her.

“She had hid her head in shame and misery from her friends, and by incessant toil had sometimes procured herself food: but she became a mother, and could no longer work. She had pined away with her babe in a hovel: at last to see her child daily droop under her eyes, maddened her; she could bear it no longer. There might be a happier lot, she thought, in another world, where at least there were no deceivers, and so resolved to flee from this.

“‘And is the father of your child rich, and able to provide food for it?’ I inquired.

“‘He is,’ she replied.

“‘Recollect,’ I said, ‘that however desperate your condition may be, still you have no right to take away the life of your child. The little innocent has been brought into the world by you, it is, therefore, your duty to devote your life to its care and preservation.’

“She wept.

“I had no money—my coat was scarcely good enough to protect me from the cold—I still had two buckles on my shoes, with which I had not parted because I knew their value would scarcely procure me a meal. I took them off and laid them on the babe. ‘Those may serve to get your child some milk,’ I said. She refused them. I pressed her to accept them for the child, and after having obtained a promise that she would never again attempt to destroy herself I conducted her off the bridge.

“The history of the poor girl had made a deep impression on me; I was agitated, so I retraced my steps, and seated myself down again; but I could no longer study the stars: the mother and child were ever present to my mind. That girl was once happy, I thought. She may have shone in virtue and accomplishments. Now she is loaded with misery. And what has changed her condition thus? was it the visitation of Providence? was it sudden illness? was it her own crime? She had fallen a victim to her own virtues, her own confidence, her own fondness, her own gentleness. The angelic nature of her sex, was worked upon for her destruction, and after having been deceived, she was discarded,—she! nay,—not she alone—but the innocent child—too young to offend, too helpless to be criminal—was also thrown on the wide, unfeeling world. Has one human creature any right thus to load another with misery, to drive another to desperation, to convert the life of another—aye, and by a most villainous method—into a period of enduring suffering and anguish? The man, too, who hast blasted her happiness, is rich, and perhaps, at this moment, when his victim and child are perishing of starvation, is surrounded by his merry minions and lemans, and is squandering away that wealth, of which the thousandth part would save his child from famine. I could no longer restrain myself. ‘Great Ruler of the Universe,’ I exclaimed, ‘canst Thou permit these things? How is it, that thou, who hast filled the space, that confounds human understanding, with such worlds of beautiful worlds; that hast so wisely adjusted their incomprehensible systems, that all revolve and move in perfect harmony, and submit implicitly to the great laws that Thou hast imposed upon them:—how is it that Thou hast given such license to one of thy humble creatures, that he, apparently uncontrolled, can stride in wickedness over this fair world, and blast the life and happiness which Thou, also bestowed?—This, at least, is not wisdom!...’

“Hush! blasphemer, hush,” a spirit seemed to whisper to me.

“Chide not Heaven foolishly! Thou sayest that He has ordained laws to which worlds that thou but faintly seest above, are subject:—that’s true: carry thy reflections still farther. Thou beholdest above thee, with the naked eye, orbs, in regard to which thy powers of calculation are scarcely comprehensive enough to keep pace with thy vision. To thy sight, when assisted, these already uncountable worlds multiply themselves to numbers which thou canst attempt to speak of only in ratios; and, probably, when thy ingenuity shall have contrived to invent some instrument that will assist thy vision still more, thou shalt behold, open before thee, an immensity of orb-filled space, at the sight of which despair will well-nigh seize thee. Consider all these,—even the few that thou seest without unusual exertion,—they all exist, move, and revolve by the force of laws which are impressed upon them. Contemplate their mechanism and order. Take this one—it is the centre of a system, and stands the governor, amidst millions of other orbs that are subject and obedient to its guidance. It moves, and they move, too, with and around it; and it is itself subject to some other, from which it receives its motion and its law. Those others, too, that so humbly seem to follow it, are, each of them in its place, the rulers of others again, that are less powerful than themselves, and give their law to them. Each of these, apparently, disjointed parts, and these numerous groups of world-contained worlds, are united and cemented, under the all-powerful force of law, and form a whole that is more incomprehensible at the ratio of the unit of each, than its component parts. Still, notwithstanding this unrealizable immensity, behold the harmony and regularity with which they perform their revolutions. In these gyrations, that are as innumerable as themselves, not one clashes against the other; and when they diverge the distance of even a cubic inch, such divergence is ever exacted by the necessity of the self-same law, which so marvellously controls them. In the movements of these vast bodies time can be calculated to the utmost second; and in their inclination to a given point, towards which they have been verging for millions of your computed years, not a difference, except that which the known law seemed to require, can be traced, either in ratio, or in, what appears to your short-lived eyes, their remarkable slowness. Here mark law, and obedience to that law.

“From the sublime regions come now to earth. Thou mayest behold design and intelligence in the very inorganic matter that composes it, from the consolidated and hardened granite that resists and beats back the rushing ocean, to the minute particle that blinds thee by the roadside. Law is stamped upon them, and adherence to that law, composes their very existence. Again, the trees which shelter this beautiful globe tell, in their germination, their bloom, their blossom, and decay, of law and obedience.

“Proceed to organized things;—contemplate all living creatures, from the low and torpid lizard that creeps upon the tombstone, and turns its cold and clammy sides to the sunbeams, to the gigantic elephant—thou wilt find that every animal carries in itself a law and undergoes the pains of retribution whenever it violates that law. Thus the browsing sheep that forgets its instinct, and feeds on poisonous herbs, dies. The scorpion, that turns his sting upon itself, also dies. The antelope, if it throws itself down a rock must necessarily be dashed to pieces. In all these things you see law, and its safeguard—retribution. Man, as well as all other beings, is subject to it, and the penalty which its violation entails. If you establish false systems among yourselves, and consent to postpone to an imaginary period, this penalty, which ought to be made to follow closely upon every violation of the law, surely Heaven is not to be blamed. Duty is poised between the reward of virtue and retribution:—man has the license to choose, between either meriting the former, or bringing down the latter, upon himself. The great error of your social physics is, that you remit this penalty to a period of time, which if it were even unimagined, would fail to afford the principal and best effect of retribution,—the deterring from crimes.

“Like those who dwelt on the banks of the Nile of old, who built cities for dead men, and gave them kings, and made laws for them, and established vast prisons and instituted judges, and sketched out places which the most fevered imagination cannot realize, and surrounded them with pleasures, or filled them with horrors, either as happy regions where virtues were to be rewarded, or frightful holes in which crimes were to be punished, you permit the evil-doer to live his wicked years, and sink amidst the weeping sorrow of friends or bribed strangers into the quiet grave, then read the lesson to mystified listeners—that evil deeds are punished. If the wretch, who poisoned the life of that miserable creature whom thou but now didst rescue, were made to suffer the one-hundredth part of that misery which he has caused; his mates in vile wickedness, appalled by the example, would shrink in trembling fear from the perpetration of like crimes. You forget, in your social system, the wisdom of the race which you affect to despise, while you cherish the theological philosophy which you were eager to borrow from them, and tie the hand of the avenger, and blunt the double-edged sword of retribution. You punish the man who takes away the life of another; who consigns another to the oblivion on which neither misery nor pleasure intrudes, and him who makes the life of the living worse than death, you permit to roam, in his foulness, this beautiful earth, and only hope that the retribution which you yourselves ought to bring about, will be wrought by the very hand of the Being who operates here but by his created agents. And then, thou short-sighted, impulse-ridden, and reason-limited mortal, complainest in loud and senseless terms against Heaven, while at thy own door lies the wrong. Know that man himself, by law, is the avenger, the retributionist on himself or others.

“‘Ah! is it so?’ I said. I reflected, and found that it must be so.—The scales fell from my eyes.—‘True, true,’ I cried.—Heaven forgive the impulse of a short-sighted mortal.

“Then this man, who may now be rolling in profusion while his child is dying of hunger, ought to be made to bear the stings of famine, too, and suffer the same misery which he has inflicted on others.—And—oh! a fearful light broke in upon me—and the man from whose hands I demanded not existence, but who has given me life, and abandoned me in my misery, ought likewise to feel some part of the sufferings which I undergo. Yes: the only prevention of crime is to make its punishment follow immediately in its course.

“‘Then, hear ye powers above,’ I exclaimed, ‘this miserable life I devote to vindicate the law of nature which has been violated in me, and in your child; and I swear, by the Great Being who gave me reason, that I shall not rest until I have taught my father, that the creature to whom he has given life possesses feelings and sensibility, and is capable of taking vengeance.’

“I resolved, at once, to start for the West Indies, and to go to the docks, as soon as it was light, to procure a ship. So, on the impulse of the thought, I proceeded to the place where I had my lowly lodging to fetch my telescope. But, although I knocked loud enough to awake the soundest sleepers, the door was not opened; I, therefore, sat on the steps until daylight came. When morning had dawned I again knocked, but was refused admittance. ‘Then give me my telescope,’ I prayed. The telescope had been sold the night before for my rent, I was told. I was overwhelmed. It was natural enough the master of the house should require his money, but I never could have contemplated that my telescope would have been taken from me. Rallying from the shock that I had received, I begged to see the master. After some time he came to the door. He was a fat heavy little man, whose voice came whizzingly from his encumbered chest. I implored him to restore me my telescope, telling him that it was my only companion and solace in life, and I offered to work for him in whatever capacity, how mean soever it might be, for the few shillings that were due to him, provided he would give me back my telescope. ‘Go along with you,’ he answered, ‘do you take me for a fool?’ and shut the door violently in my face. I turned away, and was so dejected in mind and wasted in body, that I could not walk. The morning advanced, and the street began to present the busy scene by which it was every day animated. My musings imperceptibly turned on the motly crowd before me. I contemplated the scene in which there might be observed the shrewd cabman driving to death his jaded horse, the affluent man of business, hurrying with inclining head to the pursuit of greater wealth, the afflicted widow, moving along in modest grief; the age-stricken and poor cripple crawling in his sordid rags, and the man of fortune with his air of self-satisfaction, his dangling jewels and his gaudy equipage. I remarked that these different persons passed each other as if no kindly word or salutation had ever rested on their heavy tongues—like gruff animals that hurry in silence to their separate lairs. Each seemed intent on his own pursuit. The driver did not withdraw his attention from his horse’s head, nor did the lordling stop to succour the decaying wretch; the man of business did not raise his eyes from the ground, on which he seemed to count his gains, to notice the sorrowful widow: yet these men possess wealth enough to render thousands happy without injuring themselves.

“They have wealth enough to have my telescope restored to me, and cause my happiness; still, yon wretched being may—nay, will probably sink into his grave for the want of a brass penny from any of these, and I—I should probably be handed over to the police officer, were I to make one more effort for my telescope. ‘Mankind, farewell!’ I exclaimed, from the force of my disgust, ‘I may pity you, but never can love you.’

“I then walked down to the London Docks where, after some inquiry, I found a ship prepared for a voyage to Jamaica. I offered myself to the commander as a seaman. He began to depreciate my capabilities, and said that I should, probably, encumber others rather than be of any service.

“I told him that I could steer a ship, and take observations; I did not mention my competency to do the other parts of navigation, for I was afraid to prejudice him against me; for individuals of that class pride themselves on the idea that the great secret of managing a ship, is in their hands alone, and that other men are, or ought to be—entirely ignorant of it.

“Finally, I asked him to examine me, on the mariner’s compass, and on navigation.

“He readily did so, and the ignorant creature put me some miserable questions, about the sun’s altitude at noon, and some such matter which he had been mechanically taught. I answered them, and encouraged all the while the important and patronizing air which he had assumed. When we have no money, and desire the accomplishment of any purpose, we must learn to use towards men, a passport that is equivalent—a sympathy with their vanity. The result was, that I was immediately granted a passage to Jamaica, on condition that I should work it.

“As I sailed down the Thames and gazed on the banks of the river, I became a prey to the saddest reflections. Fancy had often whispered to me thoughts of a brilliant and happy career. The lightness of heart with which I began and prosecuted my studies; the happiness which I derived from them, and my total unacquaintance with the world, had never permitted me to speculate a moment on the possibility of misfortune or of distress. I had fondly cherished the hope, that in Europe, the centre of the highest human civilization, I should have been able one day to bring down some truth from the stars to mankind, and should have crowned the labours of a lifetime, with banishing away some of the ignorance in which the human species was enveloped. But when I experienced the prostration of want—the prostration that arises not from an enfeebling of the body, or from a decay of mind, but simply from not possessing the conventional medium of exchange; when I saw that our most glorious enterprises are subject, on account of a necessary evil of civilisation, and the iniquitous habits of mankind, to be blasted; I became persuaded that, without money, no man can hope to propagate truth; and the difficulty of carrying my projects into execution was forced upon me. This, however, could partly be overcome. But as I left Europe, I felt that all hopes of realizing my designs were gone.

“The ardour which had, however, inflamed me in one pursuit, fired me also in another, and to it was added the force of unswerving necessity;—that of visiting on the individual who was the primary source of my sufferings, the same amount of them as I was enduring.

“But I find I am becoming prolix. It is now late—you and I require rest; come again to-morrow night and I shall let you hear the other part of the adventures, which have ended in leaving me a prisoner on board your father’s ship, and a narrator to you of my history.”

The young officer rose up, and, shaking hands with Appadocca, bade him good night with that melancholy sympathy which only true and disinterested friendship can inspire.

CHAPTER XIII.

The next night, about the same hour, Charles Hamilton again betook himself to the cabin-prison of Appadocca, who resumed his narrative as he had promised.

“When I arrived at Jamaica, I proceeded at once,” he continued, “to San Domingo, where I knew there were many at that time to whom the world was as disgusting as it was to myself, and who, I judged, would be the proper instruments to aid me in my schemes. The French revolution had torn up whole families together, from the soil on which they had been rooted for generations, and had driven them to distant countries for protection and subsistence. They had carried with them, to their new homes, a strong hatred for their then democratic country, in particular, and for the whole world in general. For suffering tends not to soften the feelings or expand the heart. Pain, either mental or bodily, sours the sweetest nature, and it requires the strongest fortitude to endure it without anger.—Even Zeno strangled himself when he had known pain.

“Among such men only who hated the world from having, like myself, experienced injustice, I thought I could live. When I arrived at San Domingo, I found that even my anticipations were exceeded. I found the exiles existing in a state of cynical philosophy, in the midst of the virgin forests that covered the island. They lived in rude huts, erected apart from each other, which they called boucans. There they passed their lives in the society only of their dogs, and of their apprentices or servants, that jointly aided them in the chase by which they subsisted.

“The instinct of active pleasure seemed entirely eradicated from their hearts; for after the day’s work was done, and they had killed the animal which promised them food for a few days, they usually stretched themselves on their bed of reeds, and sullenly smoked away their waking hours.

“This life was so congenial to one who had suffered much, that I should have settled myself with the others, amidst the solitude of the wilderness, and would have there prosecuted the studies with which my existence was so strongly wrapped, if I had not a vow to fulfil.

“How seductive soever I thought those boucans to be, I was obliged to abandon the idea of enjoying the calm quiet, which they promised, and to form a scheme to carry into effect the resolution which I had taken.

“I was not long in San Domingo, before I met some of my fellow students of the French University, who, as belonging to the old aristocracy, were banished from France. I found them disgusted with the arduous life which they were obliged to lead, and fretting over the destiny which had, with so little justice, deprived them of so much at home, to allow them so little in their new country. I availed myself of their impatience, and proposed to them a life which was by far less monotonous than that which they then followed, and which, beside, was attended with greater gain—to say nothing of the opportunity which it would afford of avenging themselves on men, and not on harmless brutes. They received my proposal with acclamation.

“On the spur of the moment we procured a vessel. I was elected captain, and we went in search of adventures on the high seas. I led my followers on wrecklessly in action, and at other times, I kept them under an iron discipline. The success of my enterprizes gave greater weight to my position, to which I had been elevated, only from a great respect with which it seemed they regarded my character. I was consequently enabled to develope my original plan more and more. The time at last arrived—I sailed to Trinidad.

“By going ashore in disguise, and by a variety of other means, I learnt that my father was about to take passage in a ship for England. I watched the sailing of the vessel, and captured her some days after her departure. Then I effected that which I had designed, and attempted to make him undergo the same miseries, to which he had subjected me. Chance, however, seems to have rescued him; and, as you see, through his instrumentality I am now a prisoner.”

“And I hope, Emmanuel,” said the young officer, “you will now consider your vow as performed, and will cease to follow up this course of unnatural enmity to him who gave you life.”

“Cease!” exclaimed Appadocca, “cease! men of my cast never ‘cease!’ What I do, I do from reason: and as long as I am under the domination of that power, you need not fear that I shall ever ‘cease.’ I have long buried impulse, and I endeavour to act up to the dictates of the mind. Do not imagine that I could have sacrificed my life—by the ordinary standard of existence but only half spent—and devoted it to the attainment of an end, and then stop, and fold my arms because a slight accident has happened to cross me in my schemes. No—no. Be it again recorded that I now renew the vow which I made twelvemonths ago. I again devote my life to the vindication of that natural law which has been violated in....”

“Stop! Emmanuel,” cried the young officer, with warmth, as he stood quickly up, and grasped the uplifted arm of Appadocca, “do not—for G—d’s sake—for my sake—for your own sake, make another diabolical vow. Emmanuel, you must know you cannot but afflict your friends by choosing to remain in this unfortunate mesh in which you have entangled the intellect and the heart that God has granted to you. I curse the day that the name of this father of yours was ever made known to you; it has led you to the perversion of your natural faculties, to the branding of yourself with the stigma of parricide—against which all nature revolts—and to your flying in the very face of Heaven.”

And the officer seemed deeply afflicted.

The captain still maintained his calm indifference, and, after the lapse of a few seconds, said—

“Parricide—hum! and what would you have called, perchance, the act of the father if the child had actually died of starvation? what if life had ebbed from sheer inanition? You look only on the right of the parent and not on that of the child, who, be it said, has a double claim—a claim that nature gives him, and one which he inherits from the measure of kindness and protection that his grandfather manifested to his immediate progenitor when he himself was the child. You say, too, that all nature revolts against the parricide—as you call it: error,—nature revolts only against injustice. All things are entitled to a certain measure of justice; and the natural contract between parent and child is based on the condition that, as the former has loved the latter, and protected its infancy, the latter, will yield obedience, honor, and respect, and gratitude to him. Where the condition be not fulfilled, the contract, by necessity, ceases, the child becomes absolved from his obligation; and if he resents more than ordinary wrongs that may have been done to him, he can assume, with all approbation of moral philosophy—nay, nature calls upon him to undertake the office of avenger, and to vindicate her law. I am no parricide!

“You need not fear that I shall prostitute the faculties with which you are pleased to say God has gifted me; and, as for my flying in the face of Heaven, in that respect you deceive yourself.

“I war not against God. On the contrary: recognise in me but the mere tool of His justice. To believe that the Almighty could thus look on, on crimes, and tie the hand of the avenger, is to suppose no just God. No—no, the only difference between your sentiments and mine are, that you imagine He reserves his rewards and punishments to be meted out in Heavens and in hells—and I, on my part, can demonstrate, and consequently must, and do believe that he uses a less cumbrous machinery, and makes law—law which he instituted and impressed on things,—the regulator of his creation, and the vindicator of itself. No: as long as I live, I shall make it the end of my existence to prosecute the unworthy author of my days, until the world shall learn by a dire deed that it is contrary to justice to give life to a sentient being, then abandon it; and that all organised creatures are endowed with sensibility to make them feel, and spirit to make them resent injuries.”

“You have sunk yourself,” replied the officer, who seemed more inclined to follow out his own opinions, than to give ear to the arguments of Appadocca, “sufficiently deep in crimes, Emmanuel, without taking any additional vows to load yourself more heavily with them. You may have suffered grievous injuries, I do not gainsay, but why should privations have led you to the vile course of robbing and thieving?”

“Robbery and thieving?”

“Yes, robbery and thieving: for how otherwise can I designate piracy?”

“Ha! I see,” replied Appadocca, controlling himself, “I see you have either not gone far enough into philosophy, or that you blind yourself to its lights. If I am guilty of piracy, you, too—the whole of mankind is guilty of the very same sort of crime.”

“What do you mean by this?” asked Hamilton.

“Simply, that which my words convey,” replied Appadocca.

“Perhaps you will explain yourself more amply?” suggested Hamilton.

“Well,” rejoined Appadocca, “what I mean is plain enough, and it is this, that the whole of the civilized world turns, exists, and grows enormous on the licensed system of robbing and thieving, which you seem to criminate so much. The barbarous hordes, whose fathers, either choice or some unlucky accident, originally drove to some cold, frozen, cheerless, and fruitless waste, increasing in numbers, wincing under the inclemency of their clime and the poverty of their land, and longing after the richer, and more fertile, and teeming soil of some other country, desert their wretched regions, and with all the machinery of war, melt down on the unprovoking nations, whose only crime is their being more fortunate and blest, and wrench from their enervated sway the prosperous fields that first provoked their famished cupidity. The people which a convenient position, either on a neck of land, or the elbow of some large river, first consolidated, developed, and enriched, after having appropriated, through the medium of commerce, the wealth of its immediate neighbours, sends forth its numerous and powerful ships to scour the seas, to penetrate into hitherto unknown regions, where discovering new and rich countries, they, in the name of civilization, first open an intercourse with the peaceful and contented inhabitants, next contrive to provoke a quarrel, which always terminates in a war that leaves them the conquerors and possessors of the land. As for the original inhabitants themselves, they are driven after the destruction of their cities, to roam the woods, and to perish and disappear on the advance of their greedy supplanters. Nations that are different only in the language with which they vent their thoughts, inhabiting the same portions of the globe, and separated but by a narrow stream, eagerly watch the slightest inclination of accident in their respective favours, and on the plea, either of religion—that fertile theme, and ready instigator—or on the still more extensive and uncertain ground of politics, use the chance that circumstances throw into their hands, make incursions and fight battles, whose fruits are only misery and wretchedness. A fashion springs up at a certain time to have others to labour for our benefit, and to bear ‘the heat and burthen of the day’ in our stead: straightway, the map of the world is opened, and the straggling and weakest portions of a certain race, whose power of bodily and mental endurance, renders them the likely objects to answer this end, are chosen. The coasts of the country on which nature has placed them, are immediately lined with ships of acquisitive voyagers, who kidnap and tear them away from the scenes that teem with the associations of their own and their fathers’ happiness, load them with irons, throw them into the cruel ordeal of the ‘middle passage,’ to test whether they are sufficiently iron-constituted as to survive the starvation, stench, and pestilential contagion which decide the extent of the African’s endurance, and fix his value. This, my dear friend is an abstracted idea of the manner in which the world turns. But, as we used to say when we were younger, and happier, ‘in generalibus latet fraus,’ allow me to descend to particulars, and to bring my observations more closely home to society as now constituted. In all the various parts which form its whole, you will be able to trace the same spirit to which I impliedly referred in viewing the conduct of congregated individuals,—nations. You find those whom fortune has called to the first place in the state, instead of exerting their intellect to the utmost stretch, and expanding their heart to its greatest width, for the wise and virtuous government, and for the development of the happiness of those who are subjected to their rule, wasting their time in the pursuit of the most shadowy gewgaws, squandering, in empty vanities, the tax-extorted treasures of their subjects—treasures that could have preserved the flame of many a light of humanity, whose doom it has been to flicker for a moment in a garret, and be for ever extinguished; or pampering their already over-fed bodies to the point that sensitive reason refuses to longer hold together with such masses of matter. Those again in secondary spheres, use the authority with which they are invested, not with the keen discernment of delicate justice, but on the spur and press of passion. Is there some conquered people to be governed?—they send their weak-minded, afflicted, and helpless friends or relatives to govern those whose ancestors gave philosophy, religion, and government to the world, but who must now themselves stoop, to cut wood, and to carry water, when, by the common rules of justice, they should be permitted to enjoy the land from which they have sprung, and to participate in its dignities.

“What villainous case is there, that with the ready fee, does not find the well-turned and silvery measures of the orator to palm it forth. The widow’s mite, or the prince’s prerogative, may depend upon the issue,—’tis all the same. Poverty and utter want may follow the words of the cunning speaker, and rascality and villainy may rise triumphant,—what matters it?

“At the side of suffering humanity stands the willing doctor, and plies, and plies the rich patient with make-show drugs.

“From the pulpit invectives flow, for the voice of religion; charity yields to controversy; the denunciation of other’s condemned and re-condemned errors supply the place of the practice of benevolence; and in the name of that Christ, who came with ‘peace and goodwill to man’, evil passions are roused, daggers whetted, and massacres sanctified; while he, who, with spectacles on nose, and twang in voice, moves the ready machine, grins in his closet over the glittering gold that his lectures, invectives, panegyrics, and homilies, bring in.

“This is not all. Are you hungry? the baker sends you bread compounded with pestilential stuffs, grows rich, visits the church, sympathises with heathen savages, and sends delegates to call them within the bosom of his sweet civilization. Are you thirsty? the herb that nature furnishes you for your refreshment is taken and turned, and painted, and fried till it becomes poison, and then given you with balmy smiles.

“The world can be compared to a vast marsh, abounding with monster alligators that devour the smaller creatures, and then each other.”

“Apply your argument, Appadocca,” said Hamilton, “for I do not properly feel its force.”

“The application follows, naturally, my dear Charles,” replied Appadocca. “It is this: If I take away from the merchant whose property very likely consists of the accumulation of exorbitant and excessive profits, the sugar which by the vice of mortgages he wrings at a nominal price from the debt-ridden planter, who, in his turn, robs the unfortunate slave of his labour, I take what is ethically not his property, therefore, I commit no robbery. For, it is clear, he who wrenches away from the hands of another, that which the holder is not entitled to, does no wrong.”

“Hum,” groaned Hamilton, “nice distinction.”

“To myself I am unstained,” continued Appadocca, “notwithstanding the necessity that made me require the aid of expediency. No man can say that Emmanuel Appadocca ever fed his pirates with the lawful property of any one.”

A considerable pause ensued.

“But it strikes me, Emmanuel,” said Hamilton, resuming the conversation, “you forget, in your observations, that commerce, and the voyages which you seem to censure so much by implication, are the proper stimulants to civilization and human cultivation.”

“A very vulgar error, my dear Charles, and quite unworthy of your father’s son,” replied Appadocca. “The human mind does not require to be pioneered by Gog and Magog in order to improve. It is not in the busy mart, not at the tinkling of gold, that it grows and becomes strong; nor is it on the shaft of the steam-engine which propels your huge fabrics to rich though savage shores that it increases. No: there it degenerates and falls into the mere thing whose beginning is knack, whose end is knack. The mind can thrive only in the silence that courts contemplation. It was in such silence that among a race, which is now despised and oppressed, speculation took wing, and the mind burst forth, and, scorning things of earth, scaled the heavens, read the stars, and elaborated systems of philosophy, religion, and government: while the other parts of the world were either enveloped in darkness, or following in eager and uncontemplative haste the luring genii of riches. Commerce makes steam engines and money—it assists not the philosophical progress of the mind.”

“I cannot admire this strange and extraordinary theory, Emmanuel,” answered the young officer, evidently disposed to terminate this startling conversation.

“You may call it strange and extraordinary, if you please,” answered Appadocca; “but it is not the less true on account of its novelty: it is scarcely to be expected to commend itself to the world I know, because, forsooth, it is new and strange: although the systems and notions which are now as familiar as household terms, were, once upon a time, quite as new, strange, and extraordinary. Mankind is doomed to draw its venerative and uninquiring self along. Science cannot accelerate its unwilling movements. For my part, I shall cling to my own doctrine, and shall give an account of my actions to a Supreme Being, when the time arrives to do so.”

“Well, well, I shall not discuss such points with you,” replied the officer, “I cannot congratulate myself on possessing wits sharp enough to cut through your strings of subtilities, I give up, therefore, these unprofitable points: my instincts, I must declare, are against piracy.”

“Instincts, indeed!” partly interjected Appadocca, “another stumbling block, and obstacle to science. There are no such things as instincts in man: he alone is distinguished from the rest of organic beings by the indefiniteness of his mind and sensibilities. The habits in which men are brought up, the notions of ignorance which they have compounded and adopted they call instincts, and thus saddle wise and good nature with an amount of absurdities that would make her blush, if she were conscious of the faults which she is made to bear on the ground of having implanted, in the human breast, feelings which are as ridiculous as they are false. As for you, Charles, I am somewhat surprised at you. It is clear you have not improved since you left the university. The time that you had for contemplation during your student’s life, ought to have produced better fruits than an unconditional adoption of the vague notions of the unreflecting, as soon as you found yourself among them.

“Pardon the freedom with which I speak—our friendship alone has made me depart from the usual silence which I invariably maintain.”

“No—no apology is necessary, my dear Emmanuel—I know you—I know you! Besides, we have always observed, that those who are endowed with a certain amount of intellect, like the pendulum of a clock, are liable to go as far from a given centre, in one direction as in the other. But let us drop this topic, and think of your safety. I have heard your story, and really I am not surprised that such a sensitive individual as you should have been driven by so much injustice to a course which, with all my sympathy towards you, I cannot but denounce. Appadocca, we have seen happy and innocent days together, before either injury had driven you into—into—crime, or the business of the world had thrown part of its cares upon me: I could not stand with my arms folded and see you tried like a malefactor, and, perhaps, end your life under the hands of a vile hangman: I have formed a plan to facilitate your escape.”

“A plan to facilitate my escape?”

“Yes, I am in high command on board this ship, and I have men who are devoted to me. This very night you will be put on shore.”

A pause ensued,—in which Appadocca seemed buried in deep reflection; while Charles Hamilton, quite surprised by the coldness manifested on the announcement of what he considered the happiest news to a prisoner,—the prospects of escape—grew gradually pale, and paler as the truth began to break upon him that his friend, from some strange doctrine of his own, might obstinately refuse to consult his safety, and to avail himself of the means of escape, which Hamilton could lay in his power.

After the lapse of a few minutes, Appadocca grasped the hand of the young officer.

“No, no,” he said, “Charles, I esteem you too much, and venerate the law of nature too much, to avail myself of this kindness. Recollect that confidence is placed in you; you are bound to use it scrupulously, else retribution will surely follow any breach of it. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your good intention, but I cannot,—I will not accept your offer. If I escape, I shall do so without compromising any person, least of all, one of my oldest, and most esteemed friends.”

“I was not aware,” replied the young officer, somewhat piqued, “that I required to be reminded of the confidence which is here placed in me: be not, however, so foolish as to refuse my offer, let me entreat you.”

“Do not press me.”

“I stake my friendship on your acceptance,” said the officer with some determination. “He who refuses the good offices of a friend when he requires them, especially in a case of life and death, can have no proper feeling for him who proffers them, and he is, to boot—a fool. Good night, Emmanuel,” continued the officer, getting up, somewhat angry, “I give you until to-morrow to think of what I have offered.—Good night.”

The officer went out of the cabin, and Appadocca was left by himself.

CHAPTER XIV.

A short time after the capture of Emmanuel Appadocca, there might be observed a narrow canoe, with a single individual in it, far out at sea, apparently going still farther out,—for it was lustily paddled against the long sweeping waves that seemed at every moment to be about to bury the frail bark under their heavy volumes.

The trade wind, which still blew, seemed to impede the progress of the canoe, and it was evident that the solitary person, who sat in its stern, found it necessary to exert all his strength in order to make any headway.

But whither away such a frail vessel in the immensity of the ocean, and still going farther out to sea? and what could be the design of the individual who seemed to brave so recklessly the fury of the waves?

Upon closer observation it might have been perceived, that the person who sat alone at the stern of the canoe was our old acquaintance, Jack Jimmy.

As soon as his master was captured, he had taken to flight, but not with the design of abandoning the interest of his young master, as he still called Appadocca. He had managed to insinuate himself among the coteries of boatmen and porters that skulked about the beach, and unobserved among them, he had been able to watch what befell his master. Effectually he saw Appadocca, when he was marched down a prisoner to the boat, and witnessed his embarkation. He discovered by his inquiries, that the boat belonged to the British man-of-war, that was then lying off the harbour, and heard the tale which had by that time become a nine day’s wonder of the place, “of a man who was taken by a pirate, thrown overboard, picked up by a vessel, and had come to St. Thomas’ after the pirate, and had had him taken.”

Jack Jimmy had now gained sufficient intelligence; his own sagacity developed to him the whole extent of his master’s position.

“Good bye, buddee,” he cried, as soon as he had heard the last word of the story, and set off, at the height of the speed at which his short legs would carry him, and left his wondering story-tellers in convulsive laughter at his apparent eccentricity.

Jack Jimmy kept running in this manner for nearly two hours, without any abatement of the speed with which he had started. Perspiration flowed in torrents over his cheeks, and those who met him, stopped to stare at the individual who was so eccentrically giving himself such violent exercise while exposed to the scorching rays of a vertical sun.

Jack Jimmy did not stop until he reached a secluded spot by the sea-shore, where, at the foot of two opposing hills, the sea had eaten away a deep recess, and had left as in exchange for the land which it had robbed, numbers of strange and beautiful shells, that paved the place. Within this natural shelter, some fishermen’s canoes were drawn up. Jack Jimmy looked around him carefully, and seeing no one at hand, he walked up to one of the canoes, and with two stones managed to grind asunder the small rope with which it was fastened to a stake, and then concentrating his powers, endeavoured to launch it. But his strength was not equal to the task: vainly he repeated his efforts—still no success—he gave up the task, for the moment, in despair, and sat on the ground and wept from vexation.

His despair soon gave way to a fiercer feeling.

“You must go in de water,” he cried, addressing the canoe, and rising in desperation, he applied his strength to it again;—it began to move a little, “Tenk Gad,” Jack Jimmy cried. Again another strain:—it moved again, and by little and little, Jack Jimmy got it nearer and nearer to the water’s edge: by one long and straining effort he finally succeeded in launching it.

He sprang into it as soon as it was afloat, tore up one of the thwarts, and paddled with it vigorously out to sea.

When he had got at a considerable distance from land he stopped.

The sun was then sinking, shedding soft and sweet brilliancy over the evening hour. “Yes, me ’member,” said Jack Jimmy, “wen we lef de ’chooner, you bin behind a wee”; and after having thus spoken to that luminary, and probably made his calculations, in his own original way, he steered the canoe towards the east, and continued the powerful use of his paddle until he arrived at the spot where the reader has discovered him.

Jack Jimmy held his lonely course on the great ocean until next morning; when he discovered the pirate vessel at a distance. He redoubled his strokes, and made for her. In a short time he had gained her sides.

Arriving alongside, he nimbly jumped on board, and threw himself flat on the deck, with his face downwards, and at the foot of Lorenzo, who was standing with a spy-glass in his hand at the gangway.

The officer had perceived the small canoe, and on using his glass, he had discovered that the lonely individual in it was Jack Jimmy. His mind at once misgave him. The captain is taken was his first thought.

It was with impatient anxiety, therefore, that he inquired of Jack Jimmy, when he got on deck, what had become of his master.

The little negro shook his head convulsively at the question, and interjected, “Massa!” but seemed incapable of saying anything else. Lorenzo waited a few moments, but Jack Jimmy could say nothing more.

“Speak, fellow,” cried he with vehemence, “where is the captain? Is—is—is he taken?”

“Ah! Garamighty,” answered Jack Jimmy.

“Will you speak, sir,” cried Lorenzo with fury. “Is your master taken?”

Jack Jimmy shook his head violently again, and cried, “Yes, yes, Garamighty, massa, massa!” he continued, “big, big English ship, take massa.”

“And where is the ship?”

“In St. Thomas’, massa,” answered Jack Jimmy.

“Make sail,” was Lorenzo’s immediate command; “keep her way.”

The schooner immediately sheered off to the wind, and in an instant was bounding over the waves for St. Thomas’.

When she neared the island, Lorenzo prudently cast her in the wind, and remained lying too until it was dark, at which time he drew nearer the harbour, and making use of a boat, recognoitred the “big English ship,” as Jack Jimmy had described it.

After the officer had properly examined the large ship-of-war which held his chief captive, and had managed to elicit further and more explicit information from Jack Jimmy, whose excitement of nerves had now a little subsided, he began to think of the measures which he ought to take to effect the liberation of his friend and superior. His first impulse was to fife to arms, to attack the huge fabric, whose very sides seemed to frown destruction on the light schooner. Prudence, on reflection, however, forbad such a step. There was too great disproportion between the large ship and the small craft of the pirates, and between the armament and complement of the one and of the other; and even if, by a fierce and sudden assault, the pirates should carry the man-of-war, what chance was there of rescuing the chief? Probably he was secured in some deep recess below decks, whither, perhaps, even the roar of the ship’s guns could scarcely echo; and if even the comparatively few men that composed the crew of the schooner, could gain any advantage over the four-times more numerous complement of the ship, it could only amount to a mere temporary possession of the upper deck. Besides, the whole harbour, on the event of a combat, would be alarmed, and it was probable that the pirates, even if victors, would be entirely unable to contend against the multitudes which would be dispatched against them from the shore. “No, I must try other means,” thought the officer. After much deliberation, he at last resolved on the plan of watching the ship-of-war, and of discovering, by every possible means, in what part of the vessel Appadocca was confined, so that he might attempt a surreptitious entry on board, and carry away the prisoner.

For that purpose he sent three men ashore in disguise, that they might procure as much information as possible. These were not long at a loss in devising means for doing so.

The pirate schooner was manned by individuals who had been of a superior class in society, before they exiled themselves from it. Chiefly men of education, they were doubly dangerous in their illicit pursuits, inasmuch as they could bring to bear upon their purposes, the assistance of art, and the power of inventing.

They easily disguised themselves when they were a-shore, as vendors of fruit, and as the other small dealers that may be seen of a-morning, in their little canoes around the ships at anchor, in the ports of the tropics.

In their assumed course of bartering, they managed to elicit from the sailors of the man-of-war, intelligence about Appadocca, and the part of the vessel in which he was confined.

As soon as they became possessed of as much information as they possibly could procure, they returned on board the schooner, and carefully narrated the sum of their observation to Lorenzo.

Return we now to Appadocca himself.

CHAPTER XV.

The period accorded by the friendship of Charles Hamilton to the prisoner, for the acceptance or rejection of his offer to become the means of his escape, had now expired, and the two young friends were sitting together in the cabin-prison in which Appadocca was confined.

“So you will not consent to put aside your insane notions and escape, when I place it in your power to do so?” said Charles Hamilton, dejectedly, and, at the same time, somewhat scornfully, twisting his whiskers.

“No!” replied Appadocca with much decision.

“Then,” replied the officer, “I shall have nothing farther to do with you; they may hang you, quarter you, and do, G—d knows what else to you.”

“As for that matter,” answered Appadocca, affecting something like the same satire as his friend had used, “you may exercise your own discretion; but is it not a little absurd that, because I am not willing to sanction the mis-use of the authority which you possess on board your father’s ship, in your allowing me, who have been brought here a prisoner, to escape, that I, on that account, should lose your favor, and cease to be deemed worthy of your notice, even if I should happen to be hanged, quartered, and done G—d knows what else to?” and Appadocca smiled good-naturedly.

“This is the second time, Emmanuel, that you have adverted to my authority on board this ship, and reflected on my conduct in endeavouring to befriend you: I hope it may be the last. You must recollect that I am an Englishman, and an English officer, and I consider that I possess as delicate a sense of honor and as great a knowledge of duty as any gentleman whosoever.”

“And I,” replied Appadocca, “I am an animal,—sub-kingdom, vertebrata, genus homo, and species,—‘tropical American;’ naturalists lay my habitat all over the world, and declare me omnivorous. I do not pride myself on possessing merely such an indefinite thing as sense of honor, or great knowledge of duty; but observation has made me acquainted with the universal laws which nature has imposed upon us in order to secure to us contentment and happiness; and your wishing to make your station on board this vessel subservient to my escape is in opposition to one of those laws, the certain precursor of your own unhappiness, I shall not consent to it. Speak to me no more on this subject.”

“If, Emmanuel, I had considered that my good faith was concerned in making an offer of escape to you, you may rely upon it. I should neither have attempted to lower myself in my own estimation, nor should I have subjected myself to the animadversion of your nice and exquisite philosophy. I shall use the same liberty of speech as you have done, and assume the right of telling you, that His Majesty’s ship, which my father has the honour to command, was built, fitted out, and sent to sea, for the purpose of fighting the enemies of England, and not for the purpose of scavenging for pirates and freebooters: my commission was granted for the same purpose. I consider, therefore, that this vessel ought not to be made the lock-up of accused individuals; nor ought my father be obliged to abet and to assist the malice of hard-hearted planters, or interfere in the actions of strangely arguing sons—I therefore consider myself bound by no honour in this affair; and I am, consequently, free to act as I please. I recognize in you my ancient and respected friend, and I offer you my assistance to escape. You may accept it or not—this is Saxon.”

Charles Hamilton spoke this with considerable warmth and seriousness.

“Bravely spoken, Charles,” said Appadocca, “and, although part of your speech may have sounded harsh to ears more unwilling than mine to hear the truth, still I admire you for it. Why did you not speak out in this manner before. You may depend upon it, man, it is always better to express one-self boldly, throw aside expediency, and bring out the truth, which, though harsh and unpleasant, is, nevertheless, the truth, and must be told. What is there to be feared? A proper man has nothing worth keeping, which he should apprehend to lose, save his honour and his spirit of rectitude. What though interest-seekers quake in their coats lest their smoothly-varnished opinions should not draw the approbation of their fastidious patrons: a man, worthy of the name, must follow out the spirit of his manliness, and that is all. Take the furious bull—society, by the horns, and though its lurid eyes shine fire upon you, nay, though it gore you, shout out your truths still higher than its bellowings; and when its madness-fit is over, your truths shall live, nay, ride it even as a broken-spirited ass.

“Men of such boldness there have been, who, Lycurgus-like, have exiled themselves from all to throw their truths into the world. Society may have branded them, starved them, cursed them, and driven them into hovels, there to perish and to rot, but they have ever re-risen in their thoughts, and now their names receive, on the bended knee, the unbounded veneration of mankind.

“Still I will not accept your proposal.”

“But for G—d’s sake, Emmanuel, speak seriously,” said Hamilton, hastily, “you surely do not intend to let this obstinacy of yours prevent your escape;” and the young officer looked anxiously in Appadocca’s face.

It would appear that, notwithstanding the previous refusal of his friend, he never contemplated but that at the last moment he would avail himself of his assistance and escape.

“Call me obstinate, as you may,” replied Appadocca, “I shall not accept your offer.”

“Then is it possible that you seriously refuse to save your life?”

“Not I, by Heaven,” replied Appadocca.

“Then why not adopt my proposal at once?”

“Because my doing so will not only involve a breach of discipline, but will also compromise your honour,—two sacrifices which we must pronounce disproportioned, when we consider the very small necessity that demands them.”

“Do you recollect that death will be your sentence?” eagerly demanded Charles.

“I do recollect it,” answered Appadocca. “And pray, what is death?”

The latter part of the question was put with such cynical coldness, that Charles Hamilton found himself unwittingly silenced.

He remained tongue-tied for a few moments, and with the greatest embarrassment repeated the question of Appadocca. “What is death, you ask?”

“Ay, what is death, I ask? let your embarrassment repeat the question,” remarked Appadocca.

“Why, death,” replied the young officer, “death is—is—is the—the highest of all—of all human punishments—and sufferings.”

“Remarkably fine,” replied Appadocca, with some satire, “remarkably fine, I once entertained better hopes of you, Charles Hamilton, when you were at College; but now I find, that like all other persons, you have thought, that it was necessary to cultivate the intellect, only during the time when you were at college,—that you were to live in mind, or rather, according to the dictates of your reason, as long as you were there; but that as soon as you became emancipated from your scholastic thraldom, throwing aside convictions, you were to live entirely in body, merely copying the bad habits of most men, which they self-deludingly style instincts. You speak and think absolutely like those animals that are driven above decks there by your orders, and who turn their tobacco in their cheeks, bellow forth their strange and meaningless oaths, and pull the ropes, by precisely the same moving power as one of your guns sends forth its iron and brimstone charge, when fire is applied to the touch-hole. That distinguishing essential which we, with so much complaisance, place on ourselves, to divide us from quadrupeds and our other fellow habitants of this earth—reason, is as much consulted as the stars. You observe the whole of organized life clinging to the idea of preservation, that they may continue for a brief period the state in which they happen to find themselves, and permitting this idea, in sympathy with the herd of men, to grow unreasoned in you, you fancy that I, also, should start from death with the same fear, and consent to depart from the course of conduct which my intellect prescribes to me, for the mere purpose of avoiding it. You do not consider what really is life, and less, perhaps, what is death. If millions of men are content to cultivate a sluggish existence, and shrink from ennobling enterprizes, in order that they may avoid this bugbear with which they ignorantly frighten themselves; nay, if they can be worked upon by this terror to compromise the only imperishable part of our nature—the idea of self-respect or honour—you must not fancy that I, my dear Charles, am willing to do so, too!”

“If you are not, I can only say your instincts are ajar,” observed the young officer, who felt himself again unable to answer Appadocca.

“There, you speak of instincts again: I have no instincts. If you mean certain ideas which are the necessary fruits of my organization, I shall observe, that far from their being ajar, they, on the contrary, are the only ones which are in harmony with whatever we know of nature and of its author.”

“Hold, Emmanuel, do not go any further, you will be guilty of irreverence.”

“Irreverence! it is not I who can be guilty of irreverence, it is you, and the rest of the ignorant world, that are ‘guilty of irreverence;’ for, by surrounding death with the terror you do, and by considering it the greatest of earth’s afflictions, you effectually depreciate the goodness and consistency of the maker of all things.”

“In what manner?” inquired the officer.

“Listen to me, and you shall hear. The whole of this globe, you are aware, is animated. Every object here, from the fibrous and silken down that flies about, carrying the seed of some gigantic tree, to the mountains of consolidated rock, is the theatre of life; and that theatre itself possesses a peculiar animation of its own, or laws of self-development. The various forms and shapes which people these things, vary in their periods of existence from centuries to the incalculable and indivisible points of time, which human ingenuity has hitherto deemed it idle to note. You have the birds of the desert, the huge animals whose years are to be counted but by the hundred; you have again the infinitesimal insect, which comes into existence this moment to depart the next; so that in the shortest space of time that man can calculate, nature ushers into life millions of millions of sentient beings, to sweep them away again with the same rapidity with which they are made. This earth on which this process takes place has existed, as far as we can discover with certainty, for several thousands of years, so that millions of millions of beings have continually perished during every short moment into which the numberless days of those thousands of years can possibly be divided. To consider that death is so dreadful as it is supposed to be, when we find it on such an amazingly extensive scale, and principally, also, among creatures whose only apparent happiness is the mere possession of life itself, is to call the Ordainer of these things cruel—which is untrue, or, as we used to say long ago, ‘reductio ad absurdum.’ What you choose to convert into the horrible and dreadful, is only the working of a wise and general law—that of transition: we live here to-day in one shape, to live to-morrow in a different one. Man has stupidly shut his eyes to this fact as he has done to many other things, and pitifully mourns over the action of a universal and useful law.”

“Emmanuel, I am a plain sailor, and do not pretend to deal in niceties of logical distinction,” replied Charles, “and although it is not my purpose to continue this very peculiar conversation, still I must ask, if our death is merely a transition from one state to another, how is it, that when we have entered into our new condition, we do not retain any consciousness of our previous existence.”

“The answer is plain enough,” answered Appadocca, “when the harp is unstrung the sounds depart: when we change from one condition to another, we necessarily cease to be of the first, else there should be no change at all: and as our consciousness of that condition was merely a natural consequence or effect of it, it follows, that when the cause ceases, the effect must necessarily cease also.”

Appadocca remained silent for a while.

“And as for the ignominy,” he continued, “of a death on the scaffold, for such a crime as the one which is imputed to me, it is purely ridiculous. It is not because mankind may be eager to alter, by their vote, the nature of things, that these things become intrinsically changed.”

Appadocca stopped, apparently expecting Charles Hamilton to speak; but he, however, was anxiously gazing on the side of the ship, and was apparently intent on listening to some sound that it seemed he heard.

“Did you hear that?” he at last asked, in a low tone.

“What?”

“Hush!—do you not hear that sound?”

“Hum! Perhaps—I think I do; I think—I—I—hum! I—know it,” answered Appadocca, while his face brightened up a little.

The officer drew nearer to the side of the ship to listen—Appadocca remained where he was.

The dull sounds of muffled instruments could now be distinctly heard. From its direction, it could be easily discovered that these instruments were applied to the dead light, which had been carefully battened in for greater security against the prisoner’s escape. The sounds continued, and the sharp point of a large chisel, with which some individual from the outside was endeavouring to wrench away part of the cover, was now seen through the dead light of the ship.

The young officer looked round inquiringly at Appadocca, but met, in the gaze of that individual, only the coldness that characterised him.

“An attack, an attack!” he cried, and rushed out of the cabin. His instincts, as he called them, at once belying the ingenious arguments with which he had lulled his spirit of honor, when his friendship for Appadocca interposed.

He arrived on deck in time to hear the sharp challenge of the marine on duty.

“Who is there?” no answer was made to the challenge.

The guard was called out. The marine fired. In return only a derisive shout arose from a boat that was now moving away in the darkness. One, two, three volleys were fired in succession, when the angry voice of a man was heard from the boat.

“Cowards!” he cried, “come after us, and do not expend your ammunition foolishly.”

It was the voice of Lorenzo.

On hearing the reports of the spies that he had sent on shore, that faithful officer had formed the plan of carrying Appadocca silently away from the cabin in which he was confined. For that purpose, he had waited until the night was far spent, and with a few trusty men had cautiously approached the man-of-war.

The pirate party came in a boat that was greased all over on the outside, and which was propelled by muffled oars.

The men were all dressed in black, and wore for the occasion, dark woollen caps, which were drawn over their heads so as perfectly to conceal their faces. They had boarded the ship for about half an hour, and two men were working away vigorously; the blows of the covered mallet drove their muffled chisels more and more deeply into the chinks of the dead light.

“Have you nearly got through, Gustave?” inquired Lorenzo, the enterprising officer of Appadocca.

“Nearly, senor,” answered the man.

“Thanks to Providence,” muttered Lorenzo, “Appadocca will be rescued.”

O disappointment wherefore dost thou exist? The words had scarcely escaped Lorenzo when a splashing noise was heard near the man-of-war.

The sailors, as is customary with them, when their ship is at anchor, in order to improve their opportunities, had hung out a fishing line. As adverse fate would have it, at the very moment when the party of Lorenzo was about completing a breach in the cabin in which their captain was confined, a large shark happened to take the bait. Pricked by the hook, the fish began to swim furiously around the ship, beating about with its huge tail. The water immediately became covered with foam, and the noise increased more and more.

“Jump up, Domingo,” said Lorenzo, when he perceived the imminent danger of discovery which they ran from the noise that the creature was making in the water, “jump up and cut away that cursed thing.”

But it was too late: attracted by the splashes made by the shark, the sentinel looked over the bulwarks, and perceived the man that was just sliding himself down the chains of the man-of-war, after having dexterously cut away the line by which the fish was caught.

The pirates had no alternative but flight, and they were quickly making away when the young officer got on deck.

Part of the crew of the large vessel was called out, the boats were manned, and sent after the mysterious visitors. But it was of no avail: those who had gone in chase shortly afterwards returned, and reported that they could discover nothing of the boat.

The circumstance was duly reported to the commander. After much consideration on such a mysterious adventure, the latter wisely concluded that the party of the pirate captain were in those waters, and that their approach to the ship was for the purpose of attempting his rescue.

Further, on examination, marks of the tools were made out on the deadlight of Appadocca’s cabin. He himself was narrowly questioned, but he stated with perfect truth, that he knew nothing of the matter.

Orders were then given to weigh anchor at the dawn of the next day.

END OF VOL. I.