CHAPTER XVII
"The battle which will take place to-night yonder between those ships decides my fate. I hope to God I may arrive in time to take my part in it! The Richard is fearfully short of officers at best; Landais, who has the Alliance, is crazy and a coward; Cottineau in the Pallas is an unknown quantity, and the rest have fled. Jones has only Richard Dale and a lot of midshipmen with him upon whom he can absolutely depend, and there are over two hundred prisoners in the hold. He needs me. If this breeze hold on, I think we may intercept the Richard before the battle is joined. Pray, dearest, as never before, for the success of our arms! It means life, and you, for me."
"It means life for me as well," she answered, nestling against him and nerving herself up to the inevitable confession. How he would take it she did not know, or rather she would not permit herself to say. She was conscious only of an impelling necessity to tell him the whole story, though she had deliberately waited until she believed he could do nothing.
"Ah, yes, 'tis sweet of you to say so, but not the same. Me they will hang, but not you," he answered fondly.
"Yes, they will," she replied. "I--I--I must confess it to you before we go further; it weighs upon me. I also am guilty."
"Guilty! You! Of what, pray? Of loving me too much?" he queried, laughing in pure lightness of heart.
"No, not that," she answered, "but that--that order--your reprieve. It was--the admiral did not sign it," she added desperately.
The secret was out.
"And who did it, then?" he asked, still unsuspicious of her meaning.
"I did it myself," she answered, with averted head.
"It is not possible!" he exclaimed, withdrawing from her a little in his astonishment.
"'Twas for you--for you I did it--reproach me not; nay, you shall not!" she cried, on fire to defend herself and her love, now the truth was told. "Captain Jones said six hours' delay and you were saved. There was no other way. I begged, implored, entreated the admiral--he left me; went away--I saw the man fixing that block--the rope--I ran to him to make one more appeal--he was not there. On his desk was an order giving me permission to see you, which he had intended to give me and had refused at the last moment and left unsigned. His watch was there and his seal. I added the rest and signed and sealed it myself; do not shrink from me!" she pleaded with changed mood again. "Your anger--your disapproval--kills me. Is there no excuse that you can find for me?" Her appeal was so tender, her affection so apparent, she was her own justification.
"No man would have done it," he said irresolutely, wavering.
"But every woman would," she replied promptly, pressing her advantage. "Why are you so silent; Your precious honor is safe, and as for mine--"
"'Twas nobly done," he answered at last, in complete surrender. "There is not a woman in the world but would honor you for it; not a man who would not love you. You have done that which I could not, and for me. My heart before, and now my life is yours, my heart's dearest."
"I knew you would not like it," she answered simply, "but there was no other way. I confess I was terrified when Edward--"
"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill. "He saw the order?"
"Yes," said the girl, cowering before him again. In truth, this phase of the transaction had actually escaped her memory.
"Captain Pearson accepted it without questioning him?" he queried. She would have given all the world to lie to him, but even in the darkness she could not be further untrue, in his very presence, though now like a flash she saw it all.
"He--he doubted it," she whispered hesitatingly. "He handed the paper to Edward, and asked him if it--if it was all right."
"And Coventry?"
"He took it and looked at it, looked at me--I had forgotten him, I must confess,--" she went on brokenly,--"and then he handed it back to Captain Pearson and--and said it was correct--the signature, I mean."
"He knew, think you?" asked her lover, with deadly calmness.
"Yes, he knew," she faltered.
"And the sentry--our unheeded escape?"
"Edward took his place--I might as well tell you all now," continued the girl, desperately.
"Ah!" he said, coldly and sternly; "and do you know, Lady Elizabeth, what the penalty is for such actions as his?"
"No," she replied, in alarm; "I never thought. They will not harm him. He is the son of the admiral--what is it?"
"They will shoot him, or hang him like a dog to the very yard-arm prepared for me!" he answered with stern emphasis.
"No, no! It is not possible!" she cried, appalled at the naked fact.
"Ay, but it is," he replied; "and it is through your actions, and my blind acquiescence therein, that this honorable gentleman is done to death. This puts another face on the whole thing. You have made me a craven; I am dishonored, his life is sacrificed for me!"
"I did not mean to do it; I did not know," she wailed, stricken to the heart by his bitter reproach.
"Ay, but you should have known; but when women meddle in affairs of state the consequences oft exceed their narrow views. Pray God, there may yet be time to rectify the frightful happening," said O'Neill, bitterly, putting the helm hard over as he spoke. The boat swept around, the sail gybed, and they headed for the northeast.
"What is it that you would do?" cried Elizabeth, in alarm, laying her hand on the tiller.
"Follow the Serapis," he answered shortly.
"For what?"
"To give myself up if possible, and thus insure his freedom."
"I knew--I knew it would be so," she whispered. "I loved him," she murmured, turning away, "I have sacrificed everything for him, and he repudiates, reproaches me. O my God, why hast thou forsaken me!" she wailed in unconscious imitation of a greater Sufferer. She drew away from him and knelt down in the boat, and buried her face in her hands, leaning upon the weather gunwale. He looked at her a moment, and before the pathetic abandonment of her grief his anger melted. She was a woman; with her, love was all.
"Elizabeth," he said tenderly, "the bitterness of having caused that good man's death, his apparent dishonor, overwhelmed me. I love you, as you know, more than life itself. You are a woman; you see things differently. There is nothing above love in a woman's heart. Come back to me; your place is here, whatever happens. I love you the more for your great sacrifice, but now we must undo it if we can. Heaven has not smiled upon our meeting; perhaps, if we go hand in hand before God together, we may find mercy, perhaps joy!"
She made no answer, but nestled against him forgiven, contented. For a time they sailed the sea in silence. The clouds had broken and left a clear sky, whence the moon had flooded the ocean with her silvery light; but the breeze came fitfully and gradually died away where they were now under the lee of the land. It was such a night as lovers dream of. They loved and they were together, side by side, alone, in the soft autumnal night, adrift on a summer sea. There was that in the past which kept them silent; and yet in their very proximity, in the hands that touched and clasped each other, the head that nestled on his shoulder, the arm that encircled her waist, the lips that met, the eyes that spoke,--there was a sweetness which neither had ever known before. The gentle wind whispered of love. The curling, lipping waves caressed the keel with sounds like kisses, and to it all their hearts kept time. It was a respite,--a lull between two phases of the conflict; there was love and there was peace in the little boat, and war and tumult were far off on the horizon.
By and by Elizabeth slipped down from the thwart, and crouched down in the boat at his feet. O'Neill held the tiller with one hand; the other lightly stroked her golden head. She was perfectly content; everything was out of her heart but he and the present; she was very still. He could see the soft curve of her cheek resting upon her sweet white hand in the moonlight. After one of the little intervals of silence, he looked down upon her again. She made no motion, and did not reply to a word he said softly, and he discovered that she was asleep.
He did not wonder. The experiences of the past few days would have killed any ordinary woman. How heroic she had been! With what abandon she had put aside everything for the purpose of saving him! She had hesitated at nothing. His love for her was measured by his honor; hers for him was boundless. 'Twas ever so; and he had reproached her, spoken harshly to her, upbraided her, turned away from her! How could he have been so cruel! she was so young, his heart yearned over her. He vowed that if God did permit them to escape from the perils which environed them, he would make up to her for every unkind word spoken, every reproach, every cutting glance, by an eternity of devotion.
The night, the ocean, the loneliness, impressed him. What had he ever done to be so blessed in the love of this noble woman? His life, as he had said, had been an idle one. In the courts he had played at hearts as he had played at war on the ships for the fun of the game. With her a serious purpose had entered his life and was before him. The silence of the night was broken only by the soft splash of the waves, as the little boat rocked gently through them. The gentle wind grew fainter and fainter; presently the flap of the idle sail against the mast apprised him that it had gone.
The white Serapis and her consort were far, far ahead, going fast and leaving a long white wake across the sea. They seemed to have kept the breeze which had failed the small boat. Coming up from the southward he could see the black shapes of the Richard and her attendant ships. What would he have given to be upon the deck by the side of that dauntless captain! But even could he approach the two ships, that privilege would be denied him, for honor demanded that he present himself upon the deck of the Serapis without delay. It might be that it would be too late even then to save Coventry, but he would go and do his best. When the boat lost way, he sat a moment in indecision. He was so loath to awaken the tired girl, but it was necessary. Gently he raised her head.
"Why, my dearest," she said, "was I asleep? What has happened? Oh!" it came back to her, "you are going back to the Serapis." Then she looked eagerly forward. The ships were far off now, several miles away; and as the breeze still held with them, the distance was increasing with every passing moment.
"We do not advance," she cried, a note of joy in her voice, as her ear detected the flapping of the sail; "the wind has died out." She laughed triumphantly, "We shall never reach them."
"And poor Coventry?" said O'Neill.
"I cannot help it," she answered simply. "I think only of you. Now if I could go back alone and take his place and let you go free, I would cheerfully do that."
"What advantage would that be to me?" he asked her.
"Well, there is little use in our discussing it any more," she answered, "for you cannot reach either ship now before it is over. The wind has gone over to them, and we are still."
"Ah, but I have another way of getting along."
"How is that?"
"I shall row," he said quietly. "Will you take the tiller?"
"No!" she replied defiantly, folding her arms. "I will not help you at all!"
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" he murmured.
"I will not, I tell you!" she said. "Frankly, I do not wish to. What is Edward, what are those ships, what is the whole wide world to me beside your safety?"
"I must do it alone as best I can, then," said O'Neill, leaving her side and going forward and unstepping the mast and thrusting out the oars, which he handled with the skill of long practice and strong arms. The difference of speed between the boat and the two ships was now of course greater than before.
"Why fatigue yourself unnecessarily?" she said to him at last, after he had been rowing for some time. "You gain nothing; 'tis useless."
"No matter," was his reply as he desperately tugged at the oars. "I shall at least have the consciousness of knowing I did what I could." But after pulling hard for an hour, he leaned over the handles of the oars and turning his head looked forward. She was right; it was a perfectly hopeless task. The nearest ships were now ten or a dozen miles away, and going farther, when a flash of light pierced the darkness on the horizon, followed some time after by the roar of a heavy gun.