CHAPTER XXIII
"The battle is on," said O'Neill, in the small boat, to Elizabeth, "and I am not there. Oh, God, give us a little breeze!" he cried. In anticipation he swung the oars inboard, stepped the mast once more, letting the sail hang, and then resumed his place by her side.
"God is good to me," she said at last. "He will not let you be there to be killed. You have had trouble enough, and have run enough risks. He wishes to keep you for me." He shook his head.
"My place is there; my duty is on yonder deck. Would that I had returned to the ship without going up to the castle!"
"Why, then," she said reproachfully, "you would not have seen me!"
"I know," he replied, "but then I would be in my rightful place, fighting where I should be; Coventry would be honored in doing his duty; the admiral would be happy; your marriage would take place--
"And you," she cried, womanlike, placing him in the balance, as opposed to all the rest,--"would you have been happy?"
"Happiness has nothing to do with that," he answered impatiently; "it is a question of duty. I have been a fool."
"Has the fool been rewarded in accordance with his folly?" she asked him. "Nay, look at me before you reply," she cried imperiously, turning his head until his eyes looked into her own. In the face of that girl, in the limpid light of her magic glance, in that mystic night, there was but one answer to be made.
"I say no more," he replied, kissing her softly. "You are right. I have you. You are worth it all. I will try to be a philosopher about all the rest."
Meanwhile the intermittent reports had been succeeded by a steady roar of artillery which reverberated and rolled along the surface of the water. The Scarborough, some distance from the Serapis and the Richard to the northwest, was apparently hotly engaged with the Pallas; while the Alliance seemed to be sailing back and forth between the two groups of combatants, pouring in a random fire upon friend and foe alike. Great clouds of smoke, punctured by vivid flashes of light, overhung the ships.
Back on the heights above the town the people swarmed. O'Neill could picture the old admiral walking up and down the terrace, glass in hand, while he surveyed the battle. There seemed to be little manœuvring going on between the ships, except on the part of the Alliance, and the combat seemed to be a yard-arm to yard-arm fight. Once or twice the roar of the battle died away temporarily, and the smoke blowing off to leeward disclosed the two ships side by side. Sometimes great wreaths of flame, which told that one or the other ship had been set on fire, would leap up into the air.
The feelings of the young officer can be imagined. Adrift in that little boat, watching the awful combat, not even the presence of the woman he loved could compensate him for his absence, in spite of his attempted philosophy. The fever of the conflict possessed him. His breath came hard; the sweat stood on his forehead. He prayed as never before for a breeze to take him to the fight. He murmured incoherent words which told to the tender listener something of the terrible struggle which raged within his bosom. So the long hours wore away.
Toward eleven o'clock they heard a terrific explosion, and then the roar of the battle slackened, and finally died away. When the smoke drifted off, the two ships were lying side by side. Further off, almost hull down, were the Scarborough and the Pallas, who had ceased their fight some time before. The battle was over. Who had won? It was a question he could not answer.
But it was late, and the breeze so long wished for now sprung up once more, and the little boat gathered way and began to slip through the water again. The sky had become overcast; it grew very dark; the wind freshened steadily, and finally blew so strong that it required all the skill and address of which O'Neill was possessed to keep his unsteady little craft from capsizing. Finally he was forced to drop the sail and take to the oars to keep afloat at all. About two o'clock in the morning a squall of rain came down, and they lost sight of the ships. Toward morning the wind moderated again, and they were enabled to set sail once more. But the ocean was covered with a dense mist; they were in the thick of it, and could see nothing. As nearly as he could judge without the aid of a compass, O'Neill headed the boat toward the place where they had last made out the two ships.
"We ought to pick them up in a few moments now," he said to the cowering, frightened, exhausted girl crouching down in the stern sheets in her wet, sodden garments, which clung to her shivering figure. The night had been too much for her; her physical strength had almost given way, though nothing could abate the affection he saw shining still in her tired eyes. "Therefore, in a few moments we shall know our fate."
"How is that?" she said, rousing herself a little.
"If Commodore Jones has been captured," he answered, "I have but to give myself up and redeem Coventry and--you know the rest."
"Yes," she replied wearily and listlessly; "let it come. We have fought a good fight, you and I; we can do no more; and the other alternative?"
"Why, in that case," he said, "we shall be there, under our own flag; he, too, will be saved, and the rest of our troubles are over."
"What think you of the prospect?" she asked, brightening a little.
"It is difficult to say. The Serapis and the Scarborough should easily be more than a match for our whole squadron. The Richard is almost worthless as a fighting ship, as I said. Landais, who commands the Alliance, is insane. I can't prophesy what Cottineau will do with the Pallas. We have but one advantage."
"And is that a great one?"
"The greatest; it may have decided the battle in our favor."
"What is that, then?" she asked.
"It is not 'what,' but 'who,'" he answered, smiling.
"Who, then?"
"John Paul Jones himself! He alone is worth a thousand."
The light from the rising sun, assisted by the fitful wind, began to dispel the mists of the morning.
"See!" cried the girl, pointing. "There, right ahead of us! Are not those the sails of a ship? What ship?"
Wraithlike, as she pointed at a rift in the mist, and wreathed in clouds of vapor, there appeared, for a second, the light canvas of a great ship. Following her outstretched finger, he caught a fleeting glimpse of it, but saw nothing to reassure him as to the result of the battle; the sight struck terror to his heart. Such canvas as that was never set above the decks of the Richard. As he looked the mist closed around them again; the ship had vanished.
"Ah, 'tis gone, but I am certain I saw it. Which was it?" she continued, hastily rousing herself at the prospect of decision. "'Tis a ship, is it not? But which one?"
"The mist is thinning again. 'Twill clear away in a moment," he answered evasively. "We shall see more distinctly then; she was making toward us, I think." He could not bear to dash her hopes with the assurance that it was not the Richard, though he had resigned himself to death in consequence of his glimpse at once. It was useless to try to fly; the mist was rising in every direction, and before they could have gone a hundred yards they would be visible to the ship in front of them, now shoving her huge bulk through the thinning clouds of vapor which enshrouded her. The next moment it rolled away. The sunlight flooded the heavens in transformation; the breeze tossed the sea into a thousand white-capped waves. It was morning. Some one on the ship saw the little boat with its two occupants at once; an officer leaped to the rail.
"Boat ahoy!" rang out over the water. The great white frigate, deep sunken, as if deeply laden, was moving sluggishly through the water, and was almost upon them.
"The ship!" screamed the girl, wildly.
"It is the Serapis!" answered O'Neill, in a hollow voice.
"Ah!" she said, sinking back exhausted. "After all, it is over. I shall never survive you."
"Boat ahoy, there!" again cried the officer, standing on the rail, pistol in hand. "Answer my hail, or I fire. Who are you?"
"I am your prisoner, escaped last night from that ship," cried O'Neill. "I wish to deliver myself up."
"Come alongside, then," said the officer, turning inboard and giving a sharp command. The way of the ship was checked; she was thrown up into the wind, and as her broadside slowly swung opposite O'Neill, he saw that her mainmast was gone and that she was frightfully cut up, and bore evidence of having participated in a tremendous action. Away off to the northeast a little cluster of ships were seen on the horizon, too far off to distinguish them. There was no sign of the Richard that he could see. In a few seconds the boat was brought alongside the gangway. Elizabeth clambered up the ladder with his assistance, and they stepped upon the decks. A frightful scene presented itself.
Upon one side amidships, dead men, half-naked, covered with coagulated blood, were literally piled up in a great heap. The deck itself was covered with grime and blood; and a handful of men, most of them wounded in some way, were distributed about the ship, endeavoring to effect some restoration to order. Guns here and there were dismounted; ropes cut in every direction were lying entangled in wild confusion about the fife-rails and masts. The broken mainmast thrust its jagged end a few feet into the air, above the deck; the rest of it was gone.
Spars everywhere were shattered, and great rifts appeared in the flapping canvas. The rail and bulwarks were broken and smashed on every side. There was not a single boat left swinging at the davits. Splintered woodwork showed where numberless shots had taken effect, and charred pieces of timber on every hand added heartbreaking evidence of conflagration's devastating touch. From the depths beneath the deck came low groans and murmurs of pain, accentuated by the sharp shriek of some deeper sufferer, or the delirious raving of some fevered patient. Elizabeth shrank back appalled.
"How horrible!" she murmured. "Take me away; I cannot stand it!" He caught her in his arms; a little more, and she would have fainted.
"Good heavens!" he said. "In all my battles I never saw such a ship! What a frightful scene! They didn't get off without a fight," he added slowly. An officer, with head bound up in a handkerchief and his arm in a sling, was approaching them.
"Sir," said O'Neill, saluting the while, "I am the officer who escaped last night. I deliver myself up to-- Why, it's Stacey!" he cried, in great surprise, recognizing a brother officer of the Richard. "What do you here, man?"
"'Fore Gad, it's O'Neill!" cried the other. "Glad are we to see you, man. But this lady--this is no place for her."
"She goes with me," said O'Neill, briefly. "But you?"
"This is where I belong."
"And they have captured you, I suppose?"
"No; the ship is ours."
"And the old Richard?" cried O'Neill.
"Abandoned and sunk after the surrender," answered the young officer. "She was cut to pieces by the Serapis's fire, but we have this ship."
"Thank God!" answered O'Neill, fervently. "And Captain Jones?"
"Aft there on the quarter-deck."
"Come, Elizabeth," he cried, seizing her by the arm; and, he assisting her, they made their way with difficulty, in the confusion, to the quarter-deck.
"Ah, O'Neill, thank God I see you alive again!" said Jones, springing forward, his face beaming. "We got there in time, then, I see."
"Yes, sir, thanks to this lady," answered O'Neill, pointing to Elizabeth.
"Madam, you are fit for a sailor's bride," said the little captain.
"'Tis high praise, sir, from Captain Jones, I protest," she answered, rallying herself in the relief of assured safety.
"Would God that I had been with you in this battle!" cried O'Neill, gloomily.
"We missed you. I wished often for you," answered the captain. "The poor old Richard was torn to pieces under our feet. We could not stay on her longer, so we had to come here."
"And I not there! I suppose that I have forfeited everything forever for going up to the castle. Shall you break me, sir?"
"Nothing, nothing, shall be done, my poor boy," answered the captain, kindly. "You have been punished enough by not having been with us in the greatest battle ever fought on the sea. But it seems to me you have not entirely lost the game. You, too, have a prize in tow. How go your love affairs?" he whispered.
"Well, indeed, sir; the Lady Elizabeth is here, as you see. We are to be married at once, sir."
"You may have the chaplain of the Serapis for that purpose."
"Yes, sir. When he last officiated for me, he was reading my funeral service," replied O'Neill, smiling.
"Some people would say it's much the same thing," laughed the captain; "but we know better. Ah well, that's over now, thank God; and this lady--Madam," he said, turning to her, "I bade you welcome to a ship once before. It is a different ship now, but the welcome is just the same."
"Know you aught of Major Edward Coventry, Captain Jones?" cried Elizabeth. This time it was she who remembered.
"Why, he lies on the deck yonder, dying. He wouldn't let me take him below. Do you know--but I forgot, he was your friend."
"Take me to him!" she cried hastily, and in a moment she was kneeling by his side. They had made him as comfortable as possible with cushions and boat cloaks, but his hours were numbered. His head was thrown back, his face ghastly pale. Blood stained the linen of his shirt about his breast. His eyes were closed; the end was at hand.
"Poor fellow!" said O'Neill, in great sorrow, "he died for me;" and then he briefly recounted the circumstances of their escape to the astonished captain.
"Do you know how he was wounded, sir?" he asked.
"It was my own hand that struck the blow," answered Jones. "Would it had been otherwise! There was a moment in the action when they sprang to board. He leaped upon the rail, cutlass in hand; he was a fair and easy mark; I met them with a pike, which I buried in his bosom. He fell back smiling. I remember that I thought it strange to see him smiling at that time, even in the heat of the battle--too bad--too bad!" he said.
"Oh, Edward!" cried the girl, tears streaming down her face, "I never thought to see you thus! I never meant to bring you to this! If you could but speak to me--to say that you forgave me for it all! If I could have your blessing before--" The man stirred a little and opened his eyes. He looked about him vacantly, but consciousness began to dawn again, and with the dawn came recognition. It was the face of Elizabeth bending over him. She was the woman whom he loved. There, back of her, was O'Neill. He began to comprehend.
"Elizabeth," he murmured, "my death--not in vain--then."
"Forgive me--forgive me," she cried brokenly. "Oh, forgive me! I did love you!"
"Yes," he said, faintly smiling; "but--not like--" He glanced at O'Neill. "You, too!" he murmured; "make--her--happy." His mind wandered a little. "Father," he cried suddenly, "don't look at me in that way! I did it because I loved her; her happiness before mine."
"Oh, doctor, can nothing be done; is there no hope?" cried O'Neill to the attending surgeon.
"Nothing, sir. 'Twill not be long now," answered the surgeon, shaking his head.