CHAPTER XXV. MY UNCLE’S STORY.
“The waters heave around me; and on high
The winds lift up their voices. I depart
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by
When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad my eye.”
Byron.
I cannot describe the sensations I felt, momentary as they were, while descending from the balustrade of London Bridge; but from the instant I struck the surface of the water, all recollection ceases. A considerable time elapsed before consciousness returned, and when it did, I found myself in the cabin of a Welsh coasting vessel, with a woman, her husband, and their son, (the owners and crew of the little schooner,) chafing my limbs, and using every simple means of resuscitation which their scanty resources could supply. Nothing could exceed the pleasure these true Samaritans evinced, when they perceived that their efforts had proved successful. They had no suspicion that he, the object of their care, had been hounded like a felon to do the desperate deed he had attempted; but, from the occasional remarks I overheard, they set me down as some desponding wretch, who, from very weariness of living, had rashly ventured on that fearful remedy, hateful alike to God and man—self-murder.
When perfectly restored, they made a bed for me before the fire, administered some spirits with caution, left me to my repose, and I sank into a profound sleep, which continued until morning. When I awoke. I found that my kind preservers, overnight, had dried my wet clothes; my breakfast was already prepared—and when I had eaten it, at my request they rowed me ashore in their small skiff, and landed me at Tower Stairs, with three shillings in my pocket, and not a friend upon the earth.
I entered a low tavern—a house of call for seamen—and seated myself in the most obscure corner of the dark and smoky tap-room. Several men were round the lire with pipes, and pewter measures, and to the latter they frequently applied; while others were sleeping on the benches, like men after a debauch. They were evidently sailors, but they had not the free and honest look and bearing which generally distinguishes that careless and warm-hearted class of men. Their dark and weather-beaten faces were those of men habitually drunken, and indicated service in tropic climes—while, from their air and manner, you would pronounce them, at first sight, to be lawless men—bold and reckless ruffians.
“I say, Bob, wasn’t that job last night upon the bridge a funny one?” said a swarthy fellow to an equally ill-looking companion.
The latter removed his pipe, knocked the ashes out upon the table, replenished it from a seal-skin pouch with fresh tobacco, and then leisurely replied:—
“It was, Jim; I have tipped them leg-bail in my time, but the chap last night gave them, wliat I calls, river security and he laughed hoarsely at his own wit.
“Well,” observed the first speaker, “I likes a plucky cove; he wouldn’t let them have the satisfaction of hanging him; and that jump in the dark robbed them as planted him, of blood-money—ay, and sarved them right, I say.”
“You may depend on it, Bob, he was a green’un. No doubt a first offence; otherwise he would have taken chance of flaws and failures at the Old Bailey; for it was only scragging after all.”
“Have they found the body yet, I wonder? I’d like to know whether it was any of our pals, Jim?”
“He’s sure to float the ninth day—he won’t lie longer at the bottom. They won’t go to the trouble of draggin’ for him, will they, Bob?”
“They’ll drag to little purpose,” I muttered from the corner.
The fellows turned round and looked at me.
“And what is there about that dead-un’s carcass that a creeper should not grip it? Let me see—how was the tide?—it was Jack water at the time. I’ll bet a dollar he’s not lower down than Lime-house.”
“I’ll wager twice the sum he’s not half so far,” I answered, with desperate composure.
“And where do ye say he is?” asked the fellow, with a stare.
“Here!—in this room!—seated on this chair!—and talking to you at this moment!”
“Well!” exclaimed the sailor, “if that ain’t a rum confession. I never knew in my born days, a man that passed forged flimsies split upon himself before.”
“Nor would I, had I done so—I am innocent.”
Both ruffians laughed.
“I said the same thing myself once,” said the darker fellow of the twain, “and I could not out of twelve men, good and true, get a single soul to believe the story.”
[Original]
A couple of the sleepers wakened up. One of them stretched himself, yawned, and inquired, like a person still half asleep, “What’s all that gammon about innocence, forged notes, and blood-money?”
Why, Captain, this here cove is the chap who jumped off the bridge; and as he’s innocent, I suppose he’ll go quietly to them he bolted from last night, and get hanged to prove it.”
“More fool he,” observed the man whom they called captain. “Had I taken that plan to convince the world of my honesty, I should have been, ten years ago, dangling among the scare-crows that ornament Dogs’ Island. Let’s hear your story, youngster; you have told too little, or too much—enough to hang you twice over—so out with the remainder; we’re men of honour; though, if we swore it, the world would hardly credit, it.”
I had no motive to court concealment; to me, life and death were equally indifferent. The funner portion of my history I kept to myself, but freely narrated the villanous conspiracy of ——— ————, and his agents, to fix a charge of felony upon me first, and bring me to an ignominious end afterwards.
“I never heard of a plant better laid and executed,” said the captain, as I finished the detail of my last night’s adventures. “Never was man booked safer for the gallows; you had a close escape. Well, ‘touch and go’ is good pilotage, they say—I’ll tell you what to do. I sail for the coast of Guinea this evening; we’re short-handed; it’s a voyage that’s not much fancied, and I can’t persuade men enough to ship. They give a cowardly preference to low wages, and no fever; but you have no choice between that and hemp, you know. If it’s in you, Joe Barton is the man to make a sailor of you—What say ye?”
“That I embrace your offer cheerfully.”
Mr. Barton extended his hand, and, with the hold of a vice, grasped mine. Then pulling from his pea-coat pocket a canvass bag filled with dollars, he counted thirty down, and shoved them across the table.
“There’s two months’ wages in advance. It’s a toss-up that you’re dead in half the time. No matter; I will run the chance—go with Bob there—he’ll take you to a slop-seller, who’ll fit you out in no time, he’ll not refuse to join in a stoup afterward. Don’t object; it may be the last either of you will take in England. Be on board, drunk or sober, at eight; and now be off, for I have some matters to attend to.”
I obeyed the mandate of my new commander, purchased some clothing fitted for the sultry climate I was about to visit, joined the vessel before the appointed hour, sailed at midnight, and bade a long—I prayed an eternal—adieu to England.
We reached the Downs, having cleared the river safely; and there, I might add, that the good fortune of our voyage terminated. Could aught better be expected? No; the errand and the agents were infamous alike. We were bound to Africa to trade in human flesh, although, professedly, we had left England to bring home hard-woods, ivory, and gold-dust. But no honest trading was intended; we went out regularly prepared to perpetrate the worst cruelty that savage man can fancy when he contemplates deeds of crime—prey on the being that wore God’s image—violate every bond of nature, and sever the ties which common humanity holds dearest! Speak of the slave-dealer and the highwayman! Pshaw! compare them not.
When I said, that after we lost sight of the shores of England, our fortunes proved indifferent, the statement must be qualified. In the first object of the voyage we were successful, and carried, in comparative safety, a full cargo of slaves to their destination; that is, we managed to land alive two-thirds of the wretches we had kidnapped. We brought eternal misery with us, and left endless wretchedness behind. But already the vengeance of God was upon us—fever accompanied our accursed ship; and, one by one, the villain-crew which originally left England died off, and greater villains—were that possible—supplied the places of the departed.
The hour of retribution was at hand—the decree had gone forth—and vengeance was impending on the guilty. We returned to “the coast”—as that of Africa, in particular, was termed—shipped a full complement of slaves, and once more proceeded on our iniquitous voyage. During ten days we made good progress. The captain and his hellish crew, elated with apparent success, indulged in ruffian revelry. They drank, and danced, and sung; and while despair and death reigned in the crowded hold, the deck presented a saturnalia that fiends might have delighted to share.
But on the eleventh day that unhallowed revelry ended. The wind dropped suddenly—ominously. In one short hour not a ripple was seen upon the sea; and, far as the eye could range, a burning surface of bright blue water encircled us. The next sun—the next—and yet the next, rose and sank, and not a breeze was felt, and not a cat’s-paw crept over the distant ocean. Ten more passed; and still we drifted idly on the glassy surface, like some sea-bird reposing on the deep. Food failed us fast—that was bad; water rapidly diminished—that was worse. The hold became a pest-house. Contagion below produced an increase of fever above. The negroes died off by twenties; the crew, one after another, disappeared, till, of thirty-six seamen who left the Gambia, fourteen alone remained; while half of that small number were so debilitated that they could scarcely stand; and the few who still remained effective, were quite unequal to that disgusting duty, of disencumbering the waist of the human carrion which every hour accumulated. All hope to carry any portion of the accursed cargo to its destination was over. The dead putrified; the living, maddened by thirst and hunger, had broken their chains, and, like rabid animals, could not be approached! One only course remained, and the ruffian-crew determined to batten down the hatches, fire brimstone underneath the slave-deck, destroy what life remained, and make the pest—a charnel-house!
Night was properly chosen for the execution of this diabolical act; and I saw the combustibles which were to effect it duly prepared. To witness this wholesale murder of two hundred victims was more than I could bear. I, who had ever revolted from the horrid vocation of a slave-dealer, fancied, that in all which had befallen us, I saw the vengeance of the Deity let loose on our accursed bark; and when at midnight I was placed at the wheel, and my villanous companions were occupied in murderous preparations, from the davits I lowered the only boat could swim, slipped over the ship’s counter unobserved, and paddled quietly away. In a few minutes I was called for—my evasion was detected—a dozen muskets were discharged after me at random; I heard bullets dip upon the water: but I plied my oars vigorously, and in a few minutes was out of range.
I paused, took breath, and looked around. The ship lay in shade, looming immensely; all else sea—sea—sea! I searched my pockets, and found two biscuits; but I was without water! Under a tropic sun, a thousand miles from land—no water! The very thought was enough to madden one; but, presently, other feelings banished that horrible conviction.
[Original]
My eyes were turned towards the slaver. Before this, I knew that the infernal deed must have been consummated, and that, to protract the lives of some dozen guilty wretches, two hundred innocent victims had been immolated! A feeble gleam twinkled from the vessel; it faded into darkness; and a dull mass, shapeless and colourless, showed me the spot, where, upon the waveless ocean the felon-ship lay sleeping.
I looked again. Suddenly, a blaze, as if some inflammable matter had been ignited, burst from the slaver and dispelled the darkness. The outline of the vessel became distinct; the flame waxed stronger still; every rope and sail was visible; and I could perceive figures on the deck, rush to and fro, as if in wild disorder. The glare grew redder yet—the ship was in a blaze from stem to stern—and in their nefarious attempt to suffocate their victims, the villains fired the vessel!
I turned the boat’s head towards the burning ship; and after rowing a short distance back, rested on my oars. I knew that if I attempted to near the vessel, the skiff would be overcrowded, and all must perish. Shrieks, wild and maddening, like those of despairing men, were heard—every inch of canvas which had hung dangling from the yards, was wrapped in fire, and the loftiest spars were burning! It was a grand, but terrible spectacle; and I strained my eyes to gaze upon it until the red glare pained them. At once, a column of brilliant light mounted to the skies, followed by a heavy, dull, concussion, which came trembling over the water, and rocked my little skiff. A cloud of smoke succeeded. Suddenly the light vanished; darkness returned denser than before—night and stillness resumed their silent reign. The magazine had exploded—and the slaver was now buried in the depths of ocean!
In tropic climes, night is but a name, and morning broke immediately. I gazed over the ocean expanse, as the first glow of sunshine reddened its surface, bright and unruffled as a mirror, excepting one small spot ahead, which was covered with floating wreck. There, the slaver had gone down, and I looked fixedly in that direction. On a scathed beam, I fancied I could perceive a human form attached. I rowed to the place. To the half-burned portion of the wreck, a fine negro lad was holding with desperate tenacity; but he was nearly exhausted, and it was with much difficulty I could drag him into the boat. In a few minutes he was sufficiently recovered to know that I had rescued him from death, and with looks of mute intelligence he seemed to thank me for timely succour. I gave him a biscuit; he seized and ate it ravenously. No wonder, poor boy! for five long days, food had not passed his lips. With expressive signs he intimated that he would hereafter consider himself my slave; and by looks of encouragement, in return, I assured him of protection. It was a simple contract after all, and made under unusual circumstances; but it has lasted, and will last, for life. That negro youth was Dominique.
Before I had time to smile at the mockery of a forlorn wretch like myself, assuming a momentary superiority over another cast-a-way, saved mercilessly from an easier death to perish by the more dreadful agonies of thirst and hunger, a light air came stealing over the glassy sea. I looked anxiously to windward. Far off, a breeze darkened the blue water, and in ten minutes we felt its influence, and our boat danced merrily on the tiny waves which curled the ocean for as sight could wander. I felt as if Heaven had been appeased, and vengeance satisfied; and hope once more replaced the dark despondency to which I had abandoned myself, as one whose doom was sealed.
Nor was that cheerful foreboding unfulfilled. Within an hour, and dead to windward, a speck appeared upon the edge of the horizon, and seemed, by slow degrees, to rise gradually from the ocean, until a goodly ship presented itself to the eye; and down she came before a leading breeze, with all the canvas set her spars could spread. We lay directly in her course. I hoisted a signal on an oar, and it was seen and answered—for presently the stranger took in sail, lowered a boat, sent it to our assistance, and “I and my man Friday.” as worthy Robinson would say, were kindly received on board a vessel that proved to be a Portuguese trader, bound for the Brazils. My story was readily believed, namely, that our ship, an honest merchantman! had accidentally caught fire, and all except the negro and myself had perished. No doubt could be entertained of the correctness of this statement, for our deliverers had seen the blaze, and heard the explosion, when becalmed, at too great distance to render us relief.
I was landed safely in Rio Janeiro, and another epoch in an eventful life began. The history of seven years would require too much time to give it in detail—it must be confined to a brief summary. The owner of the vessel that had picked me up was a merchant of high respectability. The tale of my escape from a burning ship and ultimate starvation, had interest, and, pitying my destitution, he offered me a berth in a coasting vessel which belonged to him—I accepted it, and in a few months became its captain. I traded for him honestly and successfully, and rose by degrees rapidly in his estimation. Every year brought me fresh tokens of his confidence and esteem, until at last, I became a partner in his business. In every commercial adventure fortune befriended us; and when the old man died, and the affairs of his house were finally arranged, I, who had landed on the wharf of Rio without a second shirt, found myself a merchant of repute, and possessor of thirty thousand dollars. I must add, that I had assumed the name of Hartley, and that, during this season of good fortune, my faithful negro shared and enjoyed that period of treacherous sunshine.
And yet, during this prosperous career, I was secretly unhappy. Year after year, the English residents returned with the independence they had acquired, to die in the land which gave them birth. To me, as I bade them an eternal farewell, every departure caused fresh misery, and probed to the very quick a wound that none suspected was rankling in my breast. I had no country. What was father-land to me? I, a degraded outcast—stigmatized with crime, believed to be a felon and a suicide; and from the memory of whose existence, my very father, if living, would recoil. And yet the fancy of returning to England haunted me. I thought of it—dreamed of it—till at last, unable to combat the inclination, I determined, at every hazard, to indulge the wish, and revisit the “land of my sires,” were it but to die there.
I made the necessary preparations to effect my design—converted my property into specie—secured a passage for myself and faithful follower in a vessel bound for England, which, with several others, were to start under convoy of a sloop of war. We sailed on the appointed day; and, as I then believed, bade an eternal farewell to the shores of South America.
What was my motive for returning to a land where my name was a disgrace, and where he whose feelings towards the offendings of a child are lenient, a father—ay, a father—would repudiate me with contempt? It was to cleanse that name, stained as it was with youthful indiscretions, from the plague-spot that human villany had attached to it; and now with the command of the means by which justice in England can be secured—money—wipe away the felon charge which had driven me undeservedly into exile and disgrace, and expose the guilty to the world—ay, though the last guinea of a fortune, which years of toil, and danger, and privations, had acquired, should be expended to attain the end.
For a week our little fleet progressed steadily across the ocean. Old merchantmen were then the dullest sailors imaginable; and with every inch of canvass we could spread, the sloop of war, with topsails on the cap, was frequently obliged to heave to and wait upon our lazy barque. Indeed, the vigilance of the convoy-ship was rendered necessary from the circumstance of a very suspicious vessel having been discovered for several successive mornings at sunrise, following in the wake of the fleet, and hauling off whenever she observed that she had been noticed.
On the sixth evening, the weather, which had hitherto been remarkably fine, threatened a change; and at midnight, the wind had considerably freshened. The security of the ship would have pointed out the prudence of making preparations for a gale, and putting the vessel under easy canvass; while, from the dulness of our sailing, and the certainty that a suspicious stranger was in our immediate vicinity, it was absolutely necessary that we should keep our place in the fleet, and avail ourselves of the man-of-war’s protection. In this dilemma it was determined to trust to fortune, and “carry on.” We had certainly, two dangerous alternatives to choose between—threatening weather, and an enemy’s privateer. The latter fear was predominant; and although every minute skyey appearance became more alarming, we still kept a press of canvass on the vessel—and consequently, it was our fate to verify an old saw, in avoiding Seylla, to fall into Charybdis.
In the darkness, a squall struck us suddenly; and before everything could be let fly, our three topmasts were over the side, and our worst apprehensions were about to be realized.
It was but a passing gale which had wrought us all this mischief; and when morning dawned, the weather had moderated into a light and steady breeze. The fleet was out of sight; and we were unable, from the weakness of the crew, to clear away at once the wreck of fallen spars and sails that cumbered us. We were lying a log upon the water, while our more fortunate companions were bowling away before a wind directly in their favour. One sail only was in sight, and that was steering in the same direction with the convoy. For a time, from being dismasted, we were not discovered by the stranger. But suddenly he changed his course, hauled closely to the wind, and soon presented to our startled view, the same long, black, suspicious-looking brig, which for days before had occasioned a general uneasiness.
We had no chance of escape, even had our spars been standing; and in an hour the suspected vessel was within musquet range. No doubt of his country and calling remained. A French ensign was flying at his peak—his long dark hull showed eleven ports a side—his decks were crowded, and he looked a regular rover.
Had we a wish to resist, the means were wanting; and at the first hail, a boat was lowered, and our captain went on board. In return, two boats, filled with armed men, rowed to us from the privateer; the rovers mounted our decks, and the work of plunder commenced busily. I had no hope from the first, that my property could by any possibility’ escape detection; and a very few minutes put that question at rest. A foreign seaman, whom we had shipped at Bio, gave information to the prize-master; and I had the misery to see the acquisition of an enter-prizing life pass into the possession of the sea-robbers who had captured us.
From the disabled condition of the ship, all design of taking her into port was abandoned by our captors; but every thing that was portable, even to the sea-chests of the crew, was removed on board the brig. The whole day was consumed in stripping our luckless vessel; and when at nightfall the enemy left us lying still a wreck upon the ocean, I found myself in the same condition as when, seven years before, I had landed on the beach at Bio—without a second shirt, a second dollar, or a second friend. Of the latter, I possessed a faithful one—Dominique remained. He had resisted every inducement held out by the French captain to join the privateer. Poor faithful fellow! when the fickle goddess smiled, he had shared my fortune; and adversity had no other effect than to confirm his devoted attachment.
When the spoilers had taken their departure, nothing but lamentations were heard. The humblest mariner had lost his all, the wages he had already earned, or the little venture he was bringing home to England, in the honest hopes of realizing enough to render a wife or parent comfortable. There was but one of that ship’s company preserved a sullen indifference; I, who had been stripped of more than all together, kept a moody silence, and uttered no complaint. All was gone at “one fell swoop”—the prospect of revisiting my native land—the hope of clearing my calumniated character from the unmerited obloquy whieh designing villains had heaped upon it—the means by which I expected to have effected it—of all, one luckless day had robbed me! The stupid calmness of despair tied my tongue, and gave to my countenance an unearthly composure, which many might have mistaken for philosophic resignation. But the bosom within was tortured—my’ sorrow was too great for language to convey; and, thunderstruck with the sudden visitation I had undergone, I was debating whether it were not at once better to end an existence not to be endured, and—“unannealed and unforgiven,” in defiance of his canon against self-murder,—venture desperately into the presence of an angry God.
These impious thoughts were mercifully terminated. I looked up, an eye was bent on mine. It was Dominique’s; and the mute expression of that faithful negro spoke its deep sympathy for my misfortune, and intimated an eternal attachment. A sudden revulsion of intent succeeded the promptings of despair. I had lost wealth—but had I not a friend? A stern determination came over me to live and dare Fortune’s worst; and when my dark follower placed silently a goblet in my hand, I drank the wine to the bottom, and swore no matter how darkly fate might frown, she should not crush my spirit.
“All’s gone, Dominique. We have no errand now to England.”
The negro answered with a groan.
“Shall we commence life anew, and again seek fortune in each other’s company?”
The hand I stretched out the negro pressed to his lips respectfully; and with a meaning look, told me that we should sink or rise together.
The plunder of the ship was followed by a scene of drunken insubordination—for the bad example which the captain set, the crew had followed; and on the second evening we were still a wreck upon the water, our top-gear over the sides, and none in temper or condition to repair the damage we had sustained, and replace our lost spars with jurymasts. On the third morning the ship’s company had become sufficiently sober to commence a work, that should hwe been long before effected—and I was sleeping in my cabin, worn out with the mental suffering I had undergone, when my slumbers were gently broken by my sable attendant, to acquaint me that another, and an equally dishonest looking vessel, was bearing down upon us fast, and barely a league to windward.
I hurried upon deck, and a glance confirmed Dominique’s announcement. The stranger was a large topsail-schooner, with raking masts, a long black hull, and Spanish ensign floating from her gaff-end. Her sailing properties were admirable; and her whole appearance told that she was neither adapted for, nor employed in peaceful commerce. When she rounded to under our stern, I counted nine ports aside—a huge pivot gun was on a traverse between her masts, and her decks seemed full of men. She could not be mistaken for a moment; she was a rover, a slaver, or a privateer, and, probably, all by turns.
An old adage * says, that a traveller already disencumbered of his property, feels little uneasiness in presence of a highwayman; and certainly, to me the appearance of this rakish schooner was a matter of perfect indifference. I saw her back her topsail, and take a position that placed us “end-on,” under the fire of her starboard guns. Immediately a boat was lowered, and twenty men pulled from her side and boarded us. This second visitation, and within eight-and-forty hours, caused but little sensation in the ship. All that was valuable was already gone; and the new comers must be men of uncommon industry and research, if they could discover much that was worth removal. Indeed, the style in which the Frenchman had cleared every thing away worth notice, could never be surpassed, and proved that in sea robbery his crew had attained perfection.
* Cantabit vacuus coram latroae viator.
Sad was their disappointment, when our new captors found that they had fallen in with a mere bone from which the marrow had been carefully extracted. Still, however, there were some necessaries that might prove useful; and sails, cordage, water and provisions, were unceremoniously conveyed on board the schooner. Presently, a second boat pushed off from the rover’s side; and it was notified that the captain, in person, was coming on board to ascertain how a prize so promising should prove so very unproductive.
“What a cursed misfortune,” said he, in reply to the account his first officer gave him of our hwing been thoroughly plundered, and that only twenty hours before. “By Heven, I am half inclined to make sail after the privateer, and make him divide or disgorge the booty.”
“‘Twere idle,” said the lieutenant; “Heven knows what course he’s steering. And even if we overtook him, what certainty have we that he would not be able to hold his own with us? They say he carried twenty guns, and was chokeful of men. He’ll dodge the convoy while he dare, and trust to accident for a second God-send. No, no—it was a cursed chance, no doubt—the luck was all John Crapo’s—and no use crying over spilt milk, you know.”
The reasoning of his lieutenant appeared to satisfy his superior, that the misfortune he had sustained in coming upon us after the Frenchman’s visit was irretrievable, and, accordingly, he submitted to it like a Christian man; but still he could not avoid making an occasional lament over what he termed “the blackest of bad luck.”
“Thirty thousand dollars—hard silver—all one property—besides other most valuable plunder. Was ever ship so unfortunate! But who was the unlucky devil who lost the money? Did he drown himself at once, or is he still on board?”
The lieutenant pointed quietly to me; and the captain crossed the deck to the place where I was standing, with my arm leaning on the bulwark, as if nothing particular had occurred.
“So, Sir, I hear you hwe been cleaned out; and, as they tell me, to a tolerable tune?”
“I have,” I answered; “can you put me in the way of recovering the loss?”
“I!” said the stranger in surprise; “how the devil should I?”
“Then, as I am already plucked to the last feather, your honest companions have nothing to deprive me of, and you can neither serve nor injure me. Is not that a comfort, captain?”
“Come, my good sir,” replied the rover, “you need not be so snappish; though, ’pon my soul, the loss of thirty thousand dollars is nothing to joke about. But stop; have I ever seen that face before?”
“That question you can best resolve yourself,” I answered; “yours has been seen by me, I fancy, for the first time; and, let me add, worthy captain, I sincerely hope for the last one too.”
“Indeed! would it be too much trouble to ask you to look at it a second time?”
I complied carelessly with the captain’s wish, and examined the features and figure of this new intruder. The face was swarthy, sunburnt, and had, what the Irish happily term, “a devil-may-care” expression. The person of the stranger was square and well-compacted; his dress was composed of cotton and nanquin—textures best suited to the climate. In the silken sash which bound his waist, he had secured a watch, a dagger, and a brace of pistols; all apparently very valuable. He wore a jewel on his finger; diamond rings in either ear, and a gold-laced hat, fit for a vice-admiral, completed his showy and singular costume. He was a very young man, apparently not more than five-and-twenty.
“And pray, Mr. Jones, or Mr. Thompson, or by whatever name besides you called yourself in the Fancy, six years ago upon the coast, now that you hwe finished your survey, may I inquire if you can yet recollect an old companion?”
I started. He had mentioned the slaver’s name correctly, and also the false appellation by which I was known on board that accursed vessel.
“I have heard of that slave-ship,” I replied; “she foundered at sea, and none escaped but—”
“You and myself,” responded the stranger carelessly.
“You labour under a mistake, she perished by fire, and none escaped—
“But you; and how you managed it I don’t know. As for me, I gave leg-bail in the Gambia. Come, Jones, Thompson, Robinson, or any thing you please to call yourself, fear nothing from me. I owe you a debt of gratitude. I shipped myself in that villanous slaver, a runaway-apprentice; and, when struck down by fever, and dying of thirst upon my passage out, the only hand in all that rascally ship’s company, to whom I was indebted for a drink of water to slake my burning thirst, was your’s; and now, seven years after, I survive to prove to you that kindness to a destitute boy has not been, and shall not be forgotten.”
“It seems you know me,” I replied; “and concealment would be idle. It is, indeed, too true that all on board the slaver perished, save that negro who attends me, and myself.”
“Ay,” said the rover; “but you may recollect that a boy was missing the night before you sailed. I was that lost one; and, from weariness of a miserable life, and disgust at the horrible duty imposed upon me, of attending to the slave-hold, every feeling had revolted. I bolted from the vessel; escaped a fate that none survived but you; passed through a thousand hair-breadth adventures; and now command the Flambeau—the sweetest schooner that ever spread canvass to a breeze. Come, I bear you have lost every thing again but life; try your luck once more with Captain Raleigh; and rest assured, that he who succoured the fevered boy, shall secure the friendship of the commander of the Flambeau,—a craft by some called a privateer, and by others set down—may Heaven forgive them!—as nothing better than a pirate!”
I listened to the rover’s invitation. There was much that would induce a man, circumstanced as I was, to accept it; I seemed a being marked out for misfortune—for whom no happiness was predestined, and one, for whom fate had reserved the phials of her wrath. Captain Raleigh marked my hesitation.
“Come,” said he, “time presses. You brought me, and for little advantage, I regret, out of my course this morning, and I must regain it speedily. You are, as far as I am concerned, a free agent. Come with me—you will be welcome; stay where you are—a hundred dollars are at your service, to begin the world anew, and the best wishes of the runaway apprentice you nursed on his passage to the Gambia. I’ll rejoin you in five minutes—a time sufficiently long for a man to come to a decision, as well as if he dreamed over it for a twelvemonth.”
He turned, walked to another part of the vessel, and gave orders to his crew to man their boats, and prepare for returning to the schooner.
Dominique had been a silent, but a most attentive observer of my tête-à-tête with Captain Raleigh, and I beckoned him to approach.
“The hour for parting has arrived, Dominique, which, three days since, neither you nor I could have anticipated; but so fate wills it. A new and perilous career lies before me, the ocean surface must be my home, and its deeps shall furnish me a grave. England, the land of freedom, is your happier destination. Go, my tried and trusty friend; follow some one of brighter fortunes than him you leave; and may your future fate be what your attachment and fidelity to me so richly merit!”
The negro did not speak for a few moments—tears fell first upon the deck—at last, he turned a look of mild inquiry upon my face, and, in a broken voice, asked “in what he had offended me.”
I was assuring my sable follower how truly I estimated his worth, and how deeply I felt the necessity that should deprive me of his services, when Captain Raleigh joined us. He held a bag of dollars in his hand. “Here—catch,” he cried, as he tossed the money to me. “And now, ‘to be or not to be, ay, that’s the question.’ There’s Shakespeare for you. Confound the bard of won; ’twas he that made a rover of me; and but for Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, I, Harry Jones, had never been Captain Raleigh, but probably, at this blessed hour, a thriving citizen on Ludgate Hill, slicing off lutestring for a dowager, or assuring some pretty girl how beautifully the last new ribbon harmonized with the colour of her hair. Heigh-ho! I might have been happier. Happier! pshaw! nonsense. Yard and shears are only fit for woman’s hand; this is the tool for man’s”—and he touched the hilt of his cutlass. “But what’s the matter with your dark companion? Has he, too, lost some dollars by the accursed visit of the Frenchman?”
“I have lost more—far more,” replied the black, “the preserver of my life—the master whom for seven years I followed—my friend—my benefactor—him have I lost. He tells me that I must leave him—leave one from whom I thought death alone should separate me.”
“And will you follow his fortunes, and take your chance on board the schooner?”
“Follow him!” exclaimed the negro; “oh, were that allowed, Dominique would be too happy.” ^
“Give me that honest fist of yours,” returned the rover. “No matter what the colour of the skin may be; the heart’s the thing for me. Well, you’ll take your chance, and seek new fortunes in the Flambeau?” he continued, addressing me.
“I have no other choice,” was my reply.
“Come, you have no luggage to remove, I fancy; John Crapo saved you that trouble. Jump in; the boat is ready.”
I followed this new director of my destiny; and the whale-boat quitted the vessel’s side, where, but three short days ago, I was owner of thirty thousand dollars, to commence a roving life—a career of criminal adventure—its close—at best an ocean grave—or, what was likelier far, the plank, * the yard-arm, or the gibbet.
* A piratical method of drowning.
I shall pass over an epoch of three years, the crowded history of which was more than enough to fill the story of a life. Would you know it? ask in every Spanish port, from Chili to Panama, what was the Flambeau, and who were her commanders? They will tell you, that that pirate barque, though for years resting in the caves of the Atlantic, still carries terror in her name. They will say, that Raleigh was daring, rash, and sanguinary; but that, with the audacious courage of the boldest buccaneer, Ramirez was merciful; and that the blood of innocence or old age had never stained his hand. Who Raleigh was you know; who Ramirez—you may fancy.
A year had passed since Raleigh had perished in a wild descent upon the Spanish Main; and Ramirez, his successor, had assumed a command for which his daring and good-fortune had qualified him preeminently. Much wealth had been acquired; and it was believed that the Rover Captain had transmitted large remittances, in specie and valuables, to Europe. In one of the secret inlets with which the Caribees abound, the Flambeau had been refitted, provisioned, and made ready for a fresh adventure. The crew were all on board, and nothing delayed the schooner’s sailing, but the unaccountable absence of her commander. A week before he had set out for a distant town, to meet a secret agent. The business was speedily transacted, and Ramirez had left the city he had visited, to rejoin the Rover’s crew. Day after day passed; the worst suspicions were entertained—it was believed that he had been assassinated; and a deep gloom spread over the whole of the lawless community, who justly regarded Ramirez as the ablest commander that ever trod a rover’s deck. Many conjectures were hazarded; three days elapsed, when a canoe paddled one evening on board the Flambeau, and delivered a letter addressed to the second in command, in the well-known hand-writing of the captain. In that epistle the mystery was cleared away; wonder succeeded apprehension; and wishes so often and so warmly breathed by the rover’s crew for the safety of their leader, were exchanged for imprecations on his head, and deadly vows of everlasting vengeance; and one, who was an hour before the idol of that lawless band, would have found in every individual who composed it, a willing executioner.
What could hwe caused this singular change of feeling?
In the letter addressed by Ramirez to his lieutenant, he stated that he had determined to abandon a roving life for ever, and assured him that every attempt to ascertain his motives, or discover his retreat, would be equally unwailing. The investment of valuable property on the general account of the predatory community had been faithfully executed. He promised that every secret connected with his late confederates should be buried in his grave—and the eternal silence of his black companion might be equally confided in. The letter concluded with the warmest wishes for their future welfare—with a strong entreaty that they should abandon a dangerous career, which, no matter how long fortune smiled upon it, must inevitably incur an ignominious termination.
Mr. Hartley paused, and took from his pocket a small sealed packet, carefully tied up.
“Hector,” said he, addressing me, “the remainder of my sad history would be as painful for me to narrate, as you to listen to. In these detached papers you will find my chequered and adventurous career faithfully outlined. At intervals, ‘few and far between,’ when I could look back upon the past with tolerable composure, these unconnected documents were written; and any portions of the tale which may not be sufficiently intelligible, your own fancy must fill up. I have not shrunk from being the chronicler of my own shame; but I have not nerve or courage to be the narrator of suffering so terrible, that reason was unseated, and Heaven alone, through gentle agencies, saved me from total despair. Save one—my child—no other eye has rested on these papers—none other will; for, when you restore them to-morrow, the record of crime and sorrow shall perish. Farewell! At dawn of day expect me. Sleep soundly, boy;—may never recollections of the past rob you of rest, as they will me!”
He shook my hand, bade me good night, and retired to his chamber; and I, burning with curiosity to learn all the particulars of a “strange eventful history,” broke the sealed packet, and read the following details:—