The Gold Brick

by Ann S. Stephens

"Is it best?" inquired the boy; "will she sleep longer if we go?"

"Yes, poor orphan, her sleep will be long enough," cried the captain, all his generous sympathy bursting forth in English.

"What!" said the boy, gently, "will her sleep be sweeter—did you say that? Lift me up, I will go. Let one of those big men put me on his shoulder. I shan't be afraid. My father is—oh, how brave!—so am I." The captain lifted the little fellow in his arms, and held him against as good and true a heart as ever beat in man's bosom—a heart pained with many compunctions by the humane deception he was compelled to practice. The men made the boat fast, and came up the side of the brig, leaving it rocking softly on the water.

"Wait till he is asleep," the captain said, as they stood in a group, anxious for orders. "Then we will take her to the island."

The men retired, somewhat dissatisfied at any delay, but made no further protest.

"Let me sit here, please, where I can look over and see her face as she sleeps," said the gentle child, in a sweet, pleading way, that went to that captain's heart; "besides, I want to watch for papa. When the negroes dragged us away, mamma and I—he followed after a little while, and when I looked back and he was lying on the ground, tired with running, I suppose; but he'll come, so if you don't mind, monsieur, I'll just wait here."

The boy had clambered up to a cask that stood near the side of the vessel, as he spoke, and folding his arms on the bulwarks, looked down with touching watchfulness upon the face of his mother, which lay, white as marble, in the starlight.

How beautiful, and how patient was that childlike watch. Sometimes the boy would lift his eyes with a troubled look, and turn them toward the town, which, still glaring and riotous, kept up its atrocious noises. Then he would search the harbor for some boat, and finding none, sink to his patient watch again, murmuring, "Oh, but he will come, when it is daylight—when it is daylight."

At last the struggles of nature were too strong for a child so delicately nurtured, and with his little arms folded on the bulwark he dropped into a profound sleep. But it was almost break of day before he became thus unconscious, and the captain had no time to spare. Taking the little fellow once more in his arms he laid him on his own bed, and going instantly on deck, summoned his men. With eager alacrity they descended to the boat. The captain followed with a large cloak over his arm, with which he reverently covered the dead. One man brought a pickaxe and spade, which he had taken from the cargo, and sat them in the stern of the boat; now that all danger of a dead person being carried aboard was over, they went quietly and seriously to their duties. As they gave the boat to her oars every arm fell softly to its work, it seemed as if they feared that a single splash of water would be followed by wails of pain from the poor child whose mother was floating away into eternity while he dreamed.

Across the waters and through the gray gleams of early dawn the boat cut its way to White's Island—which as yet was calm and peaceful. In a jungle of roses, where lofty cedars sheltered the beautiful coffee trees, the sailors dug a grave, leaving the murdered woman in the boat till their work was done. The captain, saddened by this individual instance of wrong, sat down upon the bank watching the boat, while his men completed their task. Once or twice he heard a movement in the chaparral, as if some wild animal were disturbed by his presence, but he took no heed, and at last his men came back.