The soldier’s face was pale as that of a corpse; as he removed his hand, the lines of the mouth twitched nervously.
“Your orders shall be obeyed to the letter,” he said, as he struck his open palm into that of the captain.
The two stood for a moment on the deck hand in hand, looking into one another’s eyes. The stern, determined face of the old seaman showed no trace of feeling as he spoke.
“Do not think, my friend, that I feel nothing. This was to have been my last voyage. The brig was half mine. We shall disappear from the face of the ocean, and in their home, in the mountains of Cumberland, a mother and her two sons will remain in ignorance of what far-away place holds the husband’s, the father’s bones.” Suddenly changing his tones, “Now, my lads, rig out a chair,” he continued, “and we will lower the lady out of harm’s way. Captain Hughes, will you tell Dona Isabel we are ready?”
It is a terrible thing, that waiting for death, to those in the full enjoyment of health and strength. When it is met face to face in the excitement of the fight, in the crash of battle, or the chaos of elemental strife, it is terrible enough. When it comes to the worn and exhausted frame, after months, perhaps years, of agony and suffering, as a liberator, as a kind and merciful friend,—even then it is feared: that step into the vast and unfathomable abyss of the future; that new world, whence none have returned. But here it was far otherwise.
Life, health, strength, all were there; and take but away from the face of the ocean that dark, beautifully moulded hull, with its long tapering spars, and canvas as white as the driven snow; take away that floating pandemonium, with its beautiful outside appearance, and its crew of men hardened in crime, and steeped in blood and murder; and not only health, strength, and life were there, but high hopes and happiness were the lot of those who were on board the dismantled brig.
Isabel had regained her courage. Her long hair floating behind, her eyes showing no trace of tears, she had walked along the deck leaning on her lover’s arm. The crew looked at her pityingly as she passed. More than one strong man shook his clenched fist in the direction of the pirate, as Isabel, her foot on the first step of the ladder, took her last look at the scene around her. There lay the schooner, rapidly nearing the brig, which was now running dead before the wind. Far astern, a long green line on the lead-coloured sea marked the coming squall; ahead, far as could be seen, the dark-coloured ocean, over which the hot haze seemed to hang heavily, while the splintered mainmast, and torn bulwarks alone showed the dire distress of the brig’s crew. The pirate had ceased firing, for the sea was rising rapidly; the black squall, too, seemed coming up like a racehorse astern, and it was time her bloody work was finished. Isabel passed forward, one squeeze of the hand—for not a word was spoken—and she was carefully and gently sent down into the hold, her father following; the old noble having taken a formal leave of all, thanked the crew, raising his hat with punctilious politeness as he was lowered away. None now remained except the soldier. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which were placed two six-barrelled revolvers. Beside him stood the missionary, his pale, thoughtful face calm as usual, not a trace of emotion visible. He held in his left hand a heavy double-barrelled rifle, and, as he grasped his friend’s with his right.
“Hughes,” he said, “you have the hardest task among us. We shall fight to the last, relying on you, on your calmness and determination. No entreaty, no delusional hope must move you.”
“Ay, ay,” muttered the seaman, “you may trust him.”
And it was evident he could be trusted, even in this dire extremity. His face was deadly pale, but the firmly compressed lips, the determined look, the high, broad, clear forehead, all told their own tale, as, without a word, he wrung his friend’s hand, and seizing the rope which dangled free, swung himself from the deck and dropped hand over hand into the hold below.