It would have been difficult to have defined exactly the source of this wretch’s grin; for he was sufficiently in the secrets of his master to know that the murder of Henry could not have been intended. But, there was a demoniac glee at the sight of suffering and death; and surprise at the strange mistake, and curiosity to see what effect it would have on him most interested. The grin which those mixed feelings had produced, still remained on his face, and seemed to have been forgotten there, while stooping, and flaring the light across and across, over the prostrate figure of Henry, as if to ascertain that life was quite extinct, he said, as he raised himself and gave his head a knowing nod, “We must not lose the ship for this though!”
The aroused murderer snatched the lantern from him, and flinging himself on his knees beside the corse, held the light close to Henry’s pale face: paused—shuddered—closed the eyes of the dead—then the lips, which agony had left parted while the teeth were clenched; laid the lantern on the ground, tore open the breast of the shirt, placed his hand on the heart, remained for some moments motionless, holding in his breath; then, perhaps unconsciously, heaved a sigh as deep and tremulous as though it had issued from the gentlest of bosoms, and proceeded to examine the wound.
“There are two ribs broken!” he murmured to himself, as he continued the scrutiny.
“I was quite sure,” interposed the black, approaching a step, “that the midshipman I told you of, was our prize-master: I saw no other officer come aboard of us. It was your own order, that I should turn in, and keep clear of the men, and seem to take no concern in what was going on, till after the first watch was relieved, and then to be sure to come on deck, and keep near the cabin-door.”
“Damnation! Damnation! Damnation!” muttered the still kneeling murderer, without withdrawing his eyes from the face of the corse, and grinding, as it were, each utterance of the word beneath his clenched teeth, ere he suffered it to pass. Then, starting up, he hastened on deck, (followed by the black,) strode towards the steersman, held a pistol to his head, and swearing he would blow his brains out if he made the slightest resistance, tied him down with cords. The same threat was used by the black, to the man who had the lookout, and whom they also tied. The desperate pair of ruffians then proceeded to the hatchways which they had previously fastened down, and ordering the remainder of the crew to come up, one by one, bound each, as he appeared, with the exception of two foreigners, who volunteered to assist them in taking the ship into a French harbour.
They then altered the course of the thus recovered prize, and stood towards Brest.
The storm which Fitz-Ullin had foreseen, had been for some time gradually rising; it soon became so high as to render the privateer with so few efficient hands, very unmanageable; there was also distant thunder, and occasional flashes of lightning. The wind, however, being favourable for the French coast, they allowed the vessel to drive before it, and seemed resolved to perish rather than yield to their prisoners; for this, from the superiority in numbers of the latter, must have been the alternative, had they let them loose to obtain their assistance.
After some hours, but while it was still quite dark, they ran foul of another vessel. On board both ships, some moments of the most awful suspense followed: neither crew could be at first aware, what degree of injury their vessel had sustained; nor was it immediately possible, in consequence of the darkness, to ascertain whether their dangerously near neighbour were friend or foe. They were endeavouring, through the din of the elements, to hail each other, when a peculiarly vivid flash of lightning struck and shattered the upper half of the main-mast of the privateer, while the lower part of the mast continued standing, but took fire and instantly became a blazing torch of gigantic dimensions, illuminating, from end to end, with perfect distinctness, the decks of both vessels. That of the frigate presented the usual crowd and bustle attendant on the circumstances; while that of the privateer was nearly desolate, rendering the more remarkable the figure of the murderer and that of his black assistant, standing in the glare of the burning mast, and, with looks of dismay, recognising in the vessel alongside of which their own lay, their late captor, the Euphrasia.
The privateer could offer no resistance: she was of course retaken. It would be difficult to describe the horror of those who now boarded the thus twice captured prize, on finding what had happened, and discovering the body of Henry. Still less would it be possible to paint the feelings of Fitz-Ullin, when the account of the murder was brought to him.