Transcriber’s Note: Obvious printing errors have been corrected. Original period spelling, though, has been maintained.

EMMANUEL APPADOCCA;
OR,
BLIGHTED LIFE.

A TALE OF THE BOUCANEERS.

BY
MAXWELL PHILIP.

Φεῦ. ὦ μῆτερ ἥτις ἐκ τυραννικῶν δόμων

δούλειον ἦμαρ εἶδες, ὡς πράσσεις κακῶς,

ὅσονπερ εὖ ποτ᾽· ἀντισηκώσας δέ σε

φθείρει θεῶν τις τῆς πάροιθ᾽ εὐπραξίας.

EURIPIDES.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
CHARLES J. SKEET, PUBLISHER,
10, KING WILLIAM STREET, CHARING CROSS.

MDCCCLIV.

To HARRY DANIELS, Esq.,

4, ESSEX COURT,
TEMPLE.

Dear Friend,

I dedicate to you the first-born of my brains. Receive this trifling mark of esteem in the spirit in which it is made, and accept the willing homage that I render to—oh, most rare possession!—a good and true heart.

MAXWELL PHILIP.

PREFACE.

This work has been written at a moment when the feelings of the Author are roused up to a high pitch of indignant excitement, by a statement of the cruel manner in which the slave-holders of America deal with their slave-children. Not being able to imagine that even that dissolver of natural bonds—slavery—can shade over the hideousness of begetting children for the purpose of turning them out into the fields to labour at the lash’s sting, he has ventured to sketch out the line of conduct, which a high-spirited and sensitive person would probably follow, if he found himself picking cotton under the spurring encouragement of “Jimboes” or “Quimboes” on his own father’s plantation.

The machinery, or ground-work of the story is based on truth—the known history of the Boucaneers. It is scarcely necessary to tell the reader that the other parts are fiction.

The scenes are laid principally in the Island of Trinidad. This is done entirely from natural predilection, for Trinidad is the Author’s native isle, whose green woods, smiling sky, beautiful flowers, and romantic gulf, together with a thousand sweet and melting associations, eternally play on his willing memory, and make him cherish ever the fond hope, that when the spark of life shall have been extinguished, his bones may be deposited on the rising ground that looks over the sea, and that already contains the being who, in death, as well as she was in life, was the object of his deep love and high veneration.

4, Elm Court,
Temple.

February, 1854.

EMMANUEL APPADOCCA;
OR,
BLIGHTED LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

“Plots have I laid; inductions dangerous,”—

Richard III.

Between the north-west coast of Venezuela and the island of Trinidad there lies an extensive expanse of water, known as the Gulf of Paria:—a name which it has derived from the neighbouring Spanish coast.

At first sight this gulf presents to the eye the appearance of a vast lake. On the north, east, and south, it is bordered by the dark mountains of Trinidad: while, on the opposite side the cloud-capt Andes, which terminate in that direction, rear their towering heads, and present a lofty western boundary.

The gulf, thus narrowly surrounded on all sides, communicates with the great Atlantic ocean only by two narrow outlets, which are situated at its northern and southern extremities, and are respectively named “the Dragon’s, and the Serpent’s Mouth.” It is by these narrow straits, as the reader will have already gathered, that Trinidad is separated from the mainland of South America. Shielded as they are by these elevated boundaries, the waters of the gulf are ever calm and placid. The hurricanes which periodically ravage the adjacent regions, never sweep their quiet surface: and ships from the ports of the neighbouring colonies usually avail themselves of the protection afforded by this sheltered haven, and safely ride away the tempestuous months on its smooth expanse.

The scenery around this gulf is extremely picturesque and beautiful. Small green islands are dispersed here and there, and seem to float gaily on the bosom of the slumbering waters; the forest-clothed mountains that beetle from above, cast their lengthy shadows far and wide, and the diving birds that continually ply the wing over the reflecting surface, throw into the scene some of the choicest features of romantic beauty.

It was here, that, on a lovely morning in the month of March, two skiffs might barely be seen floating quietly far, far away at sea.

It was as yet early: the gray mist of the tropical morning was just melting away before the rays of the rising sun, that was fast ascending from behind the mountains in the east; a thin haze, nevertheless, was still left surrounding every object. Scarcely a ripple as yet marked the gulf, and in the quiet of the hour might be heard the waking haloos of the mariners on board their ships in the harbour of Port of Spain, as they summoned each other to the labours of the day.

The two skiffs were at a great distance from land. In the haze it was difficult on a hasty glance to distinguish them from the sea; but, on closer observation, they might be discovered to be a small fishing-boat, such as those which are generally seen on the gulf, and a curial, or Indian canoe.

There were three men in the fishing-boat: two who were rowers, and one that was sitting at its stern, and was apparently the master. He was of mixed blood: of that degree known as that of mulatto, and seemingly of Spanish extraction, but his two men were blacks. The men were resting on their oars, the master was occupied in deep sea-fishing, and the boat floated passively on the water. In the Indian canoe there seemed also but three men: one sat at the stern, the other two crouched in the centre, their paddles were carelessly rested on the sides of the light vessel, and the canoe, like the fishing-boat, was permitted to float unsteered on the gulf.

The two skiffs were not far from each other, and as the haze cleared away, the master of the fishing-boat, in the musing calm attendant on quiet fishing, observed to his men, as he dreamingly looked on the canoe—

“Those fellows are Guaragons; I dare say they paddled from the canoe the whole of last night, and they are now taking their breakfast to get up to town before the breeze rises.”

“Yes, sa,” briskly rejoined one of the boatmen; “dey wok all night, all nakid as dey be dey; dey no ’fraid rain, dey no ’fraid sun, but wen dey begin dey wok—wok so—night and day, you see paddle go phshah—phshah—phshah,” here the speaker screwed up his little features to the utmost, in order to express the energy with which the Indians are supposed to paddle, while, at the same time, he endeavoured to imitate the sound of the paddle itself, as it dashes the water.

“Awh!” he exclaimed, with emphasis, after this display, “dey no get dis Jack Jimmy,” pointing to himself, “foo do dat—no:—oohn—oohn,” and he shook his head energetically.

The master smiled both at the humour of his man, and the horror which he appeared to entertain for the work and exposure of the Indians.

“And den wha dey eat,” he continued, “ripe plantin! dey eat ripe plantin fo brofost, ripe plantin fo dinna—awh! me no know how dey get fat, but dey always berry fat.”

The strange little man continued in this vein to make his remarks about the Indians, and the master attended to his line until the morning was considerably advanced, and the sun had already risen to a great height.

“Now, my boys,” said the last mentioned individual, “I think it is time for us to go, we have not had much luck to-day.” With this he began leisurely to draw in his line, gazing listlessly on the Indian canoe, while he did so,—“but these fellows are taking a long time to eat their ripe plantains this morning, Jack Jimmy,” he observed.

“Me tink so foo true, sa,” replied the individual answering to that name.

“An da big Injan in de tern a de canoe da look pan awee berry hard—berry hard—he bin da look pan awee all de manin so,” and then looking anxiously on the canoe, he continued, “an me no da see parrat, me no da see monkey, me no da see notting pan de side a de canoe, an you neber see Injan ya widout parrat an monkey.”

Having delivered himself of this sage opinion, he looked at the canoe again, long and anxiously, shook his head, and moved restlessly on his thwart.

“What is the matter with you, Jack Jimmy,” inquired the master, “you seem to be displeased with these Indians?”

Jack Jimmy made no answer, but gave expression to a sound like “hom!” Then began to look into the bottom of the boat, while he beat time apparently to his own ruminations with his chubby great toe.

“But what is the matter with you, man?” again inquired the master.

“Massa—massa—me—me-me-me no like close, close so to Injans pan big salt water, so, no.”

The first part of the sentence Jack Jimmy pronounced moodily, but he shot out the latter part with such rapidity and earnestness, that the gravity of the master could hold out no longer, and he laughed heartily at his man.

“Bah! you fool,” said he, when the fit was over: “what do you expect these Indians will do to us?”

Jack Jimmy, much piqued at being laughed at, raised his shoulders, and answered stoically—“Me no know; but me tink we better go.”

“Yes: we are not doing anything here, and there does not seem much prospect of having better luck,” said the master, “let us go.”

He then took up his paddle from the bottom of the boat, and put it over the stern to steer it.

The men began to row, and the little boat began to move through the water.

The Indian canoe, which had remained all the time as passive on the water as the fishing-boat, was now also put in motion, by two paddles, and seemed to be steered in the same direction as the fishing-boat. Jack Jimmy saw this, opened his eyes, and cried, in a voice that began to tremble,—“Dey da come, too.” The master looked round, and saw in truth that the canoe was following in their wake.

The three persons now became somewhat uneasy, and anxious, about the intentions of their mysterious follower. After a time, however, when they saw it was not gaining ground upon them, nor seemed to be propelled with any intention of coming up to them, these feelings were considerably diminished, and they pulled calmly along, while the canoe followed at the same distance from the little boat.

When the fishing-boat had reached to within a mile of the ships which lay in the harbour of Port of Spain, the master was challenged by a brisk “Haloo” from the man at the stern of the canoe.

“Haloo, there!” cried the man in a commanding voice, “haloo, there—stop!”

The master paid no attention to this order, but pretended that he did not hear it, or did not consider it addressed to him, and he remained silent; but Jack Jimmy had not so much command over himself.

“Wha,” cried he, “wha eber yierry Injan peak plain—plain so? hen!” and he shook his head mysteriously. “But wha,” following out his reflections, “dey want we fo tap foo—tell dem we no da sell fish, ya; let dem come sho.”

“Will you stop, there—ho?” again cried the man from the stern of the pursuing canoe.

“We cannot stop,” replied the master, “if you wish to buy fish, come ashore. Pull boys,” addressing himself to his men; “those seem to be strange customers.” Jack Jimmy and the other boatman bent on their oars.

As soon as the little fishing-boat was put in a more rapid movement, ten Indians simultaneously sprung as if it were by magic from the bottom of the canoe, and ranged themselves at its sides, paddle in hand.

“Wha, look dey!” cried Jack Jimmy, pointing tremblingly to the canoe, “pull,” addressing himself to his companion, “pull, me tell you:” and he himself drew his oar with all the energy and vigour which fear alone can impart. “Pull, me tell you,” continued he, every moment, to exhort his companion; “pull, me tell you.” Under these efforts the little shell boat skipped like a feather over the water: but it was no match for the canoe, propelled as it was by the vigorous paddles of twelve stout men.

Like an arrow from an Indian bow, or like the noiseless course of a serpent, through the lake it drew on the little fishing boat. Jack Jimmy and his companion exerted themselves to the utmost; the master too, plied his paddle strongly and continuously, but nearer and nearer the canoe approached. When at last it came opposite the pursued, the man at the stern dexterously threw his paddle on the other side, a rapid movement was made through the water, and the head of the canoe was at once athwart the little fishing boat.

Jack Jimmy could bear it no longer; as soon as the boat was boarded, with a convulsive spring, he plunged into the gulf; while the syllables of his interjected “Garamighty” bubbled up after him as he disappeared. But the first impulse of the master was to draw his knife from the side of the boat, where it was stuck in a chink of the boards, and with a deep-mouthed “carajo” was going to plunge it into the nearest Indian, but his arm was no sooner raised than it was paralized by a blow dealt him with his paddle by a man at the stern, and the knife fell from his grasp into the water.

“Fool,” cried the man who had thus struck him, “what is the use of your resistance: do you not see we number more than you? Get into this canoe immediately, you and your man, and see if you can save that strange creature that is capering on the water there;” and he pointed to Jack Jimmy, who had now come again to the surface, and in the extremity of his fear, with his mouth wide open, and his white eye-balls glaring, was swimming most furiously out to sea. The sight was too ridiculous even for the occasion; the whole of the Indians burst into a fit of laughter at poor Jack Jimmy, who was fatiguing himself at such a rate that his strength would probably not have lasted more than two minutes.

“Paddle to that poor fellow,” said the man at the stern, and the order was obeyed. But Jack Jimmy would not be taken; he dived several times to escape, to the no small amusement of the Indians: his strength however began to fail, and he was at last captured.

They took him into the canoe, when he was almost exhausted, and he was laid at the bottom of it, where he kept his eyes closed and stretched himself stiffly out, to pretend that he was dead. The Indians seemed highly amused by him. At last, however, he ventured to open his eyes, when, seeing some cutlasses and pikes that lay by his side at the bottom of the canoe, he closed them abruptly again and cried, “Oh La-a-r-rd, me dead!”

When Jack Jimmy had been saved from drowning, the master and the other rower were transhipped into the canoe. The master, shrewder than his men, thought he observed, in addition to the circumstance of speaking English, other marks in the Indians which resembled disguise. They seemed more assured and less savage than Indians generally are; besides, they had thick beards and mustachios which the savages never wear; and, above all, their arms, instead of being rude bows and arrows, or at best rusty fowling pieces, were beautiful rifles, cutlasses and pikes.

“But who are you?” he inquired after he had detected these appearances, and become justly alarmed by them. “Who are you, and what do you intend to do with us?”

“With regard to the first question,” answered the man at the stern with stoical coolness, “That is not any business of yours;—in answer to the second, be assured that we mean you no harm. I hope you are satisfied. Now, my order to you is, that you ask no further questions.”

“But, sir,—” the master was about to inquire again.

“Silence!” cried the man in a voice that carried authority.

He then took a small telescope that was concealed in a locker formed in the thwart on which he sat, and began to examine the ships and the harbour with seemingly great care and minuteness.

This examination continued for the best part of an hour, after which the man at the stern handed the telescope to the master fisherman and requested him to look also at the ships: “for,” added he, “you will have to answer questions about them.”

“I know them already,” answered the master and returned the telescope.

The latter instrument was carefully replaced, and a small marine compass was taken out of the same locker and placed before the man at the stern.

“To your paddles, it is now two o’clock and will be late before we arrive.”

The head of the canoe was immediately turned out to sea. The men plied their paddles, and the wind, which had just risen, wafted the light bark rapidly before it. Its destination, however, was incomprehensible to the fishermen, for they could not possibly conceive to what place a canoe that was thus turned out to open sea could be bound.

But whatever alarm they felt, they were obliged to conceal; for it would have been dangerous, they thought, to break the strict command of the man at the stern; and whatever they could have said or done, would have had no effect on men who seemed to be little accustomed to be crossed, and who, undoubtedly, had the power of enforcing their will.

They resigned themselves, therefore, passively to their fate: and did so with the greater readiness, as they had not, as yet, experienced, from those among whom they were so strangely thrown, any treatment which could lead them to apprehend anything horrible or atrocious.

CHAPTER II.

“—Observe degree, priority, and place,

Insisture, course, proportion, season, form,

Office, and custom in all line of order—”

Troilus and Cressida.

The canoe held a direct course out to sea the remaining part of the day. This was drawing fast to a close, when there might be perceived, straight over the bows of the canoe, and far, far away, a small dark object that seemed to rest lightly on the horizon, which was, at that moment, illumined by the red rays of the large round sun that was fast sinking behind it.

The head of the canoe was kept direct upon that speck, and the man at the stern seemed to make no more use of his compass.

Such was the rapidity with which the canoe went, borne away, as it was, by the breeze, as well as propelled by the paddles of twelve strong men, that within three hours after sunset, they were close to that which, a short time before, had appeared so small, so shadowy, and so distant.

The object proved to be a low, black, balahoo schooner, whose model, as far as it could be observed by the starlight, was most beautiful. She was built as sharply as a sword, with her bows terminating in the shape of a Gar’s lance, while her stern slanted off in the most graceful proportions.

But the most remarkable part in her build, was her immense and almost disproportioned length, which, combined with her perfectly straight lines, low hull, and the slenderness of her make, gave her the appearance of a large serpent.

Her rigging was of the lightest fashion as two simple shrouds, which supported each mast, and the bowsprit and jibboom stays formed her principal cordage.

There was not a yard, a gaff, or piece of canvass aloft, so that the tall masts remained bare and graceful, shining under their polish. On these accounts, they could not be perceived at any distance, and a boat, discovering the vessel for the first time, would be at a loss to make out what floating object it was.

Her position also, and the manner in which she seemed moored—mastless, as it would appear—was strange and peculiar. She was not swinging to the wind or current, but she rode under a bow and stern anchor, which kept her head directly towards the Dragon’s Mouth, while the rippling waves, that still curled before the gentle night breeze, broke playfully on her side.

“What word?” sounded the hoarse and echoing voice of some one on the deck, as the canoe approached the schooner.

“Scorpion,” the man replied in as sounding a voice, and the canoe boarded the vessel.

The ladders were thrown out over the sides, and the man at the stern jumped nimbly on deck.

A sentinel stationed at the gangway lowered his weapon, and the man at the stern, for so we must still call him, passed.

The sentinel was a tall muscular man of a dark complexion; his face was almost entirely covered with hair, on his head he wore a red cap, he had on a red woollen shirt, his trowsers were black, and were secured round his waste by a thick red sash, in which were stuck a brace of pistols and a long poniard.

These and a cutlass, which he held in his hand, were his only weapons.

As soon as the man at the stern was on deck he was accosted by a tall, thin person with flowing mustachios, and with marks of distinction from the sentinel, both in dress and in his appearance. He was richly and tastefully accoutred. He wore a jet black frock coat, which was richly but simply embroidered with gold; his trowsers were of unspotted white, and displayed neat and highly polished boots; round his waist he wore a richly fringed crimson sash, in which pistols and a poniard were also stuck; and a slender belt supported a handsome sword by his side. His head was covered by a red cap, and rich gold epaulets rested on his shoulders.

“Lorenzo,” said this individual, addressing the new comer in a low and pleasant tone, “I am happy to see you back. Success, I hope.”

“Success,” answered Lorenzo briefly but courteously, “I have three strangers there in the boat, of whom, pray, order your watch to take care; the captain, I suppose is in his cabin, so I shall see him by the dawn of day. Good night, Sebastian, good watch.”

“Farewell,” answered the party addressed, and Lorenzo, our former man at the stern, disappeared.

This short dialogue carried on, as it was, in an under tone, scarcely broke the extraordinary silence which reigned on board the mysterious schooner.

After Lorenzo had disappeared, Sebastian ordered his men to take charge of the three prisoners in the canoe, who were accordingly brought on deck. Jack Jimmy, who after his fear had been lulled by the apparent harmless treatment of the Indians, had fallen fast asleep, was the most struck when awakening, with the extraordinary position in which he found himself suddenly placed. When he got on deck, he stood as if his limbs would not support him; he first looked aloft at the tapering masts of the schooner, then on the deck, and when his eyes fell on the men by whom he was surrounded, he opened his mouth for an instant in mute amazement, and succeeded at length to give expression to his terror in the words—“Garamighty! way me be? Wha dish ya?”

“Softly, my little man,” said the sentinel, in a voice that contrasted strangely with the weak shriek of the terror-stricken Jack Jimmy, “we don’t speak so loud here.”

“Massa, me hush,” was the immediate answer of Jack Jimmy, and he closed his lips as firmly as he could, as an earnest of his determination to keep silence; but in the dark the white of his eyes may have been seen revolving from object to object with the rapidity of lightning.

“Follow this way,” said a man, who had received instructions from the officer, to the prisoners; and he led them down a narrow stair-case to a small cabin in the foremost part of the vessel. “This is where you are to sleep to-night,” said he to them, after they had been ushered in: “do you require anything?”

The captives answered in the negative.

“Well,” continued the man, “make yourselves comfortable for the night, and be awake betimes to-morrow to see our captain—he gets up early.”

He then posted himself at the door of the cabin, with his cutlass in his hand, like one who was to pass the whole night there. Not a sound more was heard on board the schooner that night.

When morning had arrived, the prisoners were brought on deck, and requested to be prepared to appear before the captain immediately.

The strange vessel on board of which they found themselves, could be better examined by daylight than by the dim star-gleam of the preceding night. The long level deck was scoured as white as snow; not a speck, not a nail-head, not the minutest particle of anything could be discovered upon it. The very seams were filled up in such a manner, that the material which made them impervious to water, imparted an appearance of general cleanliness. The halliards were all beautifully adjusted at the foot of each mast, and made up for the moment in the shape of mats, or other fanciful forms. The belaying pins, that were lined with brass, were beautifully polished, while the tapering masts were as clean and as smooth as ivory. The arrangement of the deck, also, was exceedingly neat: nothing but a few beautiful and simple machines for hoisting were to be seen, and in properly-disposed recesses in the bulwarks, glimpses might be caught of the rude instruments of destruction—of pikes that looked horrible even in their places of rest,—axes whose shining edges made the blood run chill, and grappling-irons, whose tortuous and crooked prongs made the nerves recoil with the thoughts of agony which they brought up. An awning, as white as the deck which it sheltered, was spread from the stem to the stern of the schooner.

Men dressed and armed, as the sentinel of the preceding evening, were leaning here and there, conversing together in a low tone of voice.

Of all these things, the one which particularly attracted the attention of the strangers was the extraordinary device that everything on board the schooner bore; namely, a death’s head placed on the crossing of two dead men’s bones. This was imprinted on the rigging of the schooner, on its tackle, on the weapons which were arranged in the bulwarks, and the men wore it in front of their blood-red caps, and on their arms. This strange circumstance had a powerful effect on the prisoners: Jack Jimmy opened his mouth and eyes, and seemed, on contemplating that sign, to devote himself to death already; and the master fisherman became still more anxious than he had been from the first. He recollected that in the various stories with which he and his fellows in the same pursuit had beguiled many a tedious hour, pirates were represented as always displaying a black flag, on which the same sad mementoes of mortality, as those which he saw everywhere on board the schooner, were imprinted.

The thought immediately broke in upon him that he might at that moment be among those lawless men, about whose horrible cruelties he had heard so much, and he shuddered at the reflection.

It is true he had not, up to that moment, experienced any personal outrage or even incivility; but might he not be reserved for those shocking tortures to which he had heard pirates were accustomed to resort, for the purpose of forcing their victims to the confession of what was alike improbable and impossible? His reflections now became gloomy and distressing; and thoughts that rush upon a man only at his last moments, or in situations of imminent danger, began now to force themselves upon him.

This train of thoughts was broken by Lorenzo, who suddenly emerged from the companion of the chief cabin and approached him.

Lorenzo presented quite a different appearance from what he did under his Indian disguise of the day before.

He was cleanly washed of the red ochre with which he had painted his skin; it now appeared fresh and clear, as it was by nature, although a little embronzed by a tropical sun. His features, which could now be properly read, expressed a character of manly firmness, softened by much humanity and tenderness. He wore the same dress as the officer whom he met on duty the previous night, with the slight exception that his red cap was more richly decorated. This seemed to be a badge of distinction, and it could be at once perceived from the manner in which he acted, that Lorenzo was in high command on board the strange schooner.

“The prisoners will not be wanted for half an hour,” he said to the man on duty; “you may retire with them.”

He then went back, and descended the stairs by which he had ascended.

These stairs led to a wide passage in the main-deck of the vessel, which extended from the stem to the door of the main cabin: he turned to the right, and proceeded to the part where that cabin was situated.

He passed by a number of doors and passages, but proceeded straight down the one in which he was, until he arrived at a certain door that stood immediately opposite to him. He then touched a large skull of bronze that grinned hideously on it; it instantly flew open, and he stood before a tall, and full armed sentinel, who, immovable as a statue, looked him fiercely in the eyes.

The officer, without uttering a word, presented the index finger of his left hand, on which there was a large ring, the sentinel quietly stepped aside, and he passed.

He made a few steps, and from another niche in the passage another sentinel presented himself, he showed the ring again and passed; he went further forward, and was again met by another sentinel, he performed the same ceremony, and he was also permitted to pass. He went on and met several others, on whom the ring had the same effect; at last, he arrived at a sort of antichamber, where two black boys, in gorgeous attire, were waiting.

They immediately bent their bodies to Lorenzo as he advanced, and then stood ready to answer him any question he should ask.

“Is your master at leisure, Bembo?” asked Lorenzo.

“He is, senor,” answered one of the boys.

“Say I am here, and desire audience.”

The boy bent his body again and retired.

He immediately returned, and informed the officer that his master desired him to enter, and conducted him to a door.

The officer pressed a skull similar to that with which the reader has already been made acquainted; the door flew open, and he stood in a magnificent apartment, with a young man before him.

The apartment into which Lorenzo had entered, was vast and magnificent in its proportions; it was formed of the whole of the after part of the schooner, and of its entire width. It was richly though peculiarly decorated: the sides, unlike the plain wainscoating of ships in general, were made of the richest and most exquisitely polished mahogany, upon which were elaborately carved landscapes, in which nature was represented principally in her most terrible aspect,—with volcanoes belching forth their liquid fires; cataracts eating away in their angry mood the rugged granite, over whose uneven brows they were foamingly precipitated; inhospitable mountains frowning on the solitary waves below, that unheedingly lashed their base; chasms that yawned as terrific as the cataclasm that might be supposed to have formed them, and other subjects which blended the magnificent with the terribly sublime.

The precious metals were freely used to mark the shades and other points in these highly wrought carvings, so that the fire which the volcanoes sent forth was cleverly represented by gold, the water by silver, and so forth.

Large beads of gold surrounded each tableau, and separated it from the next. On the skirting-boards at the lower parts were carved palezotic creatures, that held between their extended jaws large richly bound volumes, which were secured by springs against the rolling of the vessel.

The ceiling was decorated in the same peculiar manner: the two sides of the celestial sphere were distinctly represented, with the signs of the zodiac and the constellations finished in a perfect style, and scrupulously placed at the correct distances from each other.

The furniture was in exact keeping with this rich, though strange style of decoration. Soft and velvetty carpets covered the floor, or rather the deck; fanciful ottomans, made in the shape of gigantic sea shells, covered with crimson velvet, and decorated with pure and solid gold, were placed here and there. Immense globes of the earth and the heavens, mathematical instruments of the largest size were carefully arranged, and so effectually secured in their position, that they could not be affected by the tossing of the schooner. But what was particularly calculated to attract attention among these various things was a gigantic telescope, whose principal parts stood on a magnificent frame. More than ordinary care seemed to be devoted to this instrument, both to its construction and to its preservation, for everything about it was exquisitely made and polished.

The young man who stood before Lorenzo, may have been about twenty-five years of age: he was tall and slender, but infinitely well formed; his limbs were beautifully proportioned and straight, and his hands were almost femininely delicate, notwithstanding the close construction of the bones, and the hard, wiry sinews, which could be barely seen, now and then slightly swelling the skin.

His complexion was of a very light olive, it showed a mixture of blood, and proclaimed that the man was connected with some dark race, and in the infinity of grades in the population of Spanish America, he may have been said to be of that which is commonly designated Quadroon.

But the features of this femininely formed man were in deep contrast with his make; they were handsome to the extreme; but there was something in his large tropical eyes that seemed to possess the power of the basilisk, and made it difficult to be supposed that any man could meet their glance without feeling it.

This expression was increased by his lowering brows that overshadowed his eyes, and indicated, at once, an individual of much resolution; while his high aquiline nose, compressed lips, and set jaws, pointed clearly to a disposition that would undertake the most arduous and hazardous things, and execute them with firmness in spite of perils.

In brief, the most superficial observer might have read, in the face of that young man, the existence of something within, which was endowed with the power of controlling the most headstrong and refractory,—of quelling the most rebellious spirits.

It required not the discoveries of science to convince men, at a glance of his features, that there was a power in that mind which was reflected on his face, that wherever he was he would be by the necessity of his own mind—pre-eminent and uppermost; that men must, unknowingly to themselves, obey him, and act as he acted.

In addition to those animal attributes, the shape of his head was what the most fastidious could but admire; his forehead rose in the fullness of beautiful proportions, while, at the same time, those skilled in reading others’ sculls would have declared that, with his high intellectual development, he did not lack those necessary moral accompaniments which the Creator, in his wisdom, has providently bestowed for the proper use and regulation of the former.

Withal, however, there might be discerned in the lofty bearing and haughty mein of the young man a stern and invincible pride.

The dress of our young hero was simple; he wore trowsers of the finest and whitest materials, and a Moorish jacket of crimson silk, with large and ample sleeves; round his waist was folded a red silk sash, in which a gilded poniard and pistols mounted with gold, were stuck; his head was uncovered, and his black raven locks flowed over his shoulders in wild and unrestrained profusion.

When Lorenzo entered the cabin the young man was standing by a table, on which lay open a richly ornamented volume of “Bacon’s Novum Organum,” with the books of “Aristotle’s Philosophy” by its side.

It was evident that he was making his morning meditation on those learned tomes.

When Lorenzo entered the cabin he bowed profoundly.

“Good morning, Lorenzo,” said the young man, still maintaining his high posture, and pointed an ottoman to the visitor.

“Well, how have you fared?” he inquired.

“Well, your excellency,” answered the officer, “I have captured a fisherman with his two men, whom I have brought on board for your especial examination. I made my observations during the time that my men were resting, and have to report, that there are several deeply laden ships in the harbour, which, from all appearances, are ready for sea, and will sail within a few days. There seem to be prospects of a rich booty, with very little work for our men. There are no ships of war in the harbour. I have taken the marks and sizes of the vessels, which you will find on this paper, so that the fisherman may be accurately questioned. The ship, about which your excellency especially instructed me, is also in the harbour.” Then, with a low bow, Lorenzo handed a paper to the young man.

“You have done well, Lorenzo,” the latter said, and glanced over the paper for a short time, and, apparently, possessing himself of the information it contained, laid it by.

“Let your fisherman be brought, Lorenzo.”

The officer left the apartment for a time and returned, shortly afterwards, with the fisherman.

The fisherman appeared bewildered by the grandeur of the place, and could scarcely restrain his eyes from wandering distractedly about.

The captain, after affording him some time to regain himself, requested him to dismiss his fears, and assured him that no harm should be done him if he spoke the truth, and began to interrogate him.

“You know the Harbour of Port of Spain, do you not?”

“I do, senor,” replied the fisherman, “I fish in it every day.”

“Do you know the ships that are there now?”

“Senor, I do not know their names, but I know they are nearly all English.”

“Do you know the large ship that is anchored opposite the banks of the Caroni?”

“Senor, as I have said before, not its name; but I know that it belongs to a rich English merchant, and is laden with sugar for Bristol.”

“Do you know when she is to sail?”

“Senor,” answered the fisherman, “not positively, but, from her appearance, I should say she will sail in a day or two.”

The young man proceeded in this manner and examined the fisherman about all the vessels which were reported in Lorenzo’s paper to be in the harbour, but without, at the same time, receiving any more definite information.

After the questioning was ended, he requested the fisherman to be re-assured, and to fear nothing; he then pressed a spring at his feet, and one of the black boys appeared.

“Show this man on deck,” said the captain. The fishermen was shown on deck, where the sentinel duly received him.

“Lorenzo,” said the young man, “by the chart of this island, and, from my own experience, I know that there are only two outlets from this gulf—the Serpent’s and the Dragon’s Mouth. Ships but seldom go through the Serpent’s Mouth, both, on account of its narrowness, and its distance out of the course of those that may be bound for England. It is, therefore, my opinion that the ships, which are now about to sail, will pass by the Dragon’s Mouth; that passage is fifty miles to the north of this. It is my will that five men be sent with this fisherman of yours, to watch the sailing of the ships: go you, therefore, bear the token, and request the officer of the watch to attend to this order. When this is done, come you hither and let me know. It is my will to let the men have pleasure to-day as they may have work shortly.”

Lorenzo bowed and retired: he shortly returned and informed the captain—as the reader must have already discovered him to be—that his order was executed. The captain asked no further questions, but, perhaps from the habit of being always strictly and implicitly obeyed, he never doubted but that things were done as he wished. Such, too, was the discipline that seemed to reign on board of the schooner, that scarcely five minutes elapsed before preparations were made, and a boat, with the fisherman, among others, was duly dispatched to do as the captain commanded.

When the captain was informed that his orders were executed, he pressed again the spring and the boy appeared.

“Sound the gong,” he said: the boy bowed and retired.

CHAPTER III.

“See it be done, and feast our army, we have store to do it—

And they have earned the waste.”

Anthony and Cleopatra.

No sooner had the captain given the order, than the whole schooner echoed with the deafening sounds of a huge gong, whose noise was sufficient to rouse the soundest sleeper in the lowest recesses of the schooner.

The sounds seemed to possess the power of transforming the vessel, where such quiet and silence a little before had reigned, to a scene of unbounded revelry. No sooner had they fallen on the ears of the grim and bearded sailors, than shouts of joy and mirth burst forth from the same men, who, but a short time before seemed pressed by a paralizing power into discipline, order, and the silence of death.

The deck then suddenly became a scene of the liveliest animation; small groups of men settled themselves here and there, some to sing, others to dance, and others again preferring less boisterous amusement, to listen to the long stories of some weather-beaten son of Neptune.

The jolly songs of all nations, as sung by the different denizens that formed the motley crew of the schooner, rose upon the bosom of the silent gulf. The Spaniard sang his animated oroco songs; the Llanero, who had been seduced away from his native plains to seek as arduous an existence on the boisterous element, chanted the pastoral ditties with which he was accustomed to break the monotony of many a live-long night on the lonely Savanahs of South America; the Frenchman rattled over his lively airs, and the jolly choruses of merry England, too, were not unheard on board of the Black Schooner.

The guitar here and there stimulated the Terpsichorean powers of some heavy sailor, and the schooner rang with the merry laugh of those who listened to the jokes of some funny old tar. Nor were the joys of drinking unfelt. Every sailor had his drinking can by his side, and contentment might have been read on the rigid features of every one as he quaffed the stimulating liquor.

One of the chief subjects of attraction seemed to be an old sailor, whose features proclaimed him a son of distant England, while a deep scar on his forehead, and the brown-baked hue of his face, pointed him out as one who had seen service. He was entertaining those around him with some of his adventures, and was, at the same time, speaking in his native language, which was understood by his hearers. Few, indeed, were the tongues that those men did not know; the wheel of fortune had turned them round and round in their day, and had cast them into many a different place, and there was scarcely a country in the world to which their pursuits had not taken them.

“Yes, by G—d,” the old sailor was saying, “that ere Llononois was the very devil. I remember when he took Maracaybo,—a devil of a fight that was, and no mistake,—three nights in the swamps without bread or grog; I remember when we took that place, there was a poor sinner that we suspected had some dibs. The commodore seized him—devil of a man he was—‘Where have you buried your money?’ Says he—says he—the sinner, I mean, ‘I have no money,’ says he. Says the commodore, says he, ‘you lie, you rascal, and I will make you show me the coffers!’ He took the lubber—by G—d I’ll never forget that day—not I: he took the lubber and tied a line round his head, just as if he would season his head—as I would the main-shrouds—he tied the line round his head, and took a hitch in it with a marlin-spike, and twisted the line until you would ha’ swore it would cut the lubber’s head in two. The sinner sang out murder, but the commodore twisted the more, and asked him for the dibs. He said he had’nt any. ‘Have’nt any, you rascal?’ cried the commodore, in a fury, and twisted the line tighter and tighter, until the eyeballs of the lubber swelled like a rat in a barrel of pork. Lord! I never seed the like—and Jim Splice has seen many things, too, I can tell you—but he still said he had no money. At last the commodore got angry—a terrible man he was when he was not, leave alone when he was—‘Where is your money?’ he cried, more like a devil than a man. ‘I hav’nt any,’ the poor man cried, but that would’nt do: the commodore took his sword, opened the poor fellow’s breast, tore out his heart, and bit it, telling the other Spaniards he would serve them just in the same way if they did not give him all the money they had. By G—d, I’ll never forget that, anyhow! I never seed human flesh eaten afore that—Jim Splice never did—it was too much for me, hearch!” and the old sailor made a hideous grimace. “Yes: I was’nt much longer with that ere Llononois after that, I know. He was a brave man, though, after all, but nothing like our captain. There was a black day for him, however, ay, ay: that ere gentleman aloft keeps a good watch, I know, and he kept a sharp look out on that ere Llononois especially, and had the windward of him in no time. The unfortunate man was cast away afterwards among the same Spaniards, whose hearts he said he would eat, and had to skulk in the woods where he shortly afterwards died of starvation: by G—d, yes, of starvation.”

“And serve him right, too,” the sailors unanimously cried, “what was the use of killing a poor brute when he could get nothing out of him?”

With such anecdotes as this Jim Splice diverted his companions. But there was on board of the schooner that day another subject, which contributed largely to the merriment of the sailors. This was no less a personage than Jack Jimmy. After the examination of the master fisherman, he, together with his companions, had been released from the custody under which they had at first been placed on their arrival on board of the schooner, and after having been admonished that if he threw himself overboard again, as he had once done from the fishing-boat, he would be quietly permitted to be drowned, he was left at full liberty to range the deck at large. When, however, the revelry began, still feeling strange, and fearing lest he should be in the way of the men, he had carefully rolled himself up at the foot of the mainmast, with his head supported by both his hands; and his eyes, the white parts of which could be seen at an extraordinary distance, eagerly fixed on the movements of the sailors. He had sat for a considerable time quiet and unobserved, merely giving vent now and then to his wonder, when that was heightened by any astonishing event in the day’s amusement, by a laconic—“Awh! wha dish ya Baccra debble foo true—Garamighty! look pan dem!”

When, however, the other things which had afforded amusement to the sailors, began to pall; when the dancing had become fatiguing, the songs had been exhausted, and Jim Splice’s stories had lost part of their attraction, the sailors began to look about for other excitement. It was at this moment, an unhappy one for him, that their eyes fell on the unfortunate Jack Jimmy: he was observed in his crouching position, where it was difficult to distinguish him from the ideal of a rolled up ouran-outan.

Struck with the peculiar comicality of the exhibition, the first sailor that remarked him burst out into an immoderate fit of laughter, and then touched his neighbour and pointed him out; the next did the same to his companion, until all eyes were fixed on Jack Jimmy.

“What have we here?” cried a maudlin young sailor, as he stood up and ran towards the object of attraction the others immediately followed.

“Let us see what is in that fellow, mates.”

“Ho, the little prisoner!” rang among the merry men.

Three or four of them immediately tapped him on the head jocosely, and asked him to sing: Jack Jimmy trembling with fear, opened his eyes and mouth at once, “Massa, me no sabee sing,” he replied.

“Come, old boy! stand up—you must sing,” said one of them, and they pulled up poor Jack Jimmy from his recumbent position.

If the appearance of the little man was calculated to raise laughter when he was crouching, it was much more so when he was standing up; and really there was something in him peculiarly comical. He was a little man of about four feet and a half, thickly set, and strong; his face was rounded at the mouth, and his long bony jaws projected to an extraordinary length in front. He seemed to have no brow, there was no distinction between his face and forehead; his huge large eyes looked like balls inserted into two large holes, bored on an even surface, while what was intended for a nose, was miserably abbreviated and flat, added the culminating point to an ugliness which was almost unique. To crown this extraordinary combination, a short crop of scattered hair grew on the top of his head, while the other parts were bare and shining, and now stained a dirty white with water.

Nature did not seem to have been generous enough to accord to him one single redeeming point; his head was joined by a short neck to square heavy shoulders, that rose about the ears of the little man; his legs were of the same shapeless proportions, and terminated at the base in large lumps of flesh, which seen unconnectedly with their appurtenant limbs, would scarcely have been taken for feet, if the short, chubby, and creasing toes, that were fixed to them, had not indicated their nature. To add more to this already ridiculous figure, the circumstance of dress was called in requisition. Jack Jimmy was clad in a dirty, ragged, checked shirt; with lower coverings that were once brown, but which were now of an obscure tawny color, acquired from the many incrustations of dirt that had been permitted to be formed upon them. The sleeves of the shirt were tucked up in a roll which seemed to have become perpetual from the smooth waxing which friction had imparted to it. The tawny trousers were done up in like manner; and on the lower exposed parts of the limbs, might be traced on the black skin, the embedded salt which had settled there while the water trickled down after the plunge of the preceding day.

All these peculiarities, set forth in active prominence by the fear and excitement of the present moment, were quite sufficient to overcome the gravity of more serious men than those who happened, at that time, to be at the height of their merriment.

“Garamighty, massa! me tell you me no sabee sing.”

“Well, you can dance, then;” and one of the sailors took a sword, and made so dexterously at the short legs of the little man, that, to protect those members, he began to jump about like a dancing puppet—to the infinite gratification of the sailors, who roared with laughter. This sport, however, soon ended.

“Hark ye!” said a sailor: “Sambo, if you can’t sing, you must submit to a penalty—bring up the old jib, Domingo,” he added to one of his mates, “or a blanket.”

“Yes, blanket him, ha! ha! ha!” cried all the men, “blanket him, ha! ha! ha!”

With the alacrity that sport alone can give, the sailors immediately brought a sail, into which they lifted the unfortunate Jack Jimmy, who, stupid with fear, all the while was crying—“Tap, massa—Garamighty!—you go kill me,—oh, Lard!—my mamee, oh!”

They raised him on the sail, and began to balance him about, but Jack Jimmy, in the extremity of his fear, apprehending that they were going to do something dreadful to him, took a leap to get out of the sail, and in doing so, was pitched flat on the deck.

He stretched himself out two or three times, feigning the last convulsions of death, and lay at his length with his eyes tightly closed. The sailors laughed; and, seeing clearly, from the heavings of his chest, that he was not so dead as he pretended to be, began to roll him violently about, as they said, in keeping with his own feint, to bring back life. But Jack Jimmy played his part well, and would neither open his eyes, nor show any other sign of existence.

At last, one of the sailors said, aloud—“I know what will bring back the poor fellow: yes, it would be a pity to let him die so; Jack, lend me your cigar.” Jack lent his cigar, and the sailor applied the lighted part to the thick great toe of the would-be defunct. He, however, would not move, but the sailor was persevering; Jack Jimmy remained quiet until the fire had fairly burnt through the thick skin, and had touched the more tender parts; when he felt it he was no longer dead; he sprang up briskly, on his resting part, and, catching hold of the toe, rubbed it with all his might, while he cried out—“Gad, Lard! me dead foo true;—wy—ee bun me foo true—Garamighty!”

The merriment of the sailors was extreme; the schooner rang with their protracted peals of laughter. But while they were thus at the height of their pleasure, the shrill sounds of a fife pierced the vessel; and as if it were the death time of mirth and joviality; it was succeeded by a silence, which can be imagined only, where pestilence has ravaged a population, and has left its gloom, even on the sickly trees and rocks that lay in its devastating traces. It settled itself like a fear-inspiring genius where, but a moment before, was naught but boisterous mirth; the hour of pleasure was passed, that of discipline and order had returned. One by one the sailors retired to their quarters, lifting bodily, along with them, such of their companions as had indulged too extravagantly in the delights of drinking.

To a stranger, the change was extraordinary. It would have been hard to believe, unless one had been convinced by the testimony of his own eyes, that there was a power so infinitely strong, as to control those, apparently lawless men, in the height of their self-willed pleasure; especially, when their spirits were heated with strong drinks, and the fierce propensities of their nature, were roused to a point when it was difficult to restrain them; but such there appeared to be. What was the spring, what the source, what the origin of that extraordinary power? What had the man done, young, as he seemed to be; and solitary, as he appeared, among so many stronger men, to enable him thus powerfully to impose the bonds of discipline, to recall and to sway a number of such men in the midst of their boisterous enjoyment? Was it the recollection of some dreadful deed of firmness, still fresh in the minds and hearts of those stern weather-beaten sailors, that sustained this fear of their youthful captain, or was it the mysterious influence of a curbing and omnipotent mind that chained them to its volition, it is not our part to inquire; suffice it to say, whatever the power, or however acquired, it existed, and that it was strong enough to drive back the sailors of the black schooner to the habitual discipline and order that reigned on its board.

The night was far advanced when the boat, which had been sent on the watching trip, returned.

Lorenzo was immediately informed that a large ship, deeply laden, had passed the “Boca del Drago.”

“Well,” said the officer, to the man who reported these tidings, “you have done your duty faithfully, but you have lost this day’s pleasure; mark it down and the captain will not forget it. Get you to your quarters, and to-morrow be early in my cabin—you may have to appear before his excellency.”

The man made a bow and retired.

CHAPTER IV.

“——Like lions wanting food,

Do rush upon us as their hungry prey.”

Henry VI.

Morning, beautiful and clear, such as it is only in the transparent regions of the tropics, had just come, when, in obedience to the order of the preceding night, the sailor returned to the cabin of Lorenzo. There he was subjected to a more particular examination than the leisure of the foregone night permitted, and he detailed, with accuracy, the various little incidents which had befallen him since he started from the schooner on his commission.

“The ship,” he said, “is very large, and seems to be well manned. There were several persons on board, who appeared to be passengers. We pretended to be fishing, and we pulled backwards and forwards under her stern as she was sailing slowly before the light wind, so that we had an opportunity of observing her closely, and of seeing that on her stern was marked the ‘Letitia’ of Bristol.”

“The ‘Letitia,’” repeated Lorenzo, and a gloom passed over his countenance, as he remained for a minute or two absorbed by some devouring thought.

“Did she seem to sail well?” at length, he asked.

“Senor, the wind was light, and we could not judge of that; but, from her build, I think she would be a clipper,” answered the man.

After Lorenzo had put some other questions to the sailor he dismissed him, and requested that the master-fisherman should be immediately brought. The latter was, in a short time, conducted to the officer’s cabin, where he was interrogated in the same manner. The fisherman said it was the large ship which appertained to the rich English merchant, and of which he had already given information to the captain. The officer dismissed him also, and sought, at once, the captain’s cabin. He communicated the report of the party, and in answer was ordered to go on deck, immediately, and get ready to set sail. When Lorenzo was detailing to his chief the report of the reconnoitring party, the deepest physiognomist would not have been able to discover a wrinkle or a mark in the face of the young man, or to perceive the slightest change in his dark eyes that could indicate the existence of any particular feeling within. He sat like a statue, as silent and as still, with his piercing eyes fixed on the pupils of the narrator’s, who, from time to time, was obliged to look down in order to relieve himself of the torture in which he was kept by the eagle glance of his chief. But when Lorenzo arrived at the part of the report in which the description of the vessel was made, and the name “Letitia” was mentioned, there might be traced around his lips the rudiments of a sardonic smile of triumph—something like the flash of a ponderous cannon when a match is applied in the darkness of night, that dazzles for a moment, and then suddenly dies away in the thick enshrouding smoke that darkly typifies the terrible gloom of the destruction which springs from its midst.

Having heard the report of his officer, the captain ordered him to proceed, at once, on deck, and get ready to set sail. The officer bowed and retired.

When Lorenzo had quitted the cabin, the captain remained sitting in the same position in which he had received the report, and appeared occupied by some preying thought.

“Yes,” he muttered, “‘Letitia,’ that is the name: he goes in it. Speed well my purpose!”

The preparations on board the schooner did not require much time to be completed, and, in a few moments, the captain himself made his appearance on deck. It would appear, that except when the schooner was under weigh, he never showed himself to his crew. Like the priests of yore, who swayed mankind, he was no doubt apprehensive, that if he exhibited himself too frequently to vulgar view, the sailors, in getting familiar with his person, should lose much of the veneration and awe which they unquestionably entertained for him, and which seemed to crush their wills to an implicit and blind obedience to his.

When he appeared on deck, he was attired in quite a different fashion to the one in which he was seen in his cabin. He wore black trowsers, with broad stripes of gold on the sides, and a black frock coat, simply but richly ornamented with embroidery of the same precious metal. The red sash, as usual, was folded round his waist, and supported the pistols and poniard; his head was crowned with a flaming cap, in the front of which was wrought the death’s head and dead men’s bones; while, in addition to these things, a beautiful sword, with gold mountings, hung by his side.

“Weigh,” he said, to the officer on duty, as his foot touched the deck; the vessel was immediately put under sail. The light breeze of the morning filled her well-trimmed canvass, and like a creature of life and grace the Black Schooner began to cut through the water. Scarcely a ripple marked where her sharp keel passed, as she moved gracefully over the quiet waters of the gulf.

The hills of the Bocas gradually arose more and more distinctly before her, as she quickly approached them. No scene perhaps in nature is more beautiful than the one which presents itself to the mariner as he sails through the narrow strait that affords a northern passage from the Gulf of Paria.

Standing in the midst of the clearest waters that bathe in graceful ripplings their luxuriant base, are clusters of small islands that are carpeted to the very beach with fresh and never fading verdure. Like a scene in a panorama, or like the trembling shadows which a tropical moon casts over the silent lake or placid stream, those islands seem balancing over a crystal surface, that shines and sends forth a thousand undulating reflections under the pure and clear rays of an undarkened tropical sun: or, as they recede to the eye, in proportion to the progress of the vessel, imagination might convert them into the terrestrial realities of those variegated spots which the musing poet is fond to contemplate, to follow in their course, to speculate and dream upon, in the transparent and lulling pureness of a summer sky. Above these are seen the blossoming coral-trees with their scarlet flowers, that chequer the densely wooded hills, and stand amidst the dense foliage that surrounds them, marked and conspicuous like thousands of growing wreaths, that administering nymphs eternally offer to tropical nature in gratitude for her marvellous and beautiful works.

Over the shining waters themselves that lave these hills and fairy isles, are seen the long-necked pelican, in its shadowy flight, or its fierce headlong plunge after its watery prey; the spiry smoke, as it ascends from some reed-constructed cottage on the shore; the feathery canoe of some solitary fisherman, playing, like a child of the element, on the beautiful sea; the crooked creeks and receding bays that conjure up thoughts of lurking pirates; the sullen growling of the ocean, in long, high, and heaving swells, as it rolls on the ocean-side: all these mark the entrance of the Boca with the boldest and most beautiful features of natural beauty that fancy, in her wildest reveries, can draw and paint; while the gloomily ascending mountains of Paria, on the left side, with their precipitous falls, to be seen far, far away;—mountains, that stand dark and dismal like sulky lions on the crouch, and seem ready to fall—to fill up the narrow straits below, and to bury, far beneath their weight, the frail structure of fragile wood that intrudes with its rash and venturesome burdens into the very shadow of their black brow, tend to add to the scene a solemn and terrifying effect.

The black schooner glided through the narrow outlet, and rose outside on the boisterous billows of the Atlantic.

The captain paced the deck in deep reflection. His dark eyebrows completely hid his eyes, which remained fixed on the deck. Their long and silken lashes swept the handsome young man’s cheeks, his lips were compressed, and his black mustachios imparted a still sterner, and more terrible appearance to his face. He wore the aspect of one whose resolution was taken to do a desperate deed, and whose nature still refused consent and revolted at the thought, like him who sacrifices to principle, and is doomed to drain a cup that makes humanity shudder.

He had directed the schooner to be steered in the course which the ships bound for England generally take, and men were stationed on her tall and raking masts to keep watch. The day passed: night came; still the schooner held her course, and silence reigned on board. Not a sound was heard, save when the shrill pipe called to duty, or told the hour. The next day came, and with it the order to prepare for fight, still there was no vessel in sight. But the captain was not one to give orders in vain. He knew his vessel, he knew the currents, and could tell the precise hour when he would overtake a vessel of whose departure he was apprized.

The sun was just sinking in the horizon, when the man aloft cried out—

“Sail, ho!—to leeward.”

The captain stopped, and ordered his telescope; with that he discerned a speck in the distance, but far away.

“Keep her away,” he cried, to the man who was steering:—“ease your jib, foresail, and mainsail sheets, Gregoire;”—to the officer on duty; and the schooner edged off.

She sailed so fast that by midnight she was near the object that had appeared in the horizon, and which was now found to be a large ship gallantly careering over the ocean. Her white canvass shone in the moonlight, and the foam that gathered at her bows was brilliant with the phosphorescence of the Caribean Sea.

“Take in the fore-sail,” the captain cried; and that sail was immediately lowered.

The sailors were now all armed with pistols, poniards, and boarding pikes. As they stood grimly gazing on the ship before them, their black beards, red caps, and weapons, looked terribly dreadful, and the idea of some bloody deed could not but be suggested by their appearance.

The fife sounded a peculiar note, and all the sailors gathered at the foot of the schooner’s mainmast. Here may have been heard the low whisperings of comrade to comrade: there may have been seen the fierce eyes of some, flashing, as it were, in anticipation of something congenial. Some may have been observed to stroke their raven beards as if out of patience; others, leaned carelessly on their pikes. When they had properly formed, the captain stopped in his nervous walk, and, drawing himself up to the full height of his lofty and commanding person, said:—

“Associates, you have now another opportunity to revenge yourselves on the world. There,” and he pointed to the ship, “there you have the wealth of some trader, that has neither capacity to enjoy it, nor heart to use it. Remember how frequently you have wanted the morsel which he could so easily have spared, but which you never found. Remember your wrongs and now redress them; take what the world would not afford you. By the dawn of day we shall attack that ship. I expect nothing less than that which I have always found in you, give but your valour, and you shall have the booty—the reward of bravery. Go, rest yourselves until the morning.”

This short speech, he spoke in a clear, deep, and sonorous voice; while the features of the speaker seemed more eloquent than his tongue. The bitterest hatred curled his lip, when he delivered the first part, and animation glowed on his countenance, when he spoke of the bravery of his men.

“Bravo! bravo!” broke out in loud and deep echoes from the assembled crew. The sailors, one by one, returned to the foremost part of the vessel, not without having first cast an inquiring glance at the ship before them. Some betook themselves to their hammocks, and others sat together smoking their cigars and conversing, in a low tone, on the probable events of the approaching morning.

The night waned: and, at last, morning came.

The captain, who, after he had addressed his men, had given orders to the officer of the watch to keep the ship always in sight, but by no means to approach her more closely, had descended into his cabin, now re-appeared on deck. He walked up to the helm, looked first at the compass, and then at the ship that was still a-head of the schooner. The ship appeared now in all her greatness. She was a large merchant-man, apparently, deeply laden, but by no means an indifferent sailer.

“Hoist the foresail,” the captain said, and the sail was again put on the vessel, that seemed to feel it, for she now leapt over the waves like a snake on whose tail some passer-by had accidentally trodden.

“To your posts, my men,” the captain again said, and the shrill fife re-echoed his command.

With the silence of death every man took his station, every gun was manned, every halliard was attended to, while the sides of the deck were immediately lined with men, who were armed with pikes and axes in addition to their pistols and poniards.

It is difficult to imagine the rapidity and calmness with which these preparations were made. We must call to the assistance of our memory the movements of beautifully adjusted machines as they perform their parts, to form an adequate idea of the promptness and ease with which the hundreds of men on board the Black Schooner, executed their captain’s order.

The schooner now drew rapidly on the ship: she was light, and was a fast sailer, and fully felt the light breeze which was blowing at that early part of the morning. Not so with the ship pursued: deeply laden, and comparatively heavy, the light air had scarcely any effect upon her, and she was moving along but tardily. When the schooner had arrived within gun-shot from the ship, at the captain’s order, a gun was fired, and the broad black ensign, with the frightful device of death, ran along the signal-line.

The shot boomed athwart the ship’s bows, but she paid no attention to the signal; on the contrary, additional sails were immediately hoisted, and the vessel was kept freer from the wind. But the schooner still gained upon her.

The report of another cannon, from her side, echoed over the waters: still the ship kept her course. The captain spoke not a word, but looked with haughty calmness on the large vessel, as he stood lofty and erect on the deck, with his arms crossed over his breast. “Launch and man the boats,” he said, after a long space of time had been permitted to escape; a loud cheer, which they could no longer suppress, burst forth from the men. More quickly than we can describe, the hatches were raised, and two boats were immediately hoisted out into the water; twenty men cheerfully jumped into each, and stood ready for the order to shove off.

The boats were towed at the sides until the captain’s voice was heard—“Shove off and board,” he cried, in the same composed and stern manner. A loud cheer from the sailors in the boats, and their comrades on deck, echoed the order. The boats leapt over the long waves under the vigorous efforts of the men. They approached the ship. They stood up, pike in hand, ready to climb its sides.

“Pull, my men,” cried the officer in command, “we take her at once:” a flash was seen on the ship’s deck, a loud report was heard, and, as the smoke ascended, the shattered remnant of the first boat were seen floating here and there, and those who had been in it, and, a moment before, had longed so eagerly for battle, were scattered about on the water dead and horribly mutilated.

The discharge from the ship told with a fatal exactness: the gun, it would appear, had been loaded with pieces of old iron, nails, and everything destructive that could be found; and the charge swept away men and boat with a dreadful crash.

“Lay on your oars, my mates,” cried the officer of the second boat, fierce with anger at the destruction of his comrades: and in a few seconds she was alongside the ship.

“Board, board,”—quicker than thought the assailants climbed the sides of the merchantman, but not to land on deck: a dreadful conflict ensued. The men of the ship resisted valiantly, like those who knew they were fighting for their lives: the foremost assailants were dashed into the deep. They slashed at each other—attacking and attacked. The assailants handled their pikes with fierce and unbreathing vigour, but they seemed to make but little head against the men of the ship. Here and there a boarder was to be seen, to hang to the ship for a moment in his death-grasp, while blood and brain gushed from his cloven head to balance a moment in mid-air, and then fall heavily into the sea.

“Hurrah! hurrah!”—the cries of victory rose on board the British vessel, as assailant after assailant was precipitated into the deep, or sunk under the blows of the men on deck. Now the survivors rushed, for security, into the shrouds; now they clung to the ropes with teeth and feet, while, with their pikes, they kept at bay the opponents on deck. Like famished tigers, that would have their morsel or die, they fought, falling, dying, and almost dead: no shout, no word escaped them, but they did their work in terrible silence. On, on, the English sailors pressed. The shout of victory again rose; but three of the assistants remained—they were partly sheltered in the chains, and fierce as leopards at bay, they felled all that dared approach them; their companions were all cut down or driven over board; perspiration ran down their brawny breasts; blood and foam bubbled from their mouths; and, with eyes as dry and lurid as the famished Panther, they slashed at their hard pressing opponents. Suddenly a loud cheer was heard; it rang over the ocean like the roar of a distant cataract; the still resisting three heard it: a hoarse cry came from their parched and husky throats.

“The ‘Periagua,’”[1] one of them cried, and a long canoe-like boat was seen rapidly approaching from the schooner.

[1] See Appendix A.

[Transcriber’s Note: There isn’t an Appendix A, either in this volume or in Volume 2. The term ‘periagua’ was originally used to describe the long, narrow dugout canoes used in the Caribbean and in Central and South America. By the date of this book, it was also applied to small, flat-bottomed sailing vessels.]

The captain of the schooner himself stood in the stern, cool and collected, with determination marked on every feature. The boat approached nearer and nearer—two strokes more, and she was alongside.

“Now save yourselves or perish:” so saying, the captain drew a plug from the bottom—the water gushed in—the boat began to sink; with the courage of desperation, the pirates sprang on to the sides of the vessel. Their swords glittered in the air, their pikes were worked with the rapidity of lightning, the shouts of the attacked, the yells of the pirates, the splash of the killed, as they fell headlong into the deep, rose wild and appalling on the ear.

The men of the ship received this new attack with firmness: but they had already fought long; they began to yield; their blows fell less rapidly.

“On—on!” cried the captain, and in a moment he himself was on the deck. With a wild yell the pirates followed. The men of the ship now cried for mercy: but the slaughter went on. Revenge directed every blow—every stroke carried death. The voice of the chief was at last heard above the confusion and death-cries.

“Enough: spare and secure your prisoners.”

The word arrested the sword that was raised to deal the last fatal blow, and stayed the pike that had destruction on its point. Every pirate gnashed his teeth because his vengeance was stopped—but who dared disobey?

“Cut the halliards:” ’twas done; and the masts of the ship in a moment stood bare, and she lay floating like a log on the waves.

The deck was crimson and slippery with blood; the sailors of the ship, that had defended her so bravely, lay in heaps, dead and dying.