Transcriber’s Note: Obvious printing errors have been corrected. Original period spelling, though, has been maintained. There are two CHAPTER XXIIIs.

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. II.

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

MDCCCLIV.

EMMANUEL APPADOCCA;
OR,
BLIGHTED LIFE.
A TALE OF THE BOUCANEERS.

CHAPTER XVI.

“O conspiracy!

Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night

When evils are most free?”

Julius Cæsar.

The small cutter that was carrying Agnes and the other captives held her course towards the land.

It could not but occur to the priest and to his ward, unaccustomed as they were to encounter dangers, that their position was one which was in itself highly, if not imminently perilous. There they were, thrown in an open vessel on the ocean, and sent on a voyage which was to consist of three days’ or more beating up against the wind and the waves, while their little vessel was every moment subjected to the accidents of a very tedious and difficult navigation.

These thoughts were the more forcibly thrust upon the priest, when after the lapse of a day, and on the approach of night, it was to be perceived that no progress towards the land had been made. The little cutter had tossed about on the high billows, had tacked and re-tacked, still at the close of the day she was not much nearer the end of her voyage than when she was thrown off by the schooner. Under the influence of these thoughts, the priest lost much of his cheerful equanimity. He looked concerned, and his conversation did not flow so freely as it was wont to do. Perhaps this was a happy accident for Agnes; for that young lady, apparently disinclined to speak or to listen, still leaned over the side of the cutter, and, from time to time, cast a side-long look at the schooner that was sailing away in another direction.

The first night of the voyage came, and augmented still more the alarm of the priest. He felt his isolation among the other men whose pursuits and habits were different from his, and now freely allowed his mind to conjure up fears of assassination and robbery. To add to his suspicions, the sailors of the captured ship seemed to herd closely together, and to sympathise but little with their fellow passengers. The master fisherman, true to his promise, paid the greatest attention both to the sailing of his little vessel, and to the safety and comparative comfort of those who had been placed under his especial care.

When the sun, that true and never disordered timekeeper of the tropics, had on the next morning illumined the ocean, the first thought and first action of Agnes, was to cast her eyes around and survey the horizon. Nothing was to be seen; the Black Schooner had disappeared. Scarcely believing her eyes, she looked and looked again; it was as the eyes made it out, and not as the wish would have it; there was no vessel to be seen. Dejected, wretched, sad, and disappointed, she suspended her further survey, and began again to contemplate the blue waters that was rushing pass the jumping cutter. A sad feeling was that of Agnes, the feeling which arises when we lose the last memento of some dear and cherished creature: the memento which, in the absence of the object that it recalls to our memory, receives, perhaps, the same amount of worship as the being itself which it represents. Whatever be the nature of such a token, it is all the same: a golden toy, a lock of hair, a favourite pin, a prayer-book, these are amply sufficient to strike up within us the active feelings of grief-clothed happiness, and to awake anew the recollections of periods whose real and unbroken felicity never permitted us to contemplate or fear a change. To lose one of these imaging toys, is the breaking away of the last link that binds us, in one way at least, to the objects which they symbolize. On such sad occasions the heart is stricken with a prophetic fear, which like the canker-worm ever afterwards eats deeply, and more deeply into our spirits, until there is nothing more to eat away.

Agnes felt this when she could no longer see the Black Schooner. As long as she could gaze on the vessel, there was still a little consolation, or, perhaps her grief was still subdued, but when that vessel disappeared from her view, it reached its height and preyed upon her without mitigation. Who has not stood on the sea-washed strand and watched the careering ship that was bearing away father, lover, or child, and felt his tears restrained as long as a waving handkerchief could convey the ardour of a last “farewell,” but who, a few moments after, experienced the bitter misery that followed, when the ship had disappeared from the view, when an unsympathising horizon had veiled in silence and in obscurity his lost and lonely friends, and his damp spirits were left free to recoil upon themselves? What person is there, who in the hey-day of existence, at the age when the heart is fresh, and the spirits are high, when necessity intervened to drive him away from among friends and relatives, has not felt the pang of separation more and more as every familiar object was, one by one, left behind, and gradually disappeared from his view.

“Agnes, you are sad,” said the priest, who notwithstanding his own anxiety, and disquiet of mind, could not but mark the unsettled and unhappy state of his ward.

“Not very, sir,” the young lady replied, “though our present condition is not the most pleasant.”

“Truly not,” answered the priest, “still we must hope that we shall soon arrive on land. Recollect, that, although we are not now very comfortable, we are still on a voyage towards home, and that thought ought to support us under greater inconveniences than the present.”

“Yes,” replied Agnes, “we are returning home, and that is a comfort.... How beautiful this water is,” she continued, falling naturally into that romantic train which was necessarily called forth by the present state of her sentiments, “how remarkably beautiful are those blue waters, and how pure and transparent is that thin foam which now fringes yon crystal wave!”

“All the works of the Creator are beautiful, my child,” answered the priest.

“Yes,” continued Agnes, “and the ocean is so still and quiet: who could ever imagine that it contained so many terrible monsters.”

“True;” remarked the priest, “surfaces, my child, are, alas! too frequently deceptive. For instance, take the appearance of the ocean this beautiful and blessed morning; it looks as pure and unspotted as when the sun first dawned upon it on the fourth day of creation; still, how many murderous deeds have there not been done upon it since that time, and over how many wrecks of human fabrics has it not rolled? If we could penetrate its depth, and see its bed, we should probably behold the skeletons of the fierce Caraibs that first inhabited this part of the world, and their rude instruments of war, blended confusedly together with the bones and elaborate weapons of their more polished conquerors; while the large fishes that still hold possession of their medium of existence, now peer with meaningless eyes into the naked skulls, or rummage for their food the rotting wrecks of the bristling war-vessels that once rode these seas.”

Agnes felt thankful for this long and solemn observation, which gave her time to think on one of the vessels that had not as yet become a wreck beneath the ocean.

After a pause, the priest continued:

“This basin over which we are now sailing, my dear Agnes, may have once been high and dry land, and the islands which are scattered about in this horse-shoe fashion, may have been—.”

“Stop, sare,” interrupted the master fisherman, who the reader may recollect was constituted the captain and proprietor of the cutter when it was dispatched from the schooner, and who was now sitting between Agnes and the priest, steering the boat, “stop, sare,” he said, endeavouring to make himself understood in English, “me wees hear something they say there,” and he made an almost imperceptible sign towards the bows of the cutter, where the sailors of the captured ship were sitting together, and speaking among themselves in a sort of half whisper. The master fisherman’s attention had been attracted towards them by a few words which he had overheard, and being suspicious lest they should presume upon their numerical strength, and make an attempt to take possession of the cutter, he was anxious to make himself acquainted with their plans in order to anticipate them.

“We will never get ashore at this rate, Bill,” said one sailor to another.

“I’ll be d—n—d, if we will,” answered the other, “what the devil does that d—n—d jack Spaniole know about steering a boat.”

“Don’t speak so loud,” whispered another.

“He don’t understand English, and I don’t care if he did,” answered the other.

“Yes, I think it is a devilish hard case,” joined in another, “that we should be obliged to sit here and let that fellow, who don’t know a jib from a paddle-box, steer the boat.”

“What do you say if we take the management, my hearties?” inquired a lean, long-featured individual.

“Hum,” groaned one.

“Suppose we do?” inquired another.

They whispered still lower among themselves for a moment.

“I say, you sir—you sir, keep her off, will you, don’t you see the wind is right a-head?” shouted one to the master fisherman, in a tone of derision.

“Keep her head up, Mr. Spaniole, d’ye hear? don’t you see the wind is turning her round?” cried another.

These insults seemed lost on the master fisherman, for he took them with marvellous fortitude.

“My good men,” said the priest, “forbear: consider where we are, and under what circumstances we are placed; pray, do no not endeavour to cause any quarrel.”

“Mind your own business, parson, will you?” shouted a bolder sailor than the others, “it is you who already prevents us going any faster; so, if you don’t wish to be sent to Davy Jones, hold your tongue.”

The priest became now quite alarmed:

“Do not answer them,” he whispered to the fisherman.

“Hollo! there; ready about,” continued one of the sailors, apparently bent on provoking a quarrel, “ready about,” and he proceeded to let go the jib-sheet.

The master fisherman now quickly stood up, with the marks of anger already becoming visible in his eyes.

“Stop, or me kill you,” he cried, while he levelled one of the pistols, with which he was armed, at the audacious sailor.

“Kill him, will you,” simultaneously shouted two of the sailors, and rushed together towards the stern of the cutter, “kill him, will you, you cut-throat Spaniard?”

The master fisherman stood firm where he was. He now held both of the pistols, which Appadocca had given him, and raising them to a small distance before him, awaited the two men.

Undeterred by the weapons, they rushed on.

“Stop for your life!” cried the master fisherman, highly excited.

“Be reasonable men,” cried the priest, as he also stood up to defend himself.

The men came on;—flash,—a report—and the bullet pierced the foremost one. He fell into the bottom of the cutter, and rolled over the master fisherman’s other man, who had been wrapped in sleep in that part from the very moment that he had got into the cutter.

“Hon!” he groaned and awoke, as the sailor that was shot rolled heavily upon him, when, seeing the blood, he jumped up.

The shrieks of Agnes, the fierce and deep Spanish oaths of the master fisherman at once told him how matters stood. He grasped the first of the sailors that came within his reach, and wrestled with him. Both fell into the bottom of the cutter, and rolled about on the ballast.

The quarrel had now assumed a serious aspect; furious at the death of their comrade, the other sailors rushed to the stern of the cutter. The master fisherman discharged the other pistol: it told, another sailor fell. But the shot was no sooner fired, than one of the two other sailors, closed with the master fisherman. They wrestled: each pressed successively his adversary on the side of the cutter, endeavouring to throw him overboard; but they were well matched: their strength was equal: now, the master fisherman was down, and seemed to be about to be thrown overboard; now he had the sailor down in the same position. Both fought with desperation, and clung with the pertinacity of iron to the side of the vessel. The cutter, having no one to steer it, had flown into the wind, its sails were flapping, and its boom was swinging violently, from one side to the other. The master fisherman was now down; over, over, the sailor was gradually pressing him; his grasp began to relax: he was bending farther towards the water; the sailor raised himself a little, so that he might have a better purchase to strike the final blow: as he did so, the boom swung violently, and struck him on the temple, with a great splash, he fell a yard or two into the water. The master fisherman quickly rose, and went to the assistance of the priest, who had met the attack of the remaining sailor, and was now holding him down in the bottom of the cutter. The master fisherman clutched a stone, and in his passion, was going to dash out the brains of the prostrate sailor.

“Hold!” cried the priest, “no more violence: bring a rope, and let us tie him.”

The master fisherman drew back his arm, and let fall the stone. Even in his fury he felt the force of his natural veneration. He brought a rope, and tied the sailor down.

“Do the same to the other,” said the priest, now almost exhausted by his effort, “tie him too.”

The remaining sailor, who was still languidly rolling at the bottom of the cutter, with the fisherman, was next pinioned.

“See now to the wounded,” said the priest, who now, when his first terror was over, displayed great presence of mind.

The two men who had been shot were examined. They still breathed, although their wounds were very serious.

The attention of the priest was now turned towards Agnes, who sat almost petrified with fear in the place where she was.

“Thank God, this danger is also past,” said the priest to her, “I must be guilty of some grievous sin, indeed,” continued the good father, “to have thus drawn down upon us the chastisement of Providence. Twice have we passed through bloodshed and death, and who knows what new perils we may still have to encounter before we reach Trinidad.”

“Yes: and when shall we reach it? It looks as if we were never to get back,” and Agnes was overwhelmed by a multiplicity of different feelings.

“Let me see,” said the priest, “I think it would be easier to proceed straight towards it, than to be beating about on these seas.”

“Have you any object to go to Granada in preference to any other place?” he inquired of the master fisherman, who had now adjusted the sails of the cutter, and resumed the tiller.

“No, he had not,” was the reply: “he was endeavouring to make that island because it was the nearest land indicated to him by the pirate captain.”

“Would it not be easier to sail at once to Trinidad?” again asked the priest.

“Most decidedly,” was the answer; “the distance was greater, it was true,” added the master fisherman, but that was overbalanced by the fairness of the wind, because they would then be able to sail with a free sheet and should gain Trinidad within an infinitely shorter space of time than it would take to make Granada, by beating up against the wind from the position in which they then were.

“Then let us steer to Trinidad,” said the priest.

“Very well,” replied the master fisherman.

The cutter was kept off, the sheets and tacks were slackened, and the little vessel, now feeling the full force of the wind began to tear through the water.

Away, away, it went. During day and during night the master fisherman sat gravely at the tiller; neither fatigue nor want of sleep could induce him to entrust for a moment the command of the little vessel to his man; “He had taken an oath,” he said to the priest, when he requested him to take some rest.

It was on a beautiful morning when the priest and Agnes, on awaking from their uncomfortable slumbers, beheld themselves within the Gulf of Paria.

They looked with highly-pleased astonishment at the master fisherman, who wearied and worn, still sat at the rudder. He returned the glance with the same visible contentment and pleasure.

“We are indebted to you, my good fisherman, for your incomparable conduct towards us. We shall scarcely be ever able to show you sufficient gratitude,” he said.

“Not at all: we must deal well towards those who conduct themselves in a proper manner to us,” said the fisherman, in the best manner he could; “now I am at home again; I am on my own gulf,—where do you wish to be landed, sir?”

“Land us wherever you please: we will be always able to make our way to Cedros,” answered the priest.

“To Cedros? I shall take you there at once,” answered the master fisherman, and then turned the cutter’s head to that part of the island.

“Agnes,” whispered the priest, “I have always found much that is to be admired in the humbler classes; they require but proper treatment, as all other men do.”

“This seems to be a very worthy man,” replied Agnes, more in respect to the priest than from any desire to converse, for Agnes had ceased to be over communicative since the capture of the vessel in which she had been a passenger.

The sugar-cane fields arose more conspicuous and beautiful to the view as the vessel drew nearer and nearer to the land; and within a few hours Agnes arrived on the plantation and was locked in the affectionate embrace of her aged father.

CHAPTER XVII.

“And winds of all the corners kissed your sails

To make your vessel nimble.”

Cymbeline.

“Had not their bark been very slow of sail.”

Comedy of Errors.

The grey dawn of the morning found the crew of the man-of-war busily at work. The unwieldly machines clanked and reclanked as the sturdy sailors heartily threw their whole strength upon them, in raising the heavy sails and weighty anchor.

As soon as there was sufficient light to see, watches, who were provided with the most powerful telescopes, were sent up to the very top of the tall masts to survey the horizon, in order to discover, if possible, the pirate vessel, which was supposed to be hovering about at no great distance.

After a careful survey, the report was made, that far out to leeward there was a sail—that it was apparently a vessel which was lying to.

“Look again,” shouted out the officer of the watch, “what is she like? is she square-rigged?”

“No, your honor.”

“What sort of a thing is she?”

“She looks to be a fore-and-aft, your honor.”

Willmington was called, and, on being required to do so, gave the best description he could of the pirate vessel.

“It is likely the same vessel,” the officer remarked, after he had heard Willmington.

“Cheerily, men, look active.”

The sailors scarcely required any exhortation. They went through their work with more than ordinary good-will. In the first place, the idea of something like active service excited them, for they felt oppressed under the ennui of leisurely sailing from one port to another; and they longed to chastise the rash temerity of those degraded wretches who had the insolence to make an attempt of rescuing a prisoner from their lordly ship.

The majestic structure, therefore, was soon put in motion, and was now to be seen sailing magnificently before the wind. Gradually it gained on what was at first distant and obscure. As the ship drew nearer and nearer to it, the vessel grew more and more distinct, and could now be clearly made out as a long, low, rakish schooner. It was, in fact, the Black Schooner.

The huge vessel-of-war approached nearer and still nearer, but the schooner remained still stationary where she was. The sailors of the man-of-war prepared for action with enthusiasm. They could easily judge, from the shape of the schooner, and its peculiar rig, that she was the vessel of a pirate, if not of the pirate of whom they had so often heard. They saw their prize before them. The schooner, they thought, must yield to the superior strength of the man-of-war, and her conquest would be the easiest thing in the world. Besides, the little vessel could not but perceive their approach, and as she did not sail away, they argued there must needs be some cause, either mutiny or some other disagreement on board, which neutralized the authority of those in power, and which, consequently, would make her a still easier prize. They prepared their guns, on this account, with the keenest alacrity and lightness of heart, for men are always the more enthusiastic and brave when they are pretty well assured that they can command success.

The large vessel sailed down on the small schooner, that was still lying to, the standard of England was already waving from the spanker, the men were standing at their several stations, and the commander himself, who had now come on deck, was anxiously waiting until he came within gun-shot of the schooner, to signal her to surrender. The ship drew still closer, the order was given to make ready to fire, when ... like the shadowy fleetness of a dream, the masts of the Black Schooner at once became clothed in canvass, the black ensign with the cross bones and skull ran up the line on her gaff in chilling solemnity, while on the top of her raking masts floated two long pendant flags as red as blood, and the sharp vessel began to glide like a serpent silently over the waters.

Fearful of losing his prize, which was well-nigh within his reach, the commander of the ship-of-war observing the movements of the little vessel, quickly gave the order to fire. A loud and rending report of several guns at once echoed over the waves, and the shots dipped, and dipped, and dipped again, and fell harmless within a short distance of the schooner. The flag of the pirate schooner was lowered and hoisted, lowered and hoisted, lowered and hoisted again, in derision, as she steadily held her course. Another discharge ... and the shots sank as harmless as before: again the pirates lowered and hoisted their flags.

Every sail was set on the unwieldly ship, and her enormous studding-sails covered her yards and booms. Her hull could scarcely be seen, under the vast sheets that shaded her. The waves boiled up on each side of her bows, and like a whale, furious with a wound, she left behind her a wake of foam.

The Black Schooner glided along like a slender gar. Confident of the fleetness of their vessel, the pirates seemed inclined to mock the large and threatening fabric that was pursuing them. Ever and anon they changed their tack, and the vessel itself, which seemed to anticipate their wishes, played gracefully on the blue surface.

When all the ship’s studding-sails were set, and she was sailing rapidly before the wind, they would suddenly change their course, and draw their obedient vessel as close as possible up to the wind. As soon again as the man-of-war went through the labour of taking in her superfluous sails, again they would change their course. Now they shortened their sails, and then, as the ship gained on them, they had them up again as if by magic. Now they sailed away to a great distance, and then tacked and returned as if to meet and brave the pursuers; all the time, however, they kept out of the reach of the man-of-war’s guns with astonishing precision.

The chase continued thus the whole day, until night came and veiled pursuer and pursued.

Vexed with disappointment, and irritated by the taunts of the pirates, the commander of the man-of-war ordered the sails to be taken in, and the vessel to be luffed up into the wind. The order was immediately obeyed, and the crew, in thorough disgust, went away from the station to which they had that morning rushed with so much buoyancy.

It was, indeed, sufficient, to try the moral fortitude of the most philosophical. On one side there was a large heavy vessel, of size sufficiently huge to have crushed two such vessels as the pirate-schooner, from mere contact: on the other was that small and light vessel, which could be so easily destroyed, but which, notwithstanding the most eager desire on the part of the commander and crew to capture her, had so tantalizingly escaped them. After the continued chase of a whole day, the large vessel had proved as impotent and as incapable of carrying out their wishes, as a piece of floating timber; and what was still more galling, they had, in addition, been exposed to the most annoying derision of the pirates. Worse again, there was no probability of her being able, at any time, to overtake the schooner; for it was too clear that their large vessel could not sail so fast as she. The only chance of their capturing her was, in their taking her by surprise, an event which could not be reasonably calculated upon, when the pirates exhibited so much prudence and precision. The sailors, therefore, doggedly retired to their respective cots, muttering all the while, strong and complicated oaths against the individual who built the fast-sailing schooner.

As for the commander himself, he bore the disappointment with the less dumb patience, as the discipline of the ship did not bind him down to so much silence, as it did the crew. He fumed only as seamen can fume, and vowed, in the extremity of his anger, that he would perpetrate, Heaven only knew, what extent of cruelty,—which he never meant,—upon the insolent pirates, if he once had them in his power.

When calmer moments, however, succeeded to his wrathful feelings of disappointment, he began to think deeply on the course which it was prudent to adopt, in order to have a probable chance of capturing or destroying the schooner. The batteries and the crew of the ship, he rightly concluded, were of no use against an enemy that was sufficiently wise and experienced always to keep beyond the range of his guns; and, as for overtaking the schooner, it was a matter of absolute impossibility. He could decide on no clear plan. He, therefore, resolved, in that conjuncture, to sail about in those parts under little canvass, and trust to accident for a means of capturing the pirate vessel. The ship was, therefore, kept under only a part of her sails that whole night, and she moved almost imperceptibly.

At the first dawn of the next morning, watches were sent up the masts, and the horizon was carefully surveyed in search of the enemy which night had shrouded. Nothing was to be seen. The watch was, nevertheless, continued.

About four hours after sunrise, a vessel could be barely distinguished on the horizon. It was steering in the direction of the man-of-war. It rapidly approached, and as it drew nearer and nearer, it was discovered to be a long, low, sharp-built brig, with white port-holes, apparently a Mediterranean trader. She sailed so fast, that within three hours from the time when she was first discovered, she was opposite the large ship. She passed her at a short distance, but beyond the range of her guns.

The man-of-war immediately hoisted her ensign as a signal to the brig to show her colours; in answer to this signal, the strange vessel hoisted the Mexican flag.

The extraordinary speed of the strange brig, her low hull, the more than ordinary symmetry of her make and rigging, could not pass unobserved. They at once attracted the notice, and called forth the admiration of the sailors on board of the man-of-war; and leaning carelessly on the bulwarks, they were studying the beautiful brig before them, and were viewing her with the delight that seamen experience when they see a fine vessel.

“If that ain’t that ere identical pirate customer as we chased yesterday,” said an old grey-headed sailor, gravely, as he stood looking at her, “it’s one of the same sort, I know.”

“What are you saying, now,” asked a young man next to him.

“Why, the vessel we chased yesterday was a fore-and-aft schooner, and this one is a brig: where are your eyes?”

“Is this all you know?” inquired the old tar, indifferently, with a slight satirical smile. “Well, let me tell you, younker, that them ere customers change their skins, just like snakes, by G—d; and these eyes of mine that you inquire of, winked at a sou-wester long before you knowed what was what, my boy,” and the old seaman walked away to attend to some passing occupation, while, from time to time, he cast a stealthy look from under his spreading straw hat, at the vessel he seemed to hold in suspicion.

This feeling towards the Mexican brig was not confined to the common sailors alone: all seamen have an eye for the beautiful in ships. The commander himself was struck by the remarkably fine proportions of the vessel. He interrupted his habitual walk to gaze at her.

“A fine craft that is, Charles,” said he to his son.

“Yes, sir,” replied the latter, “a very beautiful model.”

“Look at her run, what a beautiful stern, and how sharp at the bows!” continued the old gentleman, with enthusiasm.

“And how remarkably fast she sails, too,” rejoined Charles.

“Hum!” remarked the old gentlemen, “she seems very light to be a trader.”

“It strikes me so, too,” replied Charles.

“The merchant who could have built that vessel to carry cocoa and coffee, must have been a very great fool, Charles,” continued the commander, still looking at the tidy brig that was sailing away magnificently before him.

“Yes, sir.”

“I begin to have my suspicions, Charles,” resumed the commander, after a pause, “that Mexican flag protects many a rascal: I shall make the fellow heave to.”

So saying, he ordered a gun to be fired, as a signal to the brig to lie to. The report of the huge machine of destruction rang over the waters, and the shot skipped the waves and sank. The suspicious brig paid no attention to it, but held her course, and, in four hours’ time, went out of sight, leaving the commander in now stronger suspicion with regard to her nature and character, and, in a furious rage into which he was thrown by the cool contempt with which his command was treated. He looked at the brig that was leaving his vessel behind, as if the latter was at anchor, and fretted, when he considered that his large ship was unable to enforce his order on account of its comparative slowness. With greater impatience than reason he looked only at what was, for the moment, a defect in the large man-of-war, and forgot, at the time, that if the two small vessels which had so mortified him, those two consecutive days, had over his ship the accident of speed, she, in her turn, possessed the infinitely more serviceable advantage of greater strength and more heavy metal.

“Well, younker,” said the same old sailor of the morning, to the same young man who had doubted his penetration, “well, younker, what do you think of that ere customer now, eh? He has the wind in his maintopsail, has’nt he? and seems to have plenty of pride of his own, and won’t speak to nobody. Ay, ay, them customers, never throw away words or shots, I know. Come, younker, I’ll give you another wrinkle,” continued the old tar.

“Well, let’s have it?”

“Mark my word,” continued the old sailor, in a low and mysterious tone, “if you don’t see that ere customer again, before long, my name is not what it is, I know,” and winking impressively on his hearers, he rolled away chuckling with self-satisfaction.

The man-of-war continued there the remaining portion of that day and the night which ensued: nothing happened, during that period of time, to relieve the longing anxiety of the man-of-war’s people.

The next morning the usual watches were again sent up the masts. About noon, a vessel came in sight. It was steering, like the one of the previous day, directly towards the man-of-war; and seemed to approach her with an equal degree of speed. As she drew nearer and nearer, she was made out to be a light brigantine, such as those that are to be seen on the Mediterranean. Strange, however, the hull and make seemed to be the same as those of the vessel spoken the day before: but the new comer, instead of painted port-holes, had but a plain white streak.

The men evinced the same admiration for this “craft,” to use their own term, as they did for the one of the day before. There was, however, such a striking similarity in the hulls of the two vessels, that their admiration soon gave place to a feeling of mixed surprise and suspicion.

“What can those two crafts be?” they mutually asked each other.

“They are men-of-war,” some answered: “but where are the port-holes of this customer?”

“By jingo! I think they are pleasure boats,” said one.

“Oh, no, they look to me like Malaga boats,” said another.

“But they are of the same make,” observed a third.

“Ay, ay, don’t you see they are sister-vessels, fools, and are on the same voyage?” said another, gravely, who, up to that time, had maintained unbroken silence, and had, with the aid of a serious aspect, looked wisdom itself.

“Ay, that’s it, that’s it,” they all cried, at this suggestion, “they belong to the same owner, and are on the same voyage.”

All seemed to concur in this opinion, except the same old sailor, who, on the previous day, regarded the Mexican brig with so much suspicion. He seemed to entertain doubts about this new vessel, as he did with regard to the other.

“Well, younker, what do you think of this fresh gentleman, now?” he said, satirically, to the unfortunate young man who had offended his self-esteem, and who seemed now to be entirely devoted to the revengeful ridicule of that elder son of Neptune.

“Don’t know,” was the crabbed reply.

“Don’t know, eh? you will know, perhaps, when them young eyes of yours have squinted oftner at the sun, my hearty, hi, hi, hi!”

The brigantine drew nearer and nearer, and seemed carefully to measure the same distance at which the brig of the day before had passed. She came with her sails filled with the fresh breeze, and was passing the man-of-war, when one of the heavy guns of the large vessel was fired. The shot fell across the brigantine’s bows, but at some distance from her.

Her sails still bellied with the wind; she still skipped along, and the beautiful and pure white wavelets of foam still swelled on each of her sides.

“Who the devil you may be, I shall have you to-day,” said the commander, looking intently fierce at the brigantine. “Give him another shot.”

Another deafening report was heard, and the grey smoke shrouded for a moment the dark riggings of the war-vessel, and then grew thinner and thinner, and rose above her masts.

A moment after, four flags ran up the peak of the brigantine.

“Ho! read what the fellow says, Mr. Cypher,” cried the commander, with no small degree of excitement, “he hears what we can say, I see.”

Mr. Cypher took the telescope.

“Y,” he said, “O,” he continued, “U,”—“YOU,” he proclaimed, with a loud voice.

“Hoist the answering pendant:” it was done.

The first four flags of the brigantine were now lowered, and four others hoisted in their place.

“A,” proceeded Mr. Cypher, deciphering the new signal, “R,” “E,”—“ARE,”—“you are.”

“Hoist the answering pendant:” it was done again.

The four flags were again lowered on board the brigantine, and four new ones were again hoisted. They were read, and were found to signify ‘too.’

“What can the fellow want to say?” inquired the commander, vaguely: “answer his signal.”

The signal was answered, and other flags were again hoisted on board the brigantine. When all the signals were taken together, they read—

“You are too far, your guns don’t carry.”

While at the conclusion of the process of exchanging signals, the broad black flag, with its head and bones, was spread over the mainsail.

“The rascals,” muttered the old commander, as he moved away from the bulwarks, with indignant disgust, “it is the same set, may the devil take them!”

“Ha, younker, what d’you see now, eh? You will believe old Jack Gangway another time, I know,” said the same old sailor, who all along had been so knowing and so suspicious.

“Crack on, crack on,” cried the old commander, “and haul your wind, we may edge up to her on a close bowline, and let her feel our metal.”

All the sails of the large vessel were now set. She was drawn closely to the wind, and leaned under the fresh breeze.

No sooner was this manœuvre completed, than the brigantine’s sails were also trimmed, her long yards were braced sharp; her vast mainsail was pulled in almost on a line with her rudder, and her head was put almost into the point of the wind itself, or, as seamen would designate it, into the “eye of the wind,” her stern was turned to the ship-of-war, and as she gradually left the latter behind, other four flags ran along the signal line. When read they said—

“Au revoir.”

And the black flag rose and fell, rose and fell again, at the mocking ceremony, that was intended to accompany this salutation.

This chase continued the rest of the day. The hours quickly fleeted by, and when gauzy twilight had shed its soothing and dreamy haze around, a few waves of the pirate’s flag, might still be dimly perceived, like the trembling of the phantom—leaves of dream; and then darkness spread its shrouding mantle over the ocean.

The sun had risen, the man-of-war was lying-to under one or two sails, the others had been taken in during the night; at some distance in the direction, in which the brigantine had disappeared, a vessel, apparently a wreck, was to be seen. She was a barque: portions of her masts were broken away; her rigging was slack, loose, and dry; her racketty yards waved from one direction to the other, as she clumsily rolled into the trough of the sea, or rose heavily on its crest. Their braces dangled loosely and neglectedly about, and either dragged overboard, or swung with a spring from one part of the deck to the other. In keeping with her disordered gear, her hull itself exhibited the greatest neglect and uncleanliness: the barnacles grew unmolested, to a considerable height, and the marks of the lee-water from the cuppers, stained her sides. The few sails which still remained on the unsteady yards were tattered and worn, and tied up in the oddest manner imaginable. The vessel had her English ensign tied upside down, in token of distress, on the little that remained of the mainmast’s rigging: an indication, which was not by any means required, in as much as the miserable manner in which she rolled about, was quite sufficient in itself, to tell that she was in a wretched condition.

As soon as the distressed vessel was perceived, signals were made to her to launch her boats, and to send alongside; but they seemed to be either not understood, or the people of the barque had no means of answering them.

But one solitary individual was to be seen standing on its deck, at the gangway, and wistfully looking towards the man-of-war.

The commander was not willing to launch any of his boats, he had, during the three or four days that had lately expired been so much cheated by pirates, that he was now made more than ordinarily cautious, and he repeated his signals, and waited many hours, either to have them answered, or to force the people of the distressed ship to launch their boat and come alongside his vessel: but neither the one thing or the other was done.

“These fellows can’t be cheats,” he said, “else they would have sailed away, though, it strikes me, it would be difficult for them to spread a sail on those yards of theirs,” said the commander, as his good feelings began to press upon him.

“They may be starved to death, or ill, have a boat launched, sir,” said he to the officer, after this short soliloquy, “and let them pull to those poor fellows. Tell the officer he must not let any of the men go on board, he may do so himself, if he thinks it necessary.”

Joyfully the true-hearted sailors, eager to succour their suffering brothers, lowered a boat, which a moment afterwards was bounding away in the direction of the distressed vessel.

They soon approached near enough to admit of speaking, and at his order, the men rested on their oars to allow the midshipman in command to hail the barque.

“What ship is that?” asked the midshipman.

“The Sting,” answered the solitary individual, who was standing at the gangway.

“Where from, and whither bound?”

“From Pernambuco to Liverpool,” answered the individual.

“What cargo?” demanded the midshipman.

“Cayenne pepper,” answered the individual.

“What is the matter with you?” asked the midshipman.

“Have been boarded by pirates—by a Black Schooner—men cut down in defending the vessel—the pirates left but me and another man, who is now ill below—they took away every thing,” answered the individual.

“It must be those same devils of pirates,” whispered the boatmen one to the other, “who have raked that cove; what fellows they seem to be, we will singe them some of those days though—be damn’d if we don’t.”

“If you would only let one of your men come on board for a moment to help me trim the yards, I should be all right,” added the individual at the gangway.

“Hum!” muttered the young midshipman; “that’s not much, but I fancy, old boy, you will do yourself no good in setting your sails, unless you wish the wind to help you take them in. Pull along side, men,” he said, after a second or two, “I shall go on deck and help him.”

The boat soon boarded the vessel.

“Keep the boat off,” said the officer, as he grasped the ropes of the steps.

“Ay, ay, sir,” said the boatswain, and the boat was shoved off from the vessel.

A shrill sound was heard, the apparent sides of the distressed barque opened, the stern fell heavily into the water, the racketty yards and old ropes went over the side, and from amidst the wreck of the skeleton ship, the Black Schooner sprang forth as she felt the power of her snow-white sails, which, with the rapidity of lightning, had now clothed her tall masts.

This metamorphosis was so sudden, that the schooner had already begun to move before the boatmen comprehended the change. They quickly pulled alongside, and fastened their hooks, but no hand of man could hold them. They were all torn away by the speed with which the schooner went. Every man in his turn let go his hold, and the boat, with its angry crew, was left floating far behind in the wake of the flying schooner.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Demand me nothing; what you know you know;

From this time forth I never will speak word.”

Othello.

“Torments will ope your lips,”

Ibid.

After he had been defeated by the untoward accident of the shark in his attempt to rescue his captive chief, Lorenzo betook himself on board the schooner, a victim to disappointment and disgust.

He felt irresistibly inclined to break out in the most violent terms, and hurried down into his cabin as soon as he got on the deck of the schooner. He then partially gave vent to his feelings by speaking almost aloud.

“It would have been bearable,” he said, “bearable, if we had fought, and had been driven back; but to be foiled at the very moment when we were completing a breach, by a brute of a shark: confound it, and all other sharks, the brutes!” and thrusting his hand deeply into the bosom of his coat, he paced rapidly up and down his narrow cabin, while, from time to time, his lips moved violently as if he were repeating his anathemas against the particular shark and all the others.

This fit, however, did not continue long.

Schooled under the continual insecurity and danger which attended the life that he led, in which safety itself demanded the exercise of the greatest foresight and calmness, he speedily curbed his instinctive impulses of rage, and immediately began to deliberate with coolness and precision on the next measures which it was requisite for him to take.

He did not deliberate long. Accustomed to act in the face of danger, and to oppose his ready resources to sudden contingencies, he never required much time to debate with himself on the best and most prudent course to be adopted under unforeseen circumstances of danger. At this conjuncture, he resolved to watch the man-of-war closely, and to embrace the very first opportunity either to steal away Appadocca, or to rescue him at a calculated sacrifice of some of his men. For that purpose, the schooner was kept in the same position in which she was, until, as we have seen, the man-of-war made the descent upon her. Lorenzo purposely awaited the approach of the large vessel, so that he might have the opportunity of keeping, as he intended, close to the man-of-war. Nothing ever escaped the disciplined vigilance of the pirates, and although they seemed to be taken by surprise, still they had their eyes all the time on the movements of the pursuing vessel; and, as the reader has seen, disappointed so signally the encouraged expectations of its crew and commander.

When night had put an end to the chase of that day, Lorenzo put his men busily at work.

In a few moments, the ordinary sails of the Black Schooner were symmetrically folded within the smallest imaginable size, and carefully covered up at the foot of each of the masts, and from under the deck, yards, cordage, and sails for a square-rigged vessel were brought up, and, in as short a time, the thin tapering masts were seen garnished with the numerous ropes, yards, and sails of a full-rigged brig; while, to complete the metamorphosis, stripes of new canvass were carefully cut in the shape of the imitation port-holes, which are generally painted on the sides of merchant vessels, and were closely fastened to the sides of the Black Schooner, and adjusted in such a careful manner as to conceal completely the guns of the disguised vessel.

It was in this guise that the Black Schooner passed before the man-of-war, and showed Mexican colors.

After Lorenzo had closely reconnoitered his pursuer, and had raised the suspicion which procured him the salute of a gun, he again sailed away out of sight, and with the same expedition as of the night before, the mainmast of the apparent brig was immediately divested of its yards, and, in their places, the sharp sails of a schooner were again set. In the rig of a brigantine, the Black Schooner again passed before the man-of-war.

But these distant surveys, for caution prevented him from going within the range of the ship’s guns, were not sufficient to satisfy Lorenzo, who now began to suffer under the most impatient anxiety with regard to the safety of his chief and friend.

The brave officer feared, that annoyed by his inability to overtake the schooner, the commander of the ship might, perhaps, have immediately ordered the execution of his prisoner; that Appadocca might, by that time, have been dealt with in the summary manner in which pirates were usually treated, and had been hanged on the yard-arm without accusation, hearing, or judgment.

“If so,” cried Lorenzo, as this fear grew more and more upon him, “if so, I swear, by the living G—d, that I shall burn that large vessel to the very keel, and shall not spare one, not a single one of its numerous crew to tell the tale—cost what it may, by G—d, I’ll do it.”

To procure information, therefore, about the fate of one whom he loved as a brother: and in order to satisfy his doubts, he resolved at once on taking one or two of the man-of-war’s men, and settled on the expedient of the distressed barque, with which the reader has just been made acquainted.

The young midshipman had no sooner laid his foot on the deck of the disguised schooner, before he was strongly grasped by the powerful arm of a man who had been carefully concealed behind the false bulwarks of the skeleton barque, while the voice of Jim Splice—it was the man—whispered in his ear,—

“Don’t resist, young countryman, all right.”

But as soon as the first impulse of the young officer had passed away, and he discovered that he was left on board a vessel which presented an unmistakable appearance of being engaged in some forbidden trade, and when he saw before him numbers of fierce-looking, armed men, he struggled for a moment, and succeeded in drawing his sword. But Lorenzo, the formerly solitary man on the deck of the distressed vessel, calmly stepped up to him, and said,—

“Young gentleman, be not alarmed, no violence will be done to you: sheath your sword,” and casting his eyes around on the men, continued, “you see, it will not be of much service to you against such odds.”

“Who are you?” peevishly inquired the young officer, “what do you intend to do with me?”

“I shall soon tell you,” replied Lorenzo, “if you will be good enough to accompany me to my cabin.”

“What cabin? and what to do? You may cut my throat here,” said the midshipman, angrily.

“Perhaps you would not be so unreasonable,” remarked Lorenzo, softly, “if you were to hear the little that I have to inquire of you: pray, come with me.”

“I shall not go with you,” angrily rejoined the midshipman, “I am in the hands of pirates, I know. You may murder me, where I am, but I shall not go down with you to any cabin.”

“Then stay where you are,” coolly answered Lorenzo, and he walked away to the after part of the schooner, and ordered Jim Splice to let go the young man.

The older sailor relaxed his grasp, but availed himself of the opportunity which he now had, to whisper in the ears of the midshipman—

“Don’t attempt to crow too high here, shipmate, else you will get the worst of it, ’d’ye hear?”

And the old tar winked his eye to the young midshipman. The familiar sign of knowingness contrasted strangely with the terrible moustachios and beard with which Jim Splice had deemed it characteristic to ornament his homely and good-natured old face.

In the mean time all sail was set, and the man-of-war was left far behind. The sailors had now again posted themselves at their regular stations, and the ordinary quiet had now succeeded to the short excitement of making sail. The midshipman was still standing in the same spot where Lorenzo had left him. His anger, however, had evaporated to a considerable extent, under the wise prescription of leaving the angry man to himself, which Lorenzo was wise enough to make, and like all men who are not absolutely fools, the midshipman had thrown off as much as possible of that wasting and useless attendant—rage, as soon as his first impulses had somewhat subsided.

Instead of continuing in that dogged sulkiness, in which he had been left by Lorenzo, he was now examining, with an interested eye, the make, rigging, and equipment of the strange schooner.

It was at this moment that a steward approached him, and inquired if he was then at leisure to attend his master in his cabin, and led the way to the part of the vessel in which that was situated. The midshipman, without answering, followed. Lorenzo was already there, waiting for him. The officer politely stood, bowed to the stranger, pointed to a cabin chair: the midshipman seated himself.

“Before mentioning the business for which I have entrapped you, young gentleman,” said Lorenzo, “I must tell you, that you need be under no apprehension as long as you are on board this schooner, and that you shall receive the proper treatment that one gentleman owes to another, unless, it is understood, you force us, by your own conduct, to act otherwise than we usually do.”

“Gentleman! how dare you compare yourself to me, and call yourself a gentleman?” said the midshipman, with more of impulse than of reason.

Like one who has disciplined his mind to pursue his purposes with a stedfast straightness which is not to be diverted by any accident, though not, perhaps, without some disdain for the immoderation of the young man, the pirate officer heeded not his last remark, but proceeded as if he had not heard it.

“My purpose for enticing you on board this vessel, is to procure information about my chief, who is now a prisoner on board the ship to which you belong. You will be good enough to give clear and categorical answers to the questions which I shall put to you.”

This was said in a firm, although cool tone.

“What? do you imagine,” inquired the young officer, with scorn, “I am going to tell to a pirate what takes place on board a vessel in which I have the honor to serve? By Jove, no!—it is hard enough to be kidnapped by a set of rascals, without being asked to play traitor and spy, to boot. But—”

“Cease this nonsense,” interposed Lorenzo, “you waste time, answer me first, is Appadocca alive?”

“I shall not give you any information,” peevishly replied the young officer.

“I do not see,” remarked Lorenzo, mildly, and almost paternally, “I do not see that it can possibly affect your honor if you give me a very simple answer to a very simple question. I ask, if Emmanuel Appadocca is alive?”

“I shall answer you nothing,” said the midshipman, insultingly.

“Shall answer me nothing,” calmly echoed Lorenzo, while, like the still and steady terrors of an earthquake, the signs of anger were now fast gathering on his brow. He reflected a moment.

“Young man,” he said firmly, “men do not usually speak with negatives to me, or such as I am. You seem disposed to run great risks—risks, of the nature of which you are not, perhaps, aware. Let me caution you again; I put my former question,—is the captain of this schooner, who is now a prisoner on board the ship to which you belong, alive and safe?”

“I have said I shall answer none of your questions,” replied the midshipman, “trouble me no more.”

The pirate officer rose, and drew forth a massive gold watch.

“You see,” said he, pointing to the time-piece, “that the minute-hand is now on twelve, when it reaches the spot which marks the quarter-of-an-hour, I shall expect an answer. In the meantime make your reflections. If you wish for any refreshment speak to the man outside, and you shall have whatever you desire.” So saying, the officer rose, made a slight bow, and left the cabin.

The young officer being left alone, seemed by no means inclined to trouble himself about the last speech of the pirate officer. He moved about the cabin restlessly. Sometimes he stopped to examine one object, and then another.

No further thought than that of the moment seemed to intrude on his mind; and the consequence of his persistence in refusing to answer the questions of the pirate officer never seemed to break in upon him. The levity of youth was, perhaps, one of the principal causes of this strange carelessness. He was also highly swayed by the notions which he had gathered from among those in whose society he lived. These led him to entertain an extravagant idea of his own importance, which, among other things, could not admit of accepting terms from the officer of any nation that was lower than his own, and, least of all, from a villainous pirate. He, therefore, affected to treat the pirate officer with a contempt, which it was as inexpedient to show, as it was silly to entertain.

He was moving about in the temper which we have described, when the door of the cabin opened, and Lorenzo entered. He moved up to the upper part of the cabin, and seated himself.

“Will you now answer my question?” he demanded, “the hand is on the quarter.”

“I have already told you, no,” replied the youth.

Lorenzo called—an attendant appeared.

“Let the officer of the watch send down four men,” he said.

The attendant retired. In a few moments four men, under the command of a junior officer, entered the cabin. Lorenzo stood—pointed to the midshipman—

“Torture him until he speaks,” he said, and abruptly left the cabin.

The pirates silently advanced on their victim.

“The first man that dares approach me, shall die under this sword,” shrieked the midshipman, furiously, and brandished his sword, madly. Still the pirates advanced more closely to him. They beat down his guard, surrounded him, and, in the twinkling of an eye, he was bound hand and foot. Lifting him bodily, the pirates carried him on their shoulders out of the cabin.

He was then taken to a narrow compartment at the very bows of the vessel, that was, it seemed, the torture-room.

The appearance of the room was sufficient to strike one at once with an idea of the bloody and cruel deeds that might be perpetrated there. It was a narrow cabin into which the light could never penetrate; for there was no opening either for that or for fresh air. The small door which led into it was narrow and low: it turned on a spring, and seemed so difficult to be opened, that one was forced to imagine that it was either loth to let out those that had once got in, or that it was eager to close in for ever upon those that might enter through it.

The deck was scoured as white as chalk, and, like the shops of cleanly butchers in the morning, was scattered over with sand. The sides of the cabin, as if to augment the darkness that already reigned, were painted a dark, sombre, and gloomy colour, which was here and there stained by the damp.

In contrast to this prevalent hue of frightful black, hung a variety of exquisitely-polished torturing instruments. Cruelty, or expediency, or necessity, seems to have exhausted its power of invention in designing them, so different were they in form, and so horridly suited to the purpose of giving pain.

These seemed to frown malignantly on those who entered that narrow place; and the imagination might even trace, in their burnished hue, and high efficient condition, a morbid desire, or longing, to be used.

To make the “darkness visible,” and to reveal the horror of the place, an old bronzed lamp hung from the beams of the upper deck, and threw a faint and sickly light around.

In the centre of this cabin lay a long, narrow, and deep box, which was garnished within with millions of sharp-pointed spikes. The torture which the victim suffered in this machine, was a continued pricking from the spikes, against which he was every moment suddenly and violently driven by the lurching of the vessel.

In this the midshipman was immediately thrown, and he shrieked the shriek of the dying when he was roughly thrown on the sharp instruments.

“Hell! hell! the torments of hell,” he yelled out, as the sharp spikes pierced him to the quick.

As he made an effort to turn, he increased his agony, and as the vessel heaved, the points went deeper and deeper into his flesh.

Already the suffering of the young man was at its height, and by the livid light of the glimmering lamp, large drops of death-like sweat, could now be seen flowing over his pallid face, which was locked in excruciating pain.

“Oh, God!” he cried, frantic with suffering, “Heaven save me.”

His executioners stood around immovable, calm, and fierce, as they always were, more like demons sucking in the pleasure of mortals’ pains, than men.

The young man seemed maddened with pain, his shrieks pierced through even the close sides of the torture-room.

“Will you speak?” inquired the officer.

“Yes—no. Oh, good God! No—yes: curse you all—you devils; you demons—d—n you,” were the frenzied replies.