The Project Gutenberg eBook of The

Pirate
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and
with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,
give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project
Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United
States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Pirate

Author: Frederick Marryat

Release date: May 22, 2007 [eBook #21580]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE

PIRATE ***
Captain Frederick Marryat
 "The Pirate"

Chapter One.

The Bay of Biscay.

It was in the latter part of the month of June, of the year

seventeen hundred and ninety something, that the angry
waves of the Bay of Biscay were gradually subsiding, after a
gale of wind as violent as it was unusual during that period
of the year. Still they rolled heavily; and, at times, the wind
blew up in fitful, angry gusts, as if it would fain renew the
elemental combat; but each effort was more feeble, and the
dark clouds which had been summoned to the storm, now
fled in every quarter before the powerful rays of the sun,
who burst their masses asunder with a glorious flood of
light and heat; and, as he poured down his resplendent
beams, piercing deep into the waters of that portion of the
Atlantic to which we now refer, with the exception of one
object, hardly visible, as at creation, there was a vast
circumference of water, bounded by the fancied canopy of
heaven. We have said, with the exception of one object; for
in the centre of this picture, so simple, yet so sublime,
composed of the three great elements, there was a remnant
of the fourth. We say a remnant, for it was but the hull of a
vessel, dismasted, water-logged, its upper works only
floating occasionally above the waves, when a transient
repose from their still violent undulation permitted it to
reassume its buoyancy. But this was seldom; one moment it
was deluged by the seas, which broke as they poured over
its gunwale; and the next, it rose from its submersion, as
the water escaped from the portholes at its sides.
How many thousands of vessels—how many millions of
property—have been abandoned, and eventually consigned
to the all-receiving depths of the ocean, through ignorance
or through fear! What a mine of wealth must lie buried in its
sands! what riches lie entangled amongst its rocks, or
remain suspended in its unfathomable gulf, where the
compressed fluid is equal in gravity to that which it
encircles, there to remain secured in its embedment from
corruption and decay, until the destruction of the universe
and the return of chaos!—Yet, immense as the accumulated
loss may be, the major part of it has been occasioned from
an ignorance of one of the first laws of nature, that of
specific gravity. The vessel to which we have referred was,
to all appearance, in a situation of as extreme hazard as
that of a drowning man clinging to a single rope-yarn; yet,
in reality, she was more secure from descending to the
abyss below than many gallantly careering on the waters,
their occupants dismissing all fear, and only calculating
upon a quick arrival into port.

The Circassian had sailed from New Orleans, a gallant and

well-appointed ship, with a cargo, the major part of which
consisted of cotton. The captain was, in the usual
acceptation of the term, a good sailor; the crew were hardy
and able seamen. As they crossed the Atlantic, they had
encountered the gale to which we have referred, were
driven down into the Bay of Biscay, where, as we shall
hereafter explain, the vessel was dismasted, and sprang a
leak, which baffled all their exertions to keep under. It was
now five days since the frightened crew had quitted the
vessel in two of her boats, one of which had swamped, and
every soul that occupied it had perished; the fate of the
other was uncertain.

We said that the crew had deserted the vessel, but we did
not assert that every existing being had been removed out
of her. Had such been the case, we should not have taken
up the reader’s time in describing inanimate matter. It is life
that we portray, and life there still was in the shattered hull
thus abandoned to the mockery of the ocean. In the
caboose of the Circassian, that is, in the cooking-house
secured on deck, and which fortunately had been so well
fixed as to resist the force of the breaking waves, remained
three beings—a man, a woman, and a child. The two first
mentioned were of that inferior race which have, for so long
a period, been procured from the sultry Afric coast, to toil,
but reap not for themselves; the child which lay at the
breast of the female was of European blood, now, indeed,
deadly pale, as it attempted in vain to draw sustenance
from its exhausted nurse, down whose sable cheeks the
tears coursed, as she occasionally pressed the infant to her
breast, and turned it round to leeward to screen it from the
spray which dashed over them at each returning swell.
Indifferent to all else, save her little charge, she spoke not,
although she shuddered with the cold as the water washed
her knees each time that the hull was careened into the
wave. Cold and terror had produced a change in her
complexion, which now wore a yellow, or sort of copper
hue.

The male, who was her companion, sat opposite to her

upon the iron range which once had been the receptacle of
light and heat, but was now but a weary seat to a drenched
and worn-out wretch. He, too, had not spoken for many
hours; with the muscles of his face relaxed, his thick lips
pouting far in advance of his collapsed cheeks, his high
cheekbones prominent as budding horns, his eyes
displaying little but their whites, he appeared to be an
object of greater misery than the female, whose thoughts
were directed to the infant and not unto herself. Yet his
feelings were still acute, although his faculties appeared to
be deadened by excess of suffering.
“Eh, me!” cried the negro woman faintly, after a long
silence, her head falling back with extreme exhaustion. Her
companion made no reply, but, roused at the sound of her
voice, bent forward, slided open the door a little, and looked
out to windward. The heavy spray dashed into his glassy
eyes, and obscured his vision; he groaned, and fell back
into his former position. “What you tink, Coco?” inquired the
negress, covering up more carefully the child, as she bent
her head down upon it. A look of despair, and a shudder
from cold and hunger, were the only reply.

It was then about eight o’clock in the morning, and the

swell of the ocean was fast subsiding. At noon the warmth
of the sun was communicated to them through the planks of
the caboose, while its rays poured a small stream of vivid
light through the chinks of the closed panels. The negro
appeared gradually to revive; at last he rose, and with
some difficulty contrived again to slide open the door. The
sea had gradually decreased its violence, and but
occasionally broke over the vessel; carefully holding on by
the door-jambs, Coco gained the outside, that he might
survey the horizon.

“What you see, Coco?” said the female, observing from the
caboose that his eyes were fixed upon a certain quarter.

“So help me God, me tink me see something; but ab so

much salt water in um eye, me no see clear,” replied Coco,
rubbing away the salt which had crystallised on his face
during the morning.

“What you tink um like, Coco?”

“Only one bit cloud,” replied he, entering the caboose, and
resuming his seat upon the grate with a heavy sigh.
“Eh, me!” cried the negress, who had uncovered the child to
look at it, and whose powers were sinking fast. “Poor lilly
Massa Eddard, him look very bad indeed—him die very
soon, me fear. Look, Coco, no ab breath.”

The child’s head fell back upon the breast of its nurse, and
life appeared to be extinct.

“Judy, you no ab milk for piccaninny; suppose um ab no

milk, how can live? Eh! stop, Judy, me put lilly fingers in um
mouth; suppose Massa Eddard no dead, him pull.”

Coco inserted his finger into the child’s mouth, and felt a
slight drawing pressure. “Judy,” cried Coco, “Massa Eddard
no dead yet. Try now, suppose you ab lilly drop oder side.”

Poor Judy shook her head mournfully, and a tear rolled

down her cheek; she was aware that nature was exhausted.
“Coco,” said she, wiping her cheek with the back of her
hand, “me give me heart blood for Massa Eddard; but no ab
milk—all gone.”

This forcible expression of love for the child, which was used
by Judy, gave an idea to Coco. He drew his knife out of his
pocket, and very coolly sawed to the bone of his fore-finger.
The blood flowed and trickled down to the extremity, which
he applied to the mouth of the infant.

“See, Judy, Massa Eddard suck—him not dead,” cried Coco,

chuckling at the fortunate result of the experiment, and
forgetting at the moment their almost hopeless situation.

The child, revived by the strange sustenance, gradually

recovered its powers, and in a few minutes it pulled at the
finger with a certain degree of vigour.
“Look Judy, how Massa Eddard take it,” continued Coco.
“Pull away, Massa Eddard, pull away. Coco ab ten finger, and
take long while suck em all dry.” But the child was soon
satisfied, and fell asleep in the arms of Judy.

“Coco, suppose you go see again,” observed Judy. The

negro again crawled out, and again he scanned the horizon.

“So help me God, dis time me tink, Judy—yes, so help me

God, me see a ship!” cried Coco, joyfully.

“Eh!” screamed Judy, faintly, with delight: “den Massa

Eddard no die.”

“Yes, so help me God—he come dis way!” and Coco, who

appeared to have recovered a portion of his former strength
and activity, clambered on the top of the caboose, where he
sat, cross-legged, waving his yellow handkerchief, with the
hope of attracting the attention of those on board; for he
knew that it was very possible that an object floating little
more than level with the water’s surface might escape
notice.

As it fortunately happened, the frigate, for such she was,

continued her course precisely for the wreck, although it
had not been perceived by the look-out men at the mast-
heads, whose eyes had been directed to the line of the
horizon. In less than an hour our little party were
threatened with a new danger, that of being run over by the
frigate, which was now within a cable’s length of them,
driving the seas before her in one widely extended foam, as
she pursued her rapid and impetuous course. Coco shouted
to his utmost, and fortunately attracted the notice of the
men who were on the bowsprit, stowing away the
foretopmast-staysail, which had been hoisted up to dry
after the gale.
“Starboard, hard!” was roared out.

“Starboard it is,” was the reply from the quarterdeck, and

the helm was shifted without inquiry, as it always is on
board of a man-of-war, although, at the same time, it
behoves people to be rather careful how they pass such an
order, without being prepared with a subsequent and most
satisfactory explanation.

The topmast studding-sail flapped and fluttered, the foresail

shivered, and the jib filled as the frigate rounded to,
narrowly missing the wreck, which was now under the
bows, rocking so violently in the white foam of the agitated
waters, that it was with difficulty that Coco could, by
clinging to the stump of the mainmast, retain his elevated
position. The frigate shortened sail, hove to, and lowered
down a quarter-boat, and in less than five minutes Coco,
Judy, and the infant, were rescued from their awful
situation. Poor Judy, who had borne up against all for the
sake of the child, placed it in the arms of the officer who
relieved them, and then fell back in a state of insensibility,
in which condition she was carried on board. Coco, as he
took his place in the stern-sheets of the boat, gazed wildly
round him, and then broke out into peals of extravagant
laughter, which continued without intermission, and were
the only replies which he could give to the interrogatories of
the quarter-deck, until he fell down in a swoon, and was
entrusted to the care of the surgeon.

Chapter Two.

The Bachelor.

On the evening of the same day on which the child and the
two negroes had been saved from the wreck by the
fortunate appearance of the frigate, Mr Witherington, of
Finsbury Square, was sitting alone in his dining-room
wondering what could have become of the Circassian, and
why he had not received intelligence of her arrival. Mr
Witherington, as we said before, was alone; he had his port
and his sherry before him; and although the weather was
rather warm, there was a small fire in the grate, because,
as Mr Witherington asserted, it looked comfortable. Mr
Witherington having watched the ceiling of the room for
some time, although there was certainly nothing new to be
discovered, filled another glass of wine, and then proceeded
to make himself more comfortable by unbuttoning three
more buttons of his waistcoat, pushing his wig further off
his head, and casting loose all the buttons at the knees of
his breeches; he completed his arrangements by dragging
towards him two chairs within his reach, putting his legs on
one, while he rested his arm on the other. And why was not
Mr Witherington to make himself comfortable? He had good
health, a good conscience, and eight thousand a-year.

Satisfied with all his little arrangements, Mr Witherington

sipped his port wine, and putting down his glass again, fell
back in his chair, placed his hands on his breast, interwove
his fingers; and in this most comfortable position
recommenced his speculations as to the non-arrival of the
Circassian.

We will leave him to his cogitations while we introduce him

more particularly to our readers.

The father of Mr Witherington was a younger son of one of

the oldest and proudest families in the West Riding of
Yorkshire: he had his choice of the four professions allotted
to younger sons whose veins are filled with patrician blood
—the army, the navy, the law, and the church. The army did
not suit him, he said, as marching and counter-marching
were not comfortable; the navy did not suit him, as there
was little comfort in gales of wind and mouldy biscuit: the
law did not suit him, as he was not sure that he would be at
ease with his conscience, which would not be comfortable;
the church was also rejected, as it was, with him, connected
with the idea of a small stipend, hard duty, a wife and
eleven children, which were anything but comfortable. Much
to the horror of his family he eschewed all the liberal
professions, and embraced the offer of an old backslider of
an uncle, who proposed to him a situation in his banking-
house, and a partnership as soon as he deserved it; the
consequence was, that his relations bade him an indignant
farewell, and then made no further inquiries about him: he
was as decidedly cut as one of the female branches of the
family would have been had she committed a faux pas.

Nevertheless, Mr Witherington senior stuck diligently to his

business, in a few years was partner, and, at the death of
the old gentleman, his uncle, found himself in possession of
a good property, and every year coining money at his bank.

Mr Witherington senior then purchased a house in Finsbury

Square, and thought it advisable to look out for a wife.

Having still much of the family pride in his composition, he

resolved not to muddle the blood of the Witheringtons by
any cross from Cateaton Street or Mincing Lane; and, after
a proper degree of research, he selected the daughter of a
Scotch earl, who went to London with a bevy of nine in a
Leith smack to barter blood for wealth. Mr Witherington
being so unfortunate as to be the first comer, had the pick
of the nine ladies by courtesy; his choice was light-haired,
blue-eyed, a little freckled, and very tall, by no means bad-
looking, and standing on the list in the family Bible, Number
Four. From this union Mr Witherington had issue; first, a
daughter, christened Moggy, whom we shall soon have to
introduce to our readers as a spinster of forty-seven; and
second, Antony Alexander Witherington Esquire, whom we
just now have left in a very comfortable position, and in a
very brown study.

Mr Witherington senior persuaded his son to enter the

banking-house, and, as a dutiful son, he entered it every
day; but he did nothing more, having made the fortunate
discovery that “his father was born before him;” or, in other
words, that his father had plenty of money, and would be
necessitated to leave it behind him.

As Mr Witherington senior had always studied comfort, his

son had early imbibed the same idea, and carried his
feelings, in that respect, to a much greater excess; he
divided things into comfortable and uncomfortable. One fine
day, Lady Mary Witherington, after paying all the household
bills, paid the debt of Nature; that is, she died: her husband
paid the undertaker’s bill, so it is to be presumed that she
was buried.

Mr Witherington senior shortly afterwards had a stroke of

apoplexy, which knocked him down. Death, who has no
feelings of honour, struck him when down. And Mr
Witherington, after having laid a few days in bed, was by a
second stroke laid in the same vault as Lady Mary
Witherington: and Mr Witherington junior (our Mr
Witherington) after deducting 40,000 pounds for his sister’s
fortune, found himself in possession of a clear 8,000 pounds
per annum, and an excellent house in Finsbury Square. Mr
Witherington considered this a comfortable income, and he
therefore retired altogether from business.

During the lifetime of his parents he had been witness to

one or two matrimonial scenes, which had induced him to
put down matrimony as one of the things not comfortable:
therefore he remained a bachelor.

His sister Moggy also remained unmarried; but whether it

was from a very unprepossessing squint which deterred
suitors, or from the same dislike to matrimony as her
brother had imbibed, it is not in our power to say. Mr
Witherington was three years younger than his sister; and
although he had for some time worn a wig, it was only
because he considered it more comfortable. Mr
Witherington’s whole character might be summed up in two
words—eccentricity and benevolence: eccentric he certainly
was, as most bachelors usually are. Man is but a rough
pebble without the attrition received from contact with the
gentler sex: it is wonderful how the ladies pumice a man
down to a smoothness which occasions him to roll over and
over with the rest of his species, jostling but not wounding
his neighbours, as the waves of circumstances bring him
into collision with them.

Mr Witherington roused himself from his deep reverie, and

felt for the string connected with the bell-pull, which it was
the butler’s duty invariably to attach to the arm of his
master’s chair previous to his last exit from the dining-
room; for, as Mr Witherington very truly observed, it was
very uncomfortable to be obliged to get up and ring the
bell: indeed, more than once Mr Witherington had
calculated the advantages and disadvantages of having a
daughter about eight years old who could ring bells, air the
newspapers, and cut the leaves of a new novel.

When, however, he called to mind that she could not always

remain at that precise age, he decided that the balance of
comfort was against it.
Mr Witherington, having pulled the bell again, fell into a
brown study.

Mr Jonathan, the butler, made his appearance; but

observing that his master was occupied, he immediately
stopped at the door, erect, motionless, and with a face as
melancholy as if he was performing mute at the porch of
some departed peer of the realm; for it is an understood
thing, that the greater the rank of the defunct the longer
must be the face, and, of course, the better must be the
pay.

Now, as Mr Witherington is still in profound thought, and Mr

Jonathan will stand as long as a hackney-coach horse, we
will just leave them as they are, while we introduce the
brief history of the latter to our readers. Jonathan Trapp has
served as footboy, which term, we believe, is derived from
those who are in that humble capacity receiving a quantum
suff. of the application of the feet of those above them to
increase the energy of their service; then as footman;
which implies that they have been promoted to the more
agreeable right of administering instead of receiving the
above dishonourable applications; and lastly, for promotion
could go no higher in the family, he had been raised to the
dignity of butler in the service of Mr Witherington senior.
Jonathan then fell in love, for butlers are guilty of
indiscretions as well as their masters: neither he nor his fair
flame, who was a lady’s maid in another family,
notwithstanding that they had witnessed the consequences
of this error in others, would take warning; they gave
warning, and they married.

Like most butlers and ladies’ maids who pair off, they set up
a public-house; and it is but justice to the lady’s maid to
say, that she would have preferred an eating-house, but
was overruled by Jonathan, who argued, that although
people would drink when they were not dry, they never
would eat unless they were hungry.

Now, although there was truth in the observation, this is

certain, that business did not prosper: it has been surmised
that Jonathan’s tall, lank, lean figure injured his custom, as
people are but too much inclined to judge of the goodness
of the ale by the rubicund face and rotundity of the
landlord; and therefore inferred that there could be no good
beer where mine host was the picture of famine. There
certainly is much in appearances in this world; and it
appears that, in consequence of Jonathan’s cadaverous
appearance, he very soon appeared in the Gazette; but
what ruined Jonathan in one profession procured him
immediate employment in another. An appraiser,
upholsterer, and undertaker, who was called in to value the
fixtures, fixed his eye upon Jonathan, and knowing the
value of his peculiarly lugubrious appearance, and having a
half-brother of equal height, offered him immediate
employment as a mute. Jonathan soon forgot to mourn his
own loss of a few hundreds in his new occupation of
mourning the loss of thousands; and his erect, stiff, statue-
like carriage, and long melancholy face, as he stood at the
portals of those who had entered the portals of the next
world, were but too often a sarcasm upon the grief of the
inheritors. Even grief is worth nothing in this trafficking
world unless it be paid for. Jonathan buried many, and at
last buried his wife. So far all was well; but at last he buried
his master, the undertaker, which was not quite so
desirable. Although Jonathan wept not, yet did he express
mute sorrow as he marshalled him to his long home, and
drank to his memory in a pot of porter as he returned from
the funeral, perched, with many others, like carrion crows
on the top of the hearse.
And now Jonathan was thrown out of employment from a
reason which most people would have thought the highest
recommendation. Every undertaker refused to take him,
because they could not match him. In this unfortunate
dilemma, Jonathan thought of Mr Witherington junior; he
had served and he had buried Mr Witherington his father,
and Lady Mary his mother; he felt that he had strong claims
for such variety of services, and he applied to the bachelor.
Fortunately for Jonathan, Mr Witherington’s butler-
incumbent was just about to commit the same folly as
Jonathan had done before, and Jonathan was again
installed, resolving in his own mind to lead his former life,
and have nothing more to do with ladies’ maids. But from
habit Jonathan still carried himself as a mute on all ordinary
occasions—never indulging in an approximation to mirth,
except when he perceived that his master was in high
spirits, and then rather from a sense of duty than from any
real hilarity of heart.

Jonathan was no mean scholar for his station in life, and

during his service with the undertaker, he had acquired the
English of all the Latin mottoes which are placed upon the
hatchments; and these mottoes, when he considered them
as apt, he was very apt to quote. We left Jonathan standing
at the door; he had closed it, and the handle still remained
in his hand. “Jonathan,” said Mr Witherington, after a long
pause—“I wish to look at the last letter from New York, you
will find it on my dressing-table.”

Jonathan quitted the room without reply, and made his

reappearance with the letter.

“It is a long time that I have been expecting this vessel,

Jonathan,” observed Mr Witherington, unfolding the letter.
“Yes, sir, a long while; tempus fugit,” replied the butler in a
low tone, half shutting his eyes.

“I hope to God no accident has happened,” continued Mr

Witherington: “my poor little cousin and her twins e’en now
that I speak, they may be all at the bottom of the sea.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the butler; “the sea defrauds many an

honest undertaker of his profits.”

“By the blood of the Witheringtons! I may be left without an

heir, and shall be obliged to marry, which would be very
uncomfortable.”

“Very little comfort,” echoed Jonathan—“my wife is dead. In

caelo quies.”

“Well, we must hope for the best; but this suspense is

anything but comfortable,” observed Mr Witherington, after
looking over the contents of the letter for at least the
twentieth time.

“That will do, Jonathan; I’ll ring for coffee presently;” and
Mr Witherington was again alone and with his eyes fixed
upon the ceiling.

A cousin of Mr Witherington, and a very great favourite (for

Mr Witherington, having a large fortune, and not having
anything to do with business, was courted by his relations),
had, to a certain degree, committed herself; that is to say,
that, notwithstanding the injunctions of her parents, she
had fallen in love with a young lieutenant in a marching
regiment, whose pedigree was but respectable, and whose
fortune was anything but respectable, consisting merely of
a subaltern’s pay. Poor men, unfortunately, always make
love better than those who are rich, because, having less to
care about, and not being puffed up with their own
consequence, they are not so selfish and think much more
of the lady than of themselves. Young ladies, also, who fall
in love, never consider whether there is sufficient “to make
the pot boil”—probably because young ladies in love lose
their appetites, and, not feeling inclined to eat at that time,
they imagine that love will always supply the want of food.
Now, we will appeal to the married ladies whether we are
not right in asserting that, although the collation spread for
them and their friends on the day of the marriage is looked
upon with almost loathing, they do not find their appetites
return with interest soon afterwards. This was precisely the
case with Cecilia, or rather, Cecilia Templemore, for she had
changed her name the day before. It was also the case with
her husband, who always had a good appetite, even during
his days of courtship; and the consequence was, that the
messman’s account, for they lived in barracks, was, in a few
weeks, rather alarming. Cecilia applied to her family, who
very kindly sent her word that she might starve; but, the
advice neither suiting her nor her husband, she then wrote
to her cousin Antony, who sent her word that he would be
most happy to receive them at his table, and that they
should take up their abode in Finsbury Square. This was
exactly what they wished; but still there was a certain
difficulty; Lieutenant Templemore’s regiment was quartered
in a town in Yorkshire, which was some trifling distance
from Finsbury Square; and to be at Mr Witherington’s
dinner-table at six p.m., with the necessity of appearing at
parade every morning at nine a.m., was a dilemma not to
be got out of. Several letters were interchanged upon this
knotty subject: and at last it was agreed that Mr
Templemore should sell out, and come up to Mr
Witherington with his pretty wife: he did so, and found that
it was much more comfortable to turn out at nine o’clock in
the morning to a good breakfast than to a martial parade.
But Mr Templemore had an honest pride and independence
of character which would not permit him to eat the bread of
idleness, and after a sojourn of two months in most
comfortable quarters, without a messman’s bill, he frankly
stated his feelings to Mr Witherington, and requested his
assistance to procure for himself an honourable livelihood.
Mr Witherington, who had become attached to them both,
would have remonstrated, observing that Cecilia was his
own cousin, and that he was a confirmed bachelor; but, in
this instance, Mr Templemore was firm, and Mr Witherington
very unwillingly consented. A mercantile house of the
highest respectability required a partner who could
superintend their consignments to America. Mr Witherington
advanced the sum required; and, in a few weeks, Mr and
Mrs Templemore sailed for New York.

Mr Templemore was active and intelligent; their affairs

prospered; and, in a few years, they anticipated a return to
their native soil with a competence. But the autumn of the
second year after their arrival proved very sickly; the yellow
fever raged; and among the thousands who were carried
off, Mr Templemore was a victim, about three weeks after
his wife had been brought to bed of twins. Mrs Templemore
rose from her couch a widow and the mother of two fine
boys. The loss of Mr Templemore was replaced by the
establishment with which he was connected, and Mr
Witherington offered to his cousin that asylum which, in her
mournful and unexpected bereavement, she so much
required. In three months her affairs were arranged; and
with her little boys hanging at the breasts of two negro
nurses,—for no others could be procured who would
undertake the voyage,—Mrs Templemore, with Coco as
male servant, embarked on board of the good ship
Circassian, A1, bound to Liverpool.

Chapter Three.
 The Gale.

Those who, standing on the pier, had witnessed the proud

bearing of the Circassian as she gave her canvas to the
winds, little contemplated her fate: still less did those on
board; for confidence is the characteristic of seamen, and
they have the happy talent of imparting their confidence to
whomsoever may be in their company. We shall pass over
the voyage, confining ourselves to a description of the
catastrophe.

It was during a gale from the north-west, which had

continued for three days, and by which the Circassian had
been driven into the Bay of Biscay, that at about twelve
o’clock at night, a slight lull was perceptible. The captain,
who had remained on deck, sent down for the chief mate.
“Oswald,” said Captain Ingram, “the gale is breaking, and I
think before morning we shall have had the worst of it. I
shall lie down for an hour or two; call me if there be any
change.”

Oswald Bareth, a tall, sinewy-built, and handsome specimen

of transatlantic growth, examined the whole circumference
of the horizon before he replied. At last his eyes were
steadily fixed to leeward: “I’ve a notion not, sir,” said he; “I
see no signs of clearing off to leeward: only a lull for relief,
and a fresh hand at the bellows, depend upon it.”

“We have now had it three days,” replied Captain Ingram,

“and that’s the life of a summer gale.”

“Yes,” rejoined the mate; “but always provided that it don’t

blow back again. I don’t like the look of it, sir; and have it
back we shall, as sure as there’s snakes in Virginny.”
“Well, so be if so be,” was the safe reply of the captain. “You
must keep a sharp look out, Bareth, and don’t leave the
deck to call me; send a hand down.”

The captain descended to his cabin. Oswald looked at the

compass in the binnacle—spoke a few words to the man at
the helm—gave one or two terrible kicks in the ribs to some
of the men who were caulking—sounded the pump-well—
put a fresh quid of tobacco into his cheek, and then
proceeded to examine the heavens above. A cloud, much
darker and more descending than the others, which
obscured the firmament, spread over the zenith, and based
itself upon the horizon to leeward. Oswald’s eye had been
fixed upon it but a few seconds, when he beheld a small
lambent gleam of lightning pierce through the most opaque
part; then another, and more vivid. Of a sudden the wind
lulled, and the Circassian righted from her careen. Again the
wind howled, and again the vessel was pressed down to her
bearings by its force: again another flash of lightning, which
was followed by a distant peal of thunder.

“Had the worst of it, did you say, captain? I’ve a notion that
the worst is yet to come,” muttered Oswald, still watching
the heavens.

“How does she carry her helm, Matthew?” inquired Oswald,

walking aft.

“Spoke a-weather.”

“I’ll have the trysail off her, at any rate,” continued the
mate. “Aft, there my lads! and lower down the trysail. Keep
the sheet fast till it’s down, or the flogging will frighten the
lady-passenger out of her wits. Well, if ever I own a craft,
I’ll have no women on board. Dollars shan’t tempt me.”
The lightning now played in rapid forks; and the loud
thunder, which instantaneously followed each flash, proved
its near approach. A deluge of slanting rain descended—the
wind lulled—roared again—then lulled—shifted a point or
two, and the drenched and heavy sails flapped.

“Up with the helm, Mat!” cried Oswald, as a near flash of

lightning for a moment blinded, and the accompanying peal
of thunder deafened, those on deck. Again the wind blew
strong—it ceased, and it was a dead calm. The sails hung
down from the yards, and the rain descended in
perpendicular torrents, while the ship rocked to and fro in
the trough of the sea, and the darkness became suddenly
intense.

“Down there, one of you! and call the captain,” said Oswald.
“By the Lord! we shall have it. Main braces there, men, and
square the yards. Be smart! That topsail should have been
in,” muttered the mate; “but I’m not captain. Square away
the yards, my lads!” continued he; “quick, quick!—there’s
no child’s play here!”

Owing to the difficulty of finding and passing the ropes to

each other, from the intensity of the darkness, and the
deluge of rain which blinded them, the men were not able
to execute the order of the mate so soon as it was
necessary; and before they could accomplish their task, or
Captain Ingram could gain the deck, the wind suddenly
burst upon the devoted vessel from the quarter directly
opposite to that from which the gale had blown, taking her
all a-back, and throwing her on her beam-ends. The man at
the helm was hurled over the wheel; while the rest, who
were with Oswald at the main-bits, with the coils of ropes,
and every other article on deck not secured, were rolled
into the scuppers, struggling to extricate themselves from
the mass of confusion and the water in which they
floundered. The sudden revulsion awoke all the men below,
who imagined that the ship was foundering; and, from the
only hatchway not secured, they poured up in their shirts
with their other garments in their hands, to put them on—if
fate permitted.

Oswald Bareth was the first who clambered up from to

leeward. He gained the helm, which he put hard up. Captain
Ingram and some of the seamen also gained the helm. It is
the rendezvous of all good seamen in emergencies of this
description: but the howling of the gale—the blinding of the
rain and salt spray—the seas checked in their running by
the shift of wind, and breaking over the ship in vast masses
of water—the tremendous peals of thunder—and the intense
darkness which accompanied these horrors, added to the
inclined position of the vessel, which obliged them to climb
from one part of the deck to another, for some time checked
all profitable communication. Their only friend, in this
conflict of the elements, was the lightning (unhappy,
indeed, the situation in which lightning can be welcomed as
a friend); but its vivid and forked flames, darting down
upon every quarter of the horizon, enabled them to
perceive their situation; and, awful as it was, when
momentarily presented to their sight, it was not so awful as
darkness and uncertainty. To those who have been
accustomed to the difficulties and dangers of a sea-faring
life, there are no lines which speak more forcibly to the
imagination, or prove the beauty and power of the Greek
poet, than those in the noble prayer of Ajax:

“Lord of earth and air,

O king! O father! hear my humble prayer.
Dispel this cloud, that light of heaven restore;
Give me to see—and Ajax asks no more,
If Greece must perish—we Thy will obey;
But let us perish in the face of day!”
Oswald gave the helm to two of the seamen, and with his
knife cut adrift the axes, which were lashed round the
mizen-mast in painted canvas covers. One he retained for
himself,—the others he put into the hands of the boatswain
and the second mate. To speak so as to be heard was
almost impossible, from the tremendous roaring of the
wind; but the lamp still burned in the binnacle, and by its
feeble light Captain Ingram could distinguish the signs
made by the mate, and could give his consent. It was
necessary that the ship should be put before the wind; and
the helm had no power over her. In a short time the
lanyards of the mizen rigging were severed, and the mizen-
mast went over the side, almost unperceived by the crew
on the other parts of the deck, or even those near, had it
not been from blows received by those who were too close
to it, from the falling of the topsail-sheets and the rigging
about the mast.

Oswald, with his companions, regained the binnacle, and for

a little while watched the compass. The ship did not pay off,
and appeared to settle down more into the water. Again
Oswald made his signs, and again the captain gave his
assent. Forward sprang the undaunted mate, clinging to the
bulwark and belaying-pins, and followed by his hardy
companions, until they had all three gained the main
channels. Here, their exposure to the force of the breaking
waves, and the stoutness of the ropes yielding but slowly to
the blows of the axes, which were used almost under water,
rendered the service one of extreme difficulty and danger.
The boatswain was washed over the bulwark and dashed to
leeward, where the lee-rigging only saved him from a
watery grave. Unsubdued, he again climbed up to
windward, rejoined and assisted his companions. The last
blow was given by Oswald—the lanyards flew through the
dead-eyes—and the tall mast disappeared in the foaming
seas. Oswald and his companions hastened from their
dangerous position, and rejoined the captain, who, with
many of the crew, still remained near the wheel. The ship
now slowly paid off and righted. In a few minutes she was
flying before the gale, rolling heavily, and occasionally
striking upon the wrecks of the masts, which she towed
with her by the lee-rigging.

Although the wind blew with as much violence as before,

still it was not with the same noise, now that the ship was
before the wind with her after-masts gone. The next service
was to clear the ship of the wrecks of the masts; but,
although all now assisted, but little could be effected until
the day had dawned, and even then it was a service of
danger, as the ship rolled gunwale under. Those who
performed the duty were slung in ropes, that they might not
be washed away; and hardly was it completed, when a
heavy roll, assisted by a jerking heave from a sea which
struck her on the chess-tree, sent the foremast over the
starboard cathead. Thus was the Circassian dismasted in
the gale.

Chapter Four.

The Leak.

The wreck of the foremast was cleared from the ship; the
gale continued, but the sun shone brightly and warmly. The
Circassian was again brought to the wind. All danger was
now considered to be over, and the seamen joked and
laughed as they were busied in preparing jury-masts to
enable them to reach their destined port.

“I wouldn’t have cared so much about this spree,” said the

boatswain, “if it warn’t for the mainmast; it was such a
beauty. There’s not another stick to be found equal to it in
the whole length of the Mississippi.”

“Bah! man,” replied Oswald; “there’s as good fish in the sea

as ever came out of it, and as good sticks growing as ever
were felled; but I guess we’ll pay pretty dear for our spars
when we get to Liverpool,—but that concerns the owners.”

The wind, which, at the time of its sudden change to the

southward and eastward, had blown with the force of a
hurricane, now settled into a regular strong gale, such as
sailors are prepared to meet and laugh at. The sky was also
bright and clear, and they had not the danger of a lee
shore. It was a delightful change after a night of darkness,
danger, and confusion and the men worked that they might
get sufficient sail on the ship to steady her, and enable
them to shape a course.

“I suppose now that we have the trysail on her forward, the

captain will be for running for it,” observed one who was
busy turning in a dead-eye.

“Yes,” replied the boatswain; “and with this wind on our

quarter we shan’t want much sail, I’ve a notion.”

“Well, then, one advantage in losing your mast—you haven’t

much trouble about the rigging.”

“Trouble enough, though, Bill, when we get in,” replied

another, gruffly; “new lower rigging to parcel and sarve, and
every block to turn in afresh.”

“Never mind, longer in port—I’ll get spliced.”

“Why, how often do you mean to get spliced, Bill? You’ve a

wife in every State, to my sartin knowledge.”
“I ain’t got one at Liverpool, Jack.”

“Well, you may take one there, Bill; for you’ve been sweet
upon that nigger girl for these last three weeks.”

“Any port in a storm, but she won’t do for harbour duty. But
the fact is, you’re all wrong there, Jack, its the babbies I
likes—I likes to see them both together, hanging at the
niggers’ breasts, I always think of two spider-monkeys
nursing two kittens.”

“I knows the women, but I never knows the children. It’s

just six of one and half-a-dozen of the other; ain’t it, Bill?”

“Yes; like two bright bullets out of the same mould. I say,
Bill, did any of your wives ever have twins?”

“No; nor I don’t intend, until the owners give us double

pay.”

“By-the-bye,” interrupted Oswald, who had been standing

under the weather bulk-head, listening to the conversation,
and watching the work in progress, “we may just as well
see if she has made any water with all this straining and
buffeting. By the Lord I never thought of that. Carpenter,
lay down your adze and sound the well.”

The carpenter, who, notwithstanding the uneasiness of the

dismasted vessel, was performing his important share of
the work, immediately complied with the order. He drew up
the rope-yarn, to which an iron rule had been suspended,
and lowered down into the pump-well, and perceived that
the water was dripping from it. Imagining that it must have
been wet from the quantity of water shipped over all, the
carpenter disengaged the rope-yarn from the rule, drew
another from the junk lying on the deck, which the seamen
were working up, and then carefully proceeded to plumb the
well. He hauled it up, and, looking at it for some moments
aghast, exclaimed, “Seven feet of water in the hold, by
God.”

If the crew of the Circassian, the whole of which were on

deck, had been struck with an electric shock, the sudden
change of their countenances could not have been greater
than was produced by this appalling intelligence.

Heap upon sailors every disaster, every danger which can

be accumulated from the waves, the wind, the elements, or
the enemy, and they will bear up against them with a
courage amounting to heroism. All that they demand is,
that the one plank “between them and death” is sound, and
they will trust to their own energies, and will be confident in
their own skill: but spring a leak and they are half
paralysed; and if it gain upon them they are subdued; for
when they find that their exertions are futile, they are little
better than children.

Oswald sprang to the pumps when he heard the carpenter’s

report. “Try again, Abel—it cannot be: cut away that line;
hand us here a dry rope-yarn.”

Once more the well was sounded by Oswald, and the result
was the same. “We must rig the pumps, my lads,” said the
mate, endeavouring to conceal his own fears; “half this
water must have found its way in when she was on her
beam-ends.”

This idea, so judiciously thrown out, was caught at by the

seamen, who hastened to obey the order, while Oswald
went down to acquaint the captain, who, worn out with
watching and fatigue, had, now that danger was considered
to be over, thrown himself into his cot to obtain a few hours’
repose.
“Do you think, Bareth, that we have sprung a leak?” said
the captain, earnestly, “She never could have taken in that
quantity of water.”

“Never, sir,” replied the mate; “but she has been so

strained, that she may have opened her top-sides. I trust it
is no worse.”

“What is your opinion, then?”

“I am afraid that the wrecks of the masts have injured her:

you may recollect how often we struck against them before
we could clear ourselves of them; once, particularly, the
mainmast appeared to be right under her bottom, I
recollect, and she struck very heavy on it.”

“Well, it is God’s will: let us get on deck as fast as we can.”

When they arrived on deck, the carpenter walked up to the

captain, and quietly said to him, “Seven feet three, sir.” The
pumps were then in full action; the men had divided, by the
direction of the boatswain, and, stripped naked to the waist,
relieved each other every two minutes. For half an hour
they laboured incessantly.

This was the half-hour of suspense: the great point to be

ascertained was, whether she leaked through the top-sides,
and had taken in the water during the second gale; if so,
there was every hope of keeping it under. Captain Ingram
and the mate remained in silence near the capstan, the
former with his watch in his hand, during the time that the
sailors exerted themselves to the utmost. It was ten
minutes past seven when the half hour had expired; the
well was sounded and the line carefully measured—Seven
feet six inches! So that the water had gained upon them,
notwithstanding that they had plied the pumps to the
utmost of their strength.
A mute look of despair was exchanged among the crew, but
it was followed up by curses and execrations. Captain
Ingram remained silent, with his lips compressed.

“It’s all over with us!” exclaimed one of the men.

“Not yet, my lads; we have one more chance,” said Oswald.

“I’ve a notion that the ship’s sides have been opened by the
infernal straining of last night, and that she is now taking it
in at the top-sides generally: if so, we have only to put her
before the wind again, and have another good spell at the
pumps. When no longer strained, as she is now with her
broadside to the sea, she will close all up again.”

“I shouldn’t wonder if Mr Bareth is not right,” replied the

carpenter; “however, that’s my notion, too.”

“And mine,” added Captain Ingram. “Come, my men! never

say die while there’s a shot in the locker. Let’s try her
again.” And, to encourage the men, Captain Ingram threw
off his coat and assisted at the first spell, while Oswald went
to the helm and put the ship before the wind.

As the Circassian rolled before the gale, the lazy manner in

which she righted proved how much water there was in the
hold. The seamen exerted themselves for a whole hour
without intermission, and the well was again sounded—
eight feet!

The men did not assert that they would pump no longer;
but they too plainly showed their intentions by each
resuming in silence his shirt and jacket, which had been
taken off at the commencement of his exertions.

“What’s to be done, Oswald?” said Captain Ingram, as they

walked aft. “You see the men will pump no longer: nor,
indeed, would it be of any use. We are doomed.”
“The Circassian is, sir, I am afraid,” replied the mate:
“pumping is of no avail; they could not keep her afloat till
day-break. We must therefore, trust to our boats, which I
believe to be all sound, and quit her before night.”

“Crowded boats in such a sea as this!” replied Captain

Ingram, shaking his head mournfully.

“Are bad enough, I grant; but better than the sea itself. All
we can do now is to try and keep the men sober, and if we
can do so it will be better than to fatigue them uselessly;
they’ll want all their strength before they put foot again
upon dry land—if ever they are so fortunate. Shall I speak
to them?”

“Do, Oswald,” replied the captain; “for myself I care little,

God knows; but my wife—my children!”

“My lads,” said Oswald, going forward to the men, who had
waited in moody silence the result of the conference—“as
for pumping any longer it would be only wearing out your
strength for no good. We must now look to our boats; and a
good boat is better than a bad ship. Still this gale and
cross-running sea are rather too much for boats at present;
we had therefore better stick to the ship as long as we can.
Let us set to with a will and get the boats ready, with
provisions, water, and what may be needful, and then we
must trust to God’s mercy and our own endeavours.”

“No boat can stand this sea,” observed one of the men. “I’m
of opinion, as it’s to be a short life, it may as well be a
merry one. What d’ye say, my lads?” continued he,
appealing to the men.

Several of the crew were of the same opinion: but Oswald,

stepping forward, seized one of the axes which lay at the
main-bits, and going up to the seaman who had spoken,
looked him steadfastly in the face:—

“Williams,” said the mate, “a short life it may be to all of us,

but not a merry one; the meaning of which I understand
very well. Sorry I shall be to have your blood, or that of
others, on my hands; but as sure as there’s a heaven, I’ll
cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts to break
into the spirit-room. You know I never joke. Shame upon
you! Do you call yourselves men, when, for the sake of a
little liquor now, you would lose your only chance of getting
drunk every day as soon as we get on shore again? There’s
a time for all things; and I’ve a notion this is a time to be
sober.”

As most of the crew sided with Oswald, the weaker party

were obliged to submit, and the preparations were
commenced. The two boats on the booms were found to be
in good condition. One party was employed cutting away
the bulwarks, that the boats might be launched over the
side, as there were no means of hoisting them out. The well
was again sounded. Nine feet of water in the hold, and the
ship evidently settling fast. Two hours had now passed, and
the gale was not so violent; the sea, also, which at the
change of wind had been cross, appeared to have recovered
its regular run. All was ready; the sailors, once at work
again, had, in some measure, recovered their spirits, and
were buoyed up with fresh hopes at the slight change in
their favour from the decrease of the wind. The two boats
were quite large enough to contain the whole of the crew
and passengers; but, as the sailors said among themselves
(proving the kindness of their hearts), “What was to
become of those two poor babbies, in an open boat for days
and nights, perhaps?” Captain Ingram had gone down to
Mrs Templemore, to impart to her their melancholy
prospects; and the mother’s heart, as well as the mother’s
voice, echoed the words of the seamen, “What will become
of my poor babes?”

It was not till nearly six o’clock in the evening that all was
ready: the ship was slowly brought to the wind again, and
the boats launched over the side. By this time the gale was
much abated; but the vessel was full of water, and was
expected soon to go down.

There is no time in which coolness and determination are

more required than in a situation like the one which we
have attempted to describe. It is impossible to know the
precise moment at which a water-logged vessel, in a heavy
sea, may go down: and its occupants are in a state of
mental fever, with the idea of their remaining in her so late
that she will suddenly submerge, and leave them to
struggle in the waves. This feeling actuated many of the
crew of the Circassian, and they had already retreated to
the boats. All was arranged; Oswald had charge of one
boat, and it was agreed that the larger should receive Mrs
Templemore and her children, under the protection of
Captain Ingram. The number appointed to Oswald’s boat
being completed, he shoved off, to make room for the other,
and laid-to to leeward, waiting to keep company. Mrs
Templemore came up with Captain Ingram, and was
assisted by him into the boat. The nurse, with one child,
was at last placed by her side; Coco was leading Judy, the
other nurse, with the remaining infant in her arms, and
Captain Ingram, who had been obliged to go into the boat
with the first child, was about to return to assist Judy with
the other, when the ship gave a heavy pitch, and her
forecastle was buried in the wave: at the same time the
gunwale of the boat was stove by coming in contact with
the side of the vessel. “She’s down, by God!” exclaimed the
alarmed seamen in the boat; shoving off to escape from the
vortex.
Captain Ingram, who was standing on the boat’s thwarts to
assist Judy, was thrown back into the bottom of the boat;
and, before he could extricate himself, the boat was
separated from the ship, and had drifted to leeward.

“My child!” screamed the mother: “my child!”

“Pull to again, my lads!” cried Captain Ingram, seizing the

tiller.

The men, who had been alarmed at the idea that the ship
was going down, now that they saw that she was still afloat,
got out the oars and attempted to regain her, but in vain—
they could not make head against the sea and wind. Further
and further did they drift to leeward, notwithstanding their
exertions; while the frantic mother extended her arms,
imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had
stimulated the sailors to the utmost, perceived that further
attempts were useless.

“My child! my child!” screamed Mrs Templemore, standing

up, and holding out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign
from the captain, the head of the boat was veered round.
The bereaved mother knew that all hope was gone, and she
fell down in a state of insensibility.
 Chapter Five.

The Old Maid.

One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have

described, Mr Witherington descended to his breakfast-
room somewhat earlier than usual, and found his green
morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no less a
personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on
the fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that
he did not hear his master’s entrance. “By my ancestor, who
fought on his stumps! but I hope you are quite comfortable,
Mr William; nay, I beg I may not disturb you, sir.”

William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was

a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr
Jonathan had not time to look over the paper.”

“Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.”

“Mr Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over

the deaths, that news of that kind may not shock you.”

“Very considerate, indeed.”

“And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.”

“A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?”

“I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about,

sir,—the—I forget the name, sir.”

Mr Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon

caught the paragraph in which the rescue of the two
negroes and child from the wreck of the Circassian was fully
detailed.
“It is indeed!” exclaimed Mr Witherington. “My poor Cecilia
in an open boat! one of the boats was seen to go down,—
perhaps she’s dead—merciful God! one boy saved. Mercy on
me! where’s Jonathan?”

“Here, sir,” replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just

brought in the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind
his master’s chair, for it was a case of danger, if not of
death.

“I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast—

shan’t eat though—appetite all gone.”

“People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,”

replied Jonathan. “Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a
mourning coach?”

“A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair

of horses! Jonathan, you’re crazy.”

“Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for
the coachman and servants who attend you, sir?”

“Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a

death; it appears that the negro thinks only one of the
boats went down.”

“Mors omnia vincit,” quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.

“Never you mind that; mind your own business. That’s the
postman’s knock—see if there are any letters.”

There were several; and amongst the others there was one
from Captain Maxwell, of the Eurydice, detailing the
circumstances already known, and informing Mr
Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes and
the child to his address by that day’s coach, and that one of
the officers, who was going to town by the same
conveyance, would see them safe to his house.

Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr

Witherington—had dined at his house in company with the
Templemores, and therefore had extracted quite enough
information from the negroes to know where to direct them.

“By the blood of my ancestors! they’ll be here to night,”

cried Mr Witherington; “and I have saved my journey. What
is to be done? better tell Mary to get rooms ready: d’ye
hear, William? beds for one little boy and two niggers.”

“Yes, sir,” replied William; “but where are the black people
to be put?”

“Put! I don’t care; one may sleep with cook, the other with
Mary.”

“Very well, sir, I’ll tell them,” replied William, hastening

away, delighted at the row which he anticipated in the
kitchen.

“If you please, sir,” observed Jonathan, “one of the negroes

is, I believe, a man.”

“Well, what then?”

“Only, sir, the maids may object to sleep with him.”

“By all the plagues of the Witheringtons! this is true; well,

you may take him, Jonathan—you like that colour.”

“Not in the dark, sir,” replied Jonathan with a bow.

“Well, then, let them sleep together: so that affair is

settled.”
“Are they man and wife, sir?” said the butler.

“The devil take them both! how should I know? Let me have
my breakfast, and we’ll talk over the matter by-and-by.”

Mr Witherington applied to his eggs, and muffin, eating his

breakfast as fast as he could, without knowing why; but the
reason was that he was puzzled and perplexed with the
anticipated arrival, and longed to think quietly over the
dilemma, for it was a dilemma to an old bachelor. As soon
as he had swallowed his second cup of tea he put himself
into his easy-chair, in an easy attitude, and was very soon
soliloquising as follows:—

“By the blood of the Witheringtons! what am I, an old

bachelor, to do with a baby, and a wet-nurse as black as the
ace of spades, and another black fellow in the bargain. Send
him back again? yes, that’s best: but the child—woke every
morning at five o’clock with its squalling—obliged to kiss it
three times a-day—pleasant!—and then that nigger of a
nurse—thick lips—kissing child all day, and then holding it
out to me—ignorant as a cow—if child has the stomach-
ache she’ll cram a pepper-pod down its throat—West India
fashion—children never without the stomach-ache!—my
poor, poor cousin!—what has become of her and the other
child, too?—wish they may pick her up, poor dear! and then
she will come and take care of her own children—don’t
know what to do—great mind to send for sister Moggy—but
she’s so fussy—won’t be in a hurry. Think again.”

Here Mr Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the

door.

“Come in,” said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if
she had been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her
appearance without the usual clean apron.
“If you please, sir,” said she, curtseying, “I will thank you to
suit yourself with another cook.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Mr Witherington, angry at the

interruption.

“And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day—

indeed, sir, I shall not stay.”

“Go to the devil! if you please,” replied Mr Witherington,

angrily; “but first go out and shut the door after you.”

The cook retired, and Mr Witherington was again alone.

“Confound the old woman—what a huff she is in! won’t cook

for black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it.”

Here Mr Witherington was again interrupted by a second

double tap at the door.

“Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.”

It was not the cook, but Mary, the housemaid, that entered.

“If you please, sir,” said she, whimpering, “I should wish to

leave my situation.”

“A conspiracy, by heavens! Well, you may go.”

“To-night, sir, if you please,” answered the woman.

“This moment, for all I care!” exclaimed Mr Witherington in

his wrath.

The housemaid retired; and Mr Witherington took some

time to compose himself.
“Servants all going to the devil in this country,” said he at
last; “proud fools—won’t clean rooms after black people, I
suppose—yes, that’s it, confound them all, black and white!
here’s my whole establishment upset by the arrival of a
baby. Well, it is very uncomfortable—what shall I do?—send
for sister Moggy?—no, I’ll send for Jonathan.”

Mr Witherington rang the bell, and Jonathan made his

appearance.

“What is all this, Jonathan?” said he; “cook angry—Mary

crying—both going away—what’s it all about?”

“Why, sir, they were told by William that it was your positive
order that the two black people were to sleep with them;
and I believe he told Mary that the man was to sleep with
her.”

“Confound that fellow! he’s always at mischief; you know,

Jonathan, I never meant that.”

“I thought not, sir, as it is quite contrary to custom,” replied

Jonathan.

“Well, then, tell them so, and let’s hear no more about it.”

Mr Witherington then entered into a consultation with his

butler, and acceded to the arrangements proposed by him.
The parties arrived in due time, and were properly
accommodated. Master Edward was not troubled with the
stomach-ache, neither did he wake Mr Witherington at five
o’clock in the morning; and, after all, it was not very
uncomfortable. But, although things were not quite so
uncomfortable as Mr Witherington had anticipated, still they
were not comfortable; and Mr Witherington was so annoyed
by continual skirmishes with his servants, complaints from
Judy, in bad English, of the cook, who, it must be owned,
had taken a prejudice against her and Coco, occasional
illness of the child, et cetera, that he found his house no
longer quiet and peaceable. Three months had now nearly
passed, and no tidings of the boats had been received; and
Captain Maxwell, who came up to see Mr Witherington,
gave it as his decided opinion that they must have
foundered in the gale. As, therefore, there appeared to be
no chance of Mrs Templemore coming to take care of her
child, Mr Witherington at last resolved to write to Bath,
where his sister resided, and acquaint her with the whole
story, requesting her to come and superintend his domestic
concerns. A few days afterwards he received the following
reply:—

“Bath, August.

“My dear Brother Antony,

“Your letter arrived safe to hand on Wednesday last,

and I must say that I was not a little surprised at its
contents; indeed, I thought so much about it that I
revoked at Lady Betty Blabkin’s whist-party, and lost
four shillings and sixpence. You say that you have a
child at your house belonging to your cousin, who
married in so indecorous a manner. I hope what you say
is true; but, at the same time, I know what bachelors
are guilty of; although, as Lady Betty says, it is better
never to talk or even to hint about these improper
things. I cannot imagine why men should consider
themselves, in an unmarried state, as absolved from
that purity which maidens are so careful to preserve;
and so says Lady Betty, with whom I had a little
conversation on the subject. As, however, the thing is
done, she agrees with me that it is better to hush it up
as well as we can.
“I presume that you do not intend to make the child
your heir, which I should consider as highly improper;
and, indeed, Lady Betty tells me that the legacy-duty is
ten per cent, and that it cannot be avoided. However, I
make it a rule never to talk about these sort of things.
As for your request that I will come up and superintend
your establishment, I have advised with Lady Betty on
the subject, and she agrees with me that, for the
honour of the family, it is better that I should come, as
it will save appearances. You are in a peck of troubles,
as most men are who are free-livers and are led astray
by artful and alluring females. However, as Lady Betty
says, ‘the least said, the soonest mended.’

“I will, therefore, make the necessary arrangements for

letting my house, and hope to join you in about ten
days; sooner, I cannot, as I find that my engagements
extend to that period. Many questions have already
been put to me on this unpleasant subject; but I always
give but one answer, which is, that bachelors will be
bachelors; and that, at all events, it is not so bad as if
you were a married man: for I make it a rule never to
talk about, or even to hint about, these sort of things,
for, as Lady Betty says, ‘Men will get into scrapes, and
the sooner things are hushed up the better.’ So no more
at present from your affectionate sister,

“Margaret Witherington.

“PS. Lady Betty and I both agree that you are very right
in hiring two black people to bring the child into your
house, as it makes the thing look foreign to the
neighbours, and we can keep our own secrets.

“M.W.”
“Now, by all the sins of the Witheringtons, if this is not
enough to drive a man out of his senses!—Confound the
suspicious old maid! I’ll not let her come into this house.
Confound Lady Betty, and all scandal-loving old tabbies like
her! Bless me!” continued Mr Witherington, throwing the
letter on the table with a deep sigh, “this is anything but
comfortable.”

But if Mr Witherington found it anything but comfortable at

the commencement, he found it unbearable in the sequel.

His sister Moggy arrived, and installed herself in the house

with all the pomp and protecting air of one who was the
saviour of her brother’s reputation and character. When the
child was first brought down to her, instead of perceiving at
once its likeness to Mr Templemore, which was very strong,
she looked at it and at her brother’s face with her only eye,
and shaking her finger, exclaimed—

“Oh, Antony! Antony! and did you expect to deceive me?—

the nose—the mouth exact—Antony, for shame! fie, for
shame!”

But we must hurry over the misery that Mr Witherington’s

kindness and benevolence brought upon him. Not a day
passed—scarcely an hour, without his ears being galled with
his sister’s insinuations. Judy and Coco were sent back to
America; the servants, who had remained so long in his
service, gave warning one by one, and afterwards, were
changed as often almost as there was a change in the
moon. She ruled the house and her brother despotically;
and all poor Mr Witherington’s comfort was gone until the
time arrived when Master Edward was to be sent to school.
Mr Witherington then plucked up courage, and after a few
stormy months drove his sister back to Bath, and once
more found himself comfortable.
Edward came home during the holidays, and was a great
favourite; but the idea had become current that he was the
son of the old gentleman, and the remarks made were so
unpleasant and grating to him, that he was not sorry, much
as he was attached to the boy, when he declared his
intention to choose the profession of a sailor.

Captain Maxwell introduced him into the service; and

afterwards, when, in consequence of ill health and
exhaustion, he was himself obliged to leave it for a time, he
procured for his protégé other ships. We must, therefore,
allow some years to pass away, during which time Edward
Templemore pursues his career, Mr Witherington grows
older and more particular, and his sister Moggy amuses
herself with Lady Betty’s remarks and her darling game of
whist.

During all this period no tidings of the boats, or of Mrs

Templemore and her infant, had been heard; it was
therefore naturally conjectured that they had all perished,
and they were remembered but as things that had been.

Chapter Six.

The Midshipman.

The weather side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigate Unicorn

was occupied by two very great personages: Captain
Plumbton, commanding the ship, who was very great in
width if not in height, taking much more than his allowance
of the deck, if it were not that he was the proprietor
thereof, and entitled to the lion’s share. Captain P was not
more than four feet ten inches in height; but then he was
equal to that in girth: there was quite enough of him, if he
had only been rolled out. He walked with his coat flying
open, his thumbs stuck into the arm holes of his waistcoat,
so as to throw his shoulders back and increase his
horizontal dimensions. He also held his head well aft, which
threw his chest and stomach well forward. He was the
prototype of pomposity and good nature, and he strutted
like an actor in a procession.

The other personage was the first lieutenant, whom Nature

had pleased to fashion in another mould. He was as tall as
the captain was short—as thin as his superior was
corpulent. His long, lanky legs were nearly up to the
captain’s shoulders; and he bowed down over the head of
his superior, as if he were the crane to hoist up, and the
captain the bale of goods to be hoisted. He carried his
hands behind his back, with two fingers twisted together;
and his chief difficulty appeared to be to reduce his own
stride to the parrot march of the captain. His features were
sharp and lean as was his body, and wore every appearance
of a cross-grained temper.

He had been making divers complaints of divers persons,

and the captain had hitherto appeared imperturbable.
Captain Plumbton was an even-tempered man, who was
satisfied with a good dinner. Lieutenant Markitall was an
odd-tempered man, who would quarrel with his bread and
butter.

“Quite impossible, sir,” continued the first-lieutenant, “to

carry on the duty without support.”

This oracular observation, which, from the relative forms of

the two parties, descended as it were from above, was
replied to by the captain with a “Very true.”

“Then, sir, I presume you will not object to my putting that

man in the report for punishment?”
“I’ll think about it, Mr Markitall.” This, with Captain
Plumbton, was as much as to say, No.

“The young gentlemen, sir, I am sorry to say, are very

troublesome.”

“Boys always are,” replied the captain.

“Yes sir: but the duty must be carried on, and I cannot do
without them.”

“Very true—midshipmen are very useful.”

“But I am sorry to say, sir, that they are not. Now sir,
there’s Mr Templemore; I can do nothing with him—he does
nothing but laugh.”

“Laugh!—Mr Markitall, does he laugh at you?”

“Not exactly, sir; but he laughs at everything. If I send him

to the mast-head, he goes up laughing; if I call him down,
he comes down laughing; if I find fault with him, he laughs
the next minute: in fact, sir, he does nothing but laugh. I
should particularly wish, sir, that you would speak to him,
and see if any interference on your part—”

“Would make him cry—eh? better to laugh than cry in this

world. Does he never cry, Mr Markitall?”

“Yes, sir, and very unseasonably. The other day, you may
recollect, when you punished Wilson the marine, whom I
appointed to take care of his chest and hammock, he was
crying the whole time; almost tantamount—at least an
indirect species of mutiny on his part, as it implied—”

“That the boy was sorry that his servant was punished; I
never flog a man but I’m sorry myself, Mr Markitall.”
“Well, I do not press the question of his crying—that I might
look over; but his laughing, sir, I must beg that you will
take notice of that. Here he is, sir, coming up the hatchway.
Mr Templemore, the captain wishes to speak to you.”

Now the captain did not wish to speak to him, but, forced
upon him as it was by the first-lieutenant, he could do no
less. So Mr Templemore touched his hat, and stood before
the captain, we regret to say, with such a good-humoured,
sly, confiding smirk on his countenance, as at once
established the proof of the accusation, and the enormity of
the offence.

“So, sir,” said Captain Plumbton, stopping in his

perambulation, and squaring his shoulders still more, “I find
that you laugh at the first-lieutenant.”

“I, sir?” replied the boy, the smirk expanding into a broad
grin.

“Yes; you, sir,” said the first-lieutenant, now drawing up to

his full height; “why you’re laughing now, sir.”

“I can’t help it, sir—it’s not my fault; and I’m sure it’s not
yours, sir,” added the boy, demurely.

“Are you aware, Edward—Mr Templemore, I mean—of the

impropriety of disrespect to your superior officer?”

“I never laughed at Mr Markitall but once, sir, that I can

recollect, and that was when he tumbled over the
messenger.”

“And why did you laugh at him then, sir?”

“I always do laugh when any one tumbles down,” replied

the lad; “I can’t help it, sir.”
“Then, sir, I suppose you would laugh if you saw me rolling
in the lee-scuppers?” said the captain.

“Oh!” replied the boy, no longer able to contain himself, “I’m

sure I should burst myself with laughing—I think I see you
now, sir.”

“Do you, indeed! I’m very glad that you do not; though I’m
afraid, young gentleman, you stand convicted by your own
confession.”

“Yes, sir, for laughing, if that is any crime; but it’s not in the
Articles of War.”

“No, sir; but disrespect is. You laugh when you go to the
mast-head.”

“But I obey the order, sir, immediately—Do I not, Mr

Markitall?”

“Yes, sir, you obey the order; but, at the same time, your
laughing proves that you do not mind the punishment.”

“No more I do, sir. I spend half my time at the mast-head,

and I’m used to it now.”

“But, Mr Templemore, ought you not to feel the disgrace of

the punishment?” inquired the captain, severely.

“Yes, sir, if I felt I deserved it I should. I should not laugh,

sir, if you sent me to the mast-head,” replied the boy,
assuming a serious countenance.

“You see, Mr Markitall, that he can be grave,” observed the

captain.
“I’ve tried all I can to make him so, sir,” replied the first-
lieutenant; “but I wish to ask Mr Templemore what he
means to imply by saying, ‘when he deserves it.’ Does he
mean to say that I have ever punished him unjustly?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the boy, boldly; “five times out of six, I am
mast-headed for nothing—and that’s the reason why I do
not mind it.”

“For nothing, sir! Do you call laughing nothing?”

“I pay every attention that I can to my duty, sir; I always

obey your orders; I try all I can to make you pleased with
me—but you are always punishing me.”

“Yes, sir, for laughing, and, what is worse, making the ship’s
company laugh.”

“They ‘haul and hold’ just the same, sir—I think they work
all the better for being merry.”

“And pray, sir, what business have you to think?” replied the
first-lieutenant, now very angry. “Captain Plumbton, as this
young gentleman thinks proper to interfere with me and the
discipline of the ship, I beg you will see what effect your
punishing may have upon him.”

“Mr Templemore,” said the captain, “you are, in the first

place, too free in your speech, and, in the next place, too
fond of laughing. There is, Mr Templemore, a time for all
things—a time to be merry, and a time to be serious. The
quarter-deck is not a fit place for mirth.”

“I’m sure the gangway is not,” shrewdly interrupted the boy.

“No—you are right, nor the gangway; but you may laugh on
the forecastle, and when below with your messmates.”
“No, sir, we may not; Mr Markitall always sends out if he
hears us laughing.”

“Because, Mr Templemore, you’re always laughing.”

“I believe I am, sir; and if it’s wrong I’m sorry to displease

you, but I mean no disrespect. I laugh in my sleep—I laugh
when I awake—I laugh when the sun shines—I always feel
so happy; but though you do mast-head me, Mr Markitall, I
should not laugh, but be very sorry, if any misfortune
happened to you.”

“I believe you would, boy—I do indeed, Mr Markitall,” said

the captain.

“Well, sir,” replied the first-lieutenant, “as Mr Templemore

appears to be aware of his error, I do not wish to press my
complaint—I have only to request that he will never laugh
again.”

“You hear, boy, what the first-lieutenant says; it’s very

reasonable, and I beg I may hear no more complaints. Mr
Markitall, let me know when the foot of that foretopsail will
be repaired—I should like to shift it to-night.”

Mr Markitall went down under the half-deck to make the

inquiry.

“And, Edward,” said Captain Plumbton, as soon as the

lieutenant was out of ear-shot, “I have a good deal more to
say to you upon this subject, but I have no time now. So
come and dine with me—at my table, you know, I allow
laughing in moderation.”

The boy touched his hat, and with a grateful, happy

countenance, walked away.
We have introduced this little scene, that the reader may
form some idea of the character of Edward Templemore. He
was indeed the soul of mirth, good-humour, and kindly
feelings towards others; he even felt kindly towards the
first-lieutenant, who persecuted him for his risible
propensities. We do not say that the boy was right in
laughing at all times, or that the first-lieutenant was wrong
in attempting to check it. As the captain said, there is a
time for all things, and Edward’s laugh was not always
seasonable; but it was his nature, and he could not help it.
He was joyous as the May morning; and thus he continued
for years, laughing at everything—pleased with everybody—
almost universally liked—and his bold, free, and happy spirit
unchecked by vicissitude or hardship.

He served his time—was nearly turned back when he was

passing his examination for laughing, and then went
laughing to sea again—was in command of a boat at the
cutting-out of a French corvette, and when on board was so
much amused by the little French captain skipping about
with his rapier, which proved fatal to many, that at last he
received a pink from the little gentleman himself, which laid
him on deck. For this affair, and in consideration of his
wound, he obtained his promotion to the rank of lieutenant
—was appointed to a line-of-battle ship in the West Indies—
laughed at the yellow-fever—was appointed to the tender of
that ship, a fine schooner, and was sent to cruise for prize-
money for the admiral, and promotion for himself, if he
could, by any fortunate encounter, be so lucky as to obtain
it.

Chapter Seven.

Sleeper’s Bay.
On the western coast of Africa, there is a small bay, which
has received more than one name from its occasional
visitors. That by which it was designated by the
adventurous Portuguese, who first dared to cleave the
waves of the Southern Atlantic, has been forgotten with
their lost maritime pre-eminence; the name allotted to it by
the woolly-headed natives of the coast has never, perhaps,
been ascertained; it is, however, marked down in some of
the old English charts as Sleeper’s Bay.

The mainland which, by its curvature, has formed this little

dent on a coast possessing, and certainly at present
requiring few harbours, displays, perhaps, the least inviting
of all prospects; offering to the view nothing but a shelving
beach of dazzling white sand, backed with a few small
hummocks beat up by the occasional fury of the Atlantic
gales—arid, bare, and without the slightest appearance of
vegetable life. The inland prospect is shrouded over by a
dense mirage, through which here and there are to be
discovered the stems of a few distant palm-trees, so broken
and disjoined by refraction that they present to the
imagination anything but the idea of foliage or shade. The
water in the bay is calm and smooth as the polished mirror;
not the smallest ripple is to be heard on the beach, to break
through the silence of nature; not a breath of air sweeps
over its glassy surface, which is heated with the intense
rays of a vertical noonday sun, pouring down a withering
flood of light and heat: not a sea-bird is to be discovered
wheeling on its flight, or balancing on its wings as it pierces
the deep with its searching eye, ready to dart upon its prey.
All is silence, solitude, and desolation, save that
occasionally may be seen the fin of some huge shark, either
sluggishly moving through the heated element, or
stationary in the torpor of the mid-day heat. A site so
sterile, so stagnant, so little adapted to human life, cannot
well be conceived, unless, by flying to extremes, we were to
portray the chilling blast, the transfixing cold, and “close-
ribbed ice,” at the frozen poles.

At the entrance of this bay, in about three fathoms water,

heedless of the spring cable which hung down as a rope
which had fallen overboard, there floated, motionless as
death, a vessel whose proportions would have challenged
the unanimous admiration of those who could appreciate
the merits of her build, had she been anchored in the most
frequented and busy harbour of the universe. So beautiful
were her lines, that you might almost have imagined her a
created being that the ocean had been ordered to receive,
as if fashioned by the Divine Architect, to add to the beauty
and variety of His works; for, from the huge leviathan to the
smallest of the finny tribe—from the towering albatross to
the boding petrel of the storm—where could be found,
among the winged or finned frequenters of the ocean, a
form more appropriate, more fitting, than this specimen of
human skill, whose beautiful model and elegant tapering
spars were now all that could be discovered to break the
meeting lines of the firmament and horizon of the offing.

Alas! she was fashioned, at the will of avarice, for the aid of
cruelty and injustice, and now was even more nefariously
employed. She had been a slaver—she was now the far-
famed, still more dreaded, pirate-schooner, the Avenger.

Not a man-of-war which scoured the deep but had her

instructions relative to this vessel, which had been so
successful in her career of crime—not a trader in any
portion of the navigable globe but whose crew shuddered at
the mention of her name, and the remembrance of the
atrocities which had been practised by her reckless crew.
She had been everywhere—in the east, the west, the north,
and the south, leaving a track behind her of rapine and of
murder. There she lay in motionless beauty; her low sides
were painted black, with one small, narrow riband of red—
her raking masts were clean scraped—her topmasts, her
cross-trees, caps, and even running-blocks, were painted in
pure white. Awnings were spread fore and aft to protect the
crew from the powerful rays of the sun; her ropes were
hauled taut; and in every point she wore the appearance of
being under the control of seamanship and strict discipline.
Through the clear smooth water her copper shone brightly;
and as you looked over her taffrail down into the calm blue
sea, you could plainly discover the sandy bottom beneath
her and the anchor which then lay under her counter. A
small boat floated astern, the weight of the rope which
attached her appearing, in the perfect calm, to draw her
towards the schooner.

We must now go on board, and our first cause of surprise

will be the deception relative to the tonnage of the
schooner, when viewed from a distance. Instead of a small
vessel of about ninety tons, we discover that she is upwards
of two hundred; that her breadth of beam is enormous; and
that those spars, which appeared so light and elegant, are
of unexpected dimensions. Her decks are of narrow fir
planks, without the least spring or rise; her ropes are of
Manilla hemp, neatly secured to copper belaying-pins, and
coiled down on the deck, whose whiteness is well contrasted
with the bright green paint of her bulwarks; her capstern
and binnacles are cased in fluted mahogany, and
ornamented with brass; metal stanchions protect the
skylights, and the bright muskets are arranged in front of
the mainmast, while the boarding-pikes are lashed round
the mainboom.

In the centre of the vessel, between the fore and main

masts, there is a long brass 32-pounder fixed upon a
carriage revolving in a circle, and so arranged that in bad
weather it can be lowered down and housed; while on each
side of her decks are mounted eight brass guns of smaller
calibre and of exquisite workmanship. Her build proves the
skill of the architect; her fitting-out, a judgment in which
nought has been sacrificed to, although everything has
been directed by, taste; and her neatness and arrangement,
that, in the person of her commander, to the strictest
discipline there is united the practical knowledge of a
thorough seaman. How, indeed, otherwise could she have
so long continued her lawless yet successful career? How
could it have been possible to unite a crew of miscreants,
who feared not God nor man, most of whom had
perpetrated foul murders, or had been guilty of even
blacker iniquities? It was because he who commanded the
vessel was so superior as to find in her no rivalry. Superior
in talent, in knowledge of his profession, in courage, and,
moreover, in physical strength—which in him was almost
Herculean—unfortunately he was also superior to all in
villainy, in cruelty, and contempt of all injunctions, moral
and Divine.

What had been the early life of this person was but
imperfectly known. It was undoubted that he had received
an excellent education, and it was said that he was of an
ancient border family on the banks of the Tweed: by what
chances he had become a pirate—by what errors he had
fallen from his station in society, until he became an
outcast, had never been revealed; it was only known that
he had been some years employed in the slave-trade
previous to his seizing this vessel and commencing his
reckless career. The name by which he was known to the
crew of the pirate-vessel was “Cain,” and well had he
chosen this appellation; for, had not his hand for more than
three years been against every man’s, and every man’s
hand against his? In person he was about six feet high, with
a breadth of shoulders and of chest denoting the utmost of
physical force which, perhaps, has ever been allotted to
man. His features would have been handsome had they not
been scarred with wounds; and, strange to say, his eye was
mild and of a soft blue. His mouth was well formed, and his
teeth of a pearly white: the hair of his head was crisped and
wavy, and his beard, which he wore, as did every person
composing the crew of the pirate, covered the lower part of
his face in strong, waving, and continued curls. The
proportions of his body were perfect; but from their
vastness they became almost terrific. His costume was
elegant, and well adapted to his form: linen trousers, and
untanned yellow leather boots, such as are made at the
Western Isles; a broad-striped cotton shirt; a red Cashmere
shawl round his waist as a sash; a vest embroidered in gold
tissue, with a jacket of dark velvet, and pendant gold
buttons, hanging over his left shoulder, after the fashion of
the Mediterranean seamen; a round Turkish skull-cap,
handsomely embroidered; a pair of pistols, and a long knife
in his sash, completed his attire.

The crew consisted in all of 165 men, of almost every

nation; but it was to be remarked that all those in authority
were either Englishmen or from the northern countries; the
others were chiefly Spaniards and Maltese. Still there were
Portuguese, Brazilians, negroes, and others, who made up
the complement, which at the time we now speak of was
increased by twenty-five additional hands. These were
Kroumen, a race of blacks well known at present, who
inhabit the coast near Cape Palmas, and are often employed
by our men-of-war stationed on the coast to relieve the
English seamen from duties which would be too severe to
those who were not inured to the climate. They are
powerful, athletic men, good sailors, of a happy, merry
disposition, and, unlike other Africans, will work hard. Fond
of the English, they generally speak the language
sufficiently to be understood, and are very glad to receive a
baptism when they come on board. The name first given
them they usually adhere to as long as they live; and you
will now on the coast meet with a Blucher, a Wellington, a
Nelson, etcetera, who will wring swabs, or do any other of
the meanest description of work, without feeling that it is
discreditable to sponsorials so grand.

It is not to be supposed that these men had voluntarily

come on board of the pirate; they had been employed in
some British vessels trading on the coast, and had been
taken out of them when the vessels were burnt, and the
Europeans of the crews murdered. They had received a
promise of reward, if they did their duty; but, not expecting
it, they waited for the earliest opportunity to make their
escape.

The captain of the schooner is abaft with his glass in his

hand, occasionally sweeping the offing in expectation of a
vessel heaving in sight: the officers and crew are lying
down, or lounging listlessly, about the decks, panting with
the extreme heat, and impatiently waiting for the sea-
breeze to fan their parched foreheads. With their rough
beards and exposed chests, and their weather-beaten fierce
countenances, they form a group which is terrible even in
repose.

We must now descend into the cabin of the schooner. The

fittings-up of this apartment are simple: on each side is a
standing bed-place; against the after bulkhead is a large
buffet, originally intended for glass and china, but now
loaded with silver and gold vessels of every size and
description, collected by the pirate from the different ships
which he had plundered; the lamps are also of silver, and
evidently had been intended to ornament the shrine of
some Catholic saint.
In this cabin there are two individuals, to whom we shall
now direct the reader’s attention. The one is a pleasant-
countenanced, good-humoured Krouman, who had been
christened “Pompey the Great;” most probably on account
of his large proportions. He wears a pair of duck trousers;
the rest of his body is naked, and presents a sleek, glossy
skin, covering muscle, which an anatomist or a sculptor
would have viewed with admiration. The other is a youth of
eighteen, or thereabouts, with an intelligent, handsome
countenance, evidently of European blood. There is,
however, an habitually mournful cast upon his features: he
is dressed much in the same way as we have described the
captain, but the costume hangs more gracefully upon his
slender, yet well-formed limbs. He is seated on a sofa, fixed
in the fore part of the cabin, with a book in his hand, which
occasionally he refers to, and then lifts his eyes from, to
watch the motions of the Krouman, who is busy in the office
of steward, arranging and cleaning the costly articles in the
buffet.

“Massa Francisco, dis really fine ting,” said Pompey, holding

up a splendidly embossed tankard, which he had been
rubbing.

“Yes,” replied Francisco, gravely; “it is, indeed, Pompey.”

“How Captain Cain came by dis?”

Francisco shook his head, and Pompey put his finger up to

his mouth, his eyes, full of meaning, fixed upon Francisco.

At this moment the personage referred to was heard

descending the companion-ladder. Pompey recommenced
rubbing the silver, and Francisco dropped his eyes upon the
book.
What was the tie which appeared to bind the captain to this
lad was not known; but, as the latter had always
accompanied, and lived together with him, it was generally
supposed that he was the captain’s son; and he was as
often designated by the crew as young Cain as he was by
his Christian name of Francisco. Still it was observed that
latterly they had frequently been heard in altercation, and
that the captain was very suspicious of Francisco’s
movements.

“I beg I may not interrupt your conversation,” said Cain, on

entering the cabin; “the information you may obtain from a
Krouman must be very important.”

Francisco made no reply, but appeared to be reading his

book. Cain’s eyes passed from one to the other, as if to read
their thoughts.

“Pray what were you saying, Mr Pompey?”

“Me say, Massa Captain? me only tell young Massa dis very
fine ting; ask where you get him—Massa Francisco no tell.”

“And what might it be to you, you black scoundrel?” cried

the captain, seizing the goblet, and striking the man with it
a blow on the head which flattened the vessel, and at the
same time felled the Krouman, powerful as he was, to the
deck. The blood streamed, as the man slowly rose,
stupefied and trembling from the violent concussion.
Without saying a word, he staggered out of the cabin, and
Cain threw himself on one of the lockers in front of the
standing bed-place, saying, with a bitter smile, “So much
for your intimates, Francisco!”

“Rather, so much for your cruelty and injustice towards an

unoffending man,” replied Francisco, laying his book on the
table. “His question was an innocent one,—for he knew not
the particulars connected with the obtaining of that flagon.”

“And you, I presume, do not forget them? Well, be it so,

young man; but I warn you again—as I have warned you
often—nothing but the remembrance of your mother has
prevented me, long before this, from throwing your body to
the sharks.”

“What influence my mother’s memory may have over you, I

know not; I only regret that, in any way, she had the
misfortune to be connected with you.”

“She had the influence,” replied Cain, “which a woman must

have over a man when they have for years swung in the
same cot; but that is wearing off fast. I tell you so candidly;
I will not (even) allow even her memory to check me, if I
find you continue your late course. You have shown
disaffection before the crew—you have disputed my orders
—and I have every reason to believe that you are now
plotting against me.”

“Can I do otherwise than show my abhorrence,” replied

Francisco, “when I witness such acts of horror, of cruelty—
cold-blooded cruelty, as lately have been perpetrated? Why
do you bring me here? and why do you now detain me? All I
ask is, that you will allow me to leave the vessel. You are
not my father; you have told me so.”

“No, I am not your father; but—you are your mother’s son.”

“That gives you no right to have power over me, even if you
had been married to my mother; which—”

“I was not.”
“I thank God; for marriage with you would have been even
greater disgrace.”

“What!” cried Cain, starting up, seizing the young man by

the neck, and lifting him off his seat as if he had been a
puppet; “but no—I cannot forget your mother.” Cain
released Francisco, and resumed his seat on the locker.

“As you please,” said Francisco, as soon as he had

recovered himself; “it matters little whether I am brained by
your own hand, or launched overboard as a meal for the
sharks; it will be but one more murder.”

“Mad fool! why do you tempt me thus?” replied Cain, again

starting up, and hastily quitting the cabin.

The altercation which we have just described was not

unheard on deck, as the doors of the cabin were open, and
the skylight removed to admit the air. The face of Cain was
flushed as he ascended the ladder. He perceived his chief
mate standing by the hatchway, and many of the men, who
had been slumbering abaft, with their heads raised on their
elbows, as if they had been listening to the conversation
below.

“It will never do, sir,” said Hawkhurst, the mate, shaking his
head.

“No,” replied the captain; “not if he were my own son. But

what is to be done?—he knows no fear.”

Hawkhurst pointed to the entering port.

“When I ask your advice, you may give it,” said the captain,
turning gloomily away.
In the meantime, Francisco paced the cabin in deep
thought. Young as he was, he was indifferent to death; for
he had no tie to render life precious. He remembered his
mother, but not her demise; that had been concealed from
him. At the age of seven he had sailed with Cain in a slaver,
and had ever since continued with him. Until lately, he had
been led to suppose that the captain was his father. During
the years that he had been in the slave-trade, Cain had
devoted much time to his education; it so happened that
the only book which could be found on board of the vessel,
when Cain first commenced teaching, was a Bible belonging
to Francisco’s mother. Out of this book he learned to read;
and, as his education advanced, other books were procured.
It may appear strange that the very traffic in which his
reputed father was engaged did not corrupt the boy’s mind,
but, accustomed to it from his infancy, he had considered
these negroes as another species,—an idea fully warranted
by the cruelty of the Europeans towards them.

There are some dispositions so naturally kind and

ingenuous that even example and evil contact cannot
debase them: such was the disposition of Francisco. As he
gained in years and knowledge, he thought more and more
for himself, and had already become disgusted with the
cruelties practised upon the unfortunate negroes, when the
slave-vessel was seized upon by Cain and converted into a
pirate. At first, the enormities committed had not been so
great; vessels had been seized and plundered, but life had
been spared. In the course of crime, however, the descent
is rapid: and as, from information given by those who had
been released, the schooner was more than once in danger
of being captured, latterly no lives had been spared; and
but too often the murders had been attended with deeds
even more atrocious.
Francisco had witnessed scenes of horror until his young
blood curdled: he had expostulated to save, but in vain.
Disgusted with the captain and the crew, and their deeds of
cruelty, he had latterly expressed his opinions fearlessly,
and defied the captain; for, in the heat of an altercation,
Cain had acknowledged that Francisco was not his son.

Had any of the crew or officers expressed but a tithe of

what had fallen from the bold lips of Francisco, they would
have long before paid the forfeit of their temerity; but there
was a feeling towards Francisco which could not be stifled in
the breast of Cain—it was the feeling of association and
habit. The boy had been his companion for years: and from
assuetude had become, as it were, a part of himself. There
is a principle in our nature which, even when that nature is
most debased, will never leave us—that of requiring
something to love, something to protect and watch over: it
is shown towards a dog, or any other animal, if it cannot be
lavished upon one of our own species. Such was the feeling
which so forcibly held Cain towards Francisco; such was the
feeling which had hitherto saved his life.

After having paced up and down for some time, the youth
took his seat on the locker which the captain had quitted:
his eye soon caught the head of Pompey, who looked into
the cabin and beckoned with his finger.

Francisco rose, and, taking up a flagon from the buffet

which contained some spirits, walked to the door, and,
without saying a word, handed it to the Krouman.

“Massa Francisco,” whispered Pompey, “Pompey say—all

Kroumen say—suppose they run away, you go too? Pompey
say—all Kroumen say—suppose they try to kill you? Nebber
kill you while one Krouman alive.”
The negro then gently pushed Francisco back with his hand,
as if not wishing to hear his answer, and hastened forward
on the berth deck.

Chapter Eight.

The Attack.

In the meantime, the sea-breeze had risen in the offing,

and was sweeping along the surface to where the schooner
was at anchor. The captain ordered a man to the cross-
trees, directing him to keep a good look-out, while he
walked the deck in company with his first mate.

“She may not have sailed until a day or two later,” said the
captain, continuing the conversation; “I have made
allowance for that, and, depend upon it, as she makes the
eastern passage, we must soon fall in with her; if she does
not heave in sight this evening, by daylight I shall stretch
out in the offing; I know the Portuguese well. The sea-
breeze has caught our craft: let them run up the inner jib,
and see that she does not foul her anchor.”

It was now late in the afternoon, and dinner had been sent
into the cabin; the captain descended, and took his seat at
the table with Francisco, who ate in silence. Once or twice
the captain, whose wrath had subsided, and whose kindly
feelings towards Francisco, checked for a time, had returned
with greater force, tried, but in vain, to rally him to
conversation, when “Sail ho!” was shouted from the mast-
head.

“There she is, by God!” cried the captain, jumping from, and
then, as if checking himself, immediately resuming, his
seat.
Francisco put his hand to his forehead, covering his eyes as
his elbow leant upon the table.

“A large ship, sir; we can see down to the second reef of her
topsails,” said Hawkhurst, looking down the skylight.

The captain hastily swallowed some wine from a flagon, cast

a look of scorn and anger upon Francisco, and rushed on
deck.

“Be smart, lads!” cried the captain, after a few seconds’

survey of the vessel through his glass; “that’s her: furl the
awnings, and run the anchor up to the bows: there’s more
silver in that vessel, my lads, than your chests will hold:
and the good saints of the churches at Goa will have to wait
a little longer for their gold candlesticks.”

The crew were immediately on the alert; the awnings were

furled, and all the men, stretching aft the spring cable,
walked the anchor up to the bows. In two minutes more the
Avenger was standing out on the starboard tack, shaping
her course so as to cut off the ill-fated vessel. The breeze
freshened, and the schooner darted through the smooth
water with the impetuosity of a dolphin after its prey. In an
hour the hull of the ship was plainly to be distinguished; but
the sun was near to the horizon, and before they could
ascertain what their force might be, daylight had
disappeared. Whether the schooner had been perceived or
not, it was impossible to say; at all events, the course of
the ship had not been altered, and if she had seen the
schooner, she evidently treated her with contempt. On
board the Avenger, they were not idle; the long gun in the
centre had been cleared from the incumbrances which
surrounded it, the other guns had been cast loose, shot
handed up, and everything prepared for action, with all the
energy and discipline of a man-of-war. The chase had not
been lost sight of, the eyes of the pirate-captain were fixed
upon her through a night-glass. In about an hour more the
schooner was within a mile of the ship, and now altered her
course so as to range up within a cable’s length of her to
leeward. Cain stood upon the gunwale and hailed. The
answer was in Portuguese.

“Heave to, or I’ll sink you!” replied he in the same language.

A general discharge from a broadside of carronades, and a

heavy volley of muskets from the Portuguese, was the
decided answer. The broadside, too much elevated to hit the
low hull of the schooner, was still not without effect—the
foretopmast fell, the jaws of the main-gaff were severed,
and a large proportion of the standing as well as the
running rigging came rattling down on her decks. The volley
of musketry was more fatal: thirteen of the pirates were
wounded, some of them severely.

“Well done! John Portuguese,” cried Hawkhurst: “by the holy

poker! I never gave you credit for so much pluck.”

“Which they shall dearly pay for,” was the cool reply of Cain,
as he still remained in his exposed situation.

“Blood for blood! if I drink it,” observed the second mate, as

he looked at the crimson rivulet trickling down the fingers of
his left hand from a wound in his arm—“just tie my
handkerchief round this, Bill.”

In the interim, Cain had desired his crew to elevate their

guns, and the broadside was returned.

“That will do, my lads: starboard; ease off the boom-sheet;

let her go right round, Hawkhurst,—we cannot afford to lose
our men.”
The schooner wore round, and ran astern of her opponent.

The Portuguese on board the ship, imagining that the

schooner, finding she had met with unexpected resistance,
had sheered off, gave a loud cheer.

“The last you will ever give, my fine fellows!” observed Cain,
with a sneer.

In a few moments the schooner had run a mile astern of the

ship.

“Now then, Hawkhurst, let her come too and about; man
the long gun, and see that every shot is pitched into her,
while the rest of them get up a new foretopmast, and knot
and splice the rigging.”

The schooner’s head was again turned towards the ship; her
position was right astern, about a mile distant or rather
more; the long 82-pounder gun amidships was now
regularly served, every shot passing through the cabin-
windows, or some other part of the ship’s stern, raking her
fore and aft. In vain did the ship alter her course, and
present her broadside to the schooner; the latter was
immediately checked in her speed, so as to keep the
prescribed distance at which the carronades of the ship
were useless, and the execution from the long gun decisive.
The ship was at the mercy of the pirate; and, as may be
expected, no mercy was shown. For three hours did this
murderous attack continue, when the gun, which, as before
observed, was of brass, became so heated that the pirate-
captain desired his men to discontinue. Whether the ship
had surrendered or not it was impossible to say, as it was
too dark to distinguish: while the long gun was served, the
foretop-mast and main-gaff had been shifted, and all the
standing and running rigging made good; the schooner
keeping her distance, and following in the wake of the ship
until daylight.

We must now repair on board of the ship; she was an

Indiaman; one of the very few that occasionally are sent
out by the Portuguese government to a country which once
owned their undivided sway, but in which, at present, they
hold but a few miles of territory. She was bound to Goa,
and had on board a small detachment of troops, a new
governor and his two sons, a bishop and his niece, with her
attendant. The sailing of a vessel with such a freight was a
circumstance of rare occurrence, and was, of course,
generally bruited about long before her departure. Cain
had, for some months, received all the necessary
intelligence relative to her cargo and destination; but, as
usual with the Portuguese of the present day, delay upon
delay had followed, and it was not until about three weeks
previous that he had been assured of her immediate
departure. He then ran down the coast to the bay we have
mentioned, that he might intercept her; and, as the event
had proved, showed his usual judgment and decision. The
fire of the schooner had been most destructive; many of the
Indiaman’s crew, as well as of the troops, had been mowed
down one after another; until at last, finding that all their
efforts to defend themselves were useless, most of those
who were still unhurt had consulted their safety, and
hastened down to the lowest recesses of the hold to avoid
the raking and destructive shot. At the time that the
schooner had discontinued her fire to allow the gun to cool,
there was no one on deck but the Portuguese captain and
one old weatherbeaten seaman who stood at the helm.
Below, in the orlop-deck, the remainder of the crew and the
passengers were huddled together in a small space: some
were attending to the wounded, who were numerous;
others were invoking the saints to their assistance; the
bishop, a tall, dignified person, apparently nearly sixty
years of age, was kneeling in the centre of the group, which
was dimly lighted by two or three lanterns, at one time in
fervent prayer, at another, interrupted, that he might give
absolution to those wounded men whose spirits were
departing, and who were brought down and laid before him
by their comrades. On one side of him knelt his orphan
niece, a young girl of about seventeen years of age,
watching his countenance as he prayed, or bending down
with a look of pity and tearful eyes on her expiring
countrymen, whose last moments were gladdened by his
holy offices. On the other side of the bishop, stood the
governor, Don Philip de Ribiera, and his two sons, youths in
their prime, and holding commissions in the king’s service.
There was melancholy on the brow of Don Ribiera; he was
prepared for, and he anticipated, the worst. The eldest son
had his eyes fixed upon the sweet countenance of Teresa de
Silva—that very evening, as they walked together on the
deck, had they exchanged their vows—that very evening
they had luxuriated in the present, and had dwelt with
delightful anticipation on the future. But we must leave
them and return on deck.

The captain of the Portuguese ship had walked aft, and now
went up to Antonio, the old seaman, who was standing at
the wheel.

“I still see her with the glass, Antonio, and yet she has not
fired for nearly two hours; do you think any accident has
happened to her long gun? if so, we may have some
chance.”

Antonio shook his head. “We have but little chance, I am

afraid, my captain; I knew by the ring of the gun, when she
fired it, that it was brass; indeed, no schooner could carry a
long iron gun of that calibre. Depend upon it, she only waits
for the metal to cool and daylight to return: a long gun or
two might have saved us; but now, as she has the
advantage of us in heels, we are at her mercy.”

“What can she be—a French privateer?”

“I trust it may be so; and I have promised a silver

candlestick to St. Antonio that it may prove no worse: we
then may have some chance of seeing our homes again;
but I fear not.”

“What, then, do you imagine her to be, Antonio?”

“The pirate which we have heard so much of.”

“Jesu protect us! we must then sell our lives as dearly as we

can.”

“So I intend to do, my captain,” replied Antonio, shifting the

helm a spoke.

The day broke, and showed the schooner continuing her

pursuit at the same distance astern, without any apparent
movement on board. It was not until the sun was some
degrees above the horizon that the smoke was again seen
to envelop her bows, and the shot crashed through the
timbers of the Portuguese ship. The reason for this delay
was, that the pirate waited till the sun was up to ascertain if
there were any other vessels to be seen, previous to his
pouncing on his quarry. The Portuguese captain went aft
and hoisted his ensign, but no flag was shown by the
schooner. Again whistled the ball, and again did it tear up
the decks of the unfortunate ship: many of those who had
re-ascended to ascertain what was going on, now hastily
sought their former retreat.

“Mind the helm, Antonio,” said the Portuguese captain; “I

must go down and consult with the governor.”
“Never fear, my captain; as long as these limbs hold
together, I will do my duty,” replied the old man, exhausted
as he was by long watching and fatigue.

The captain descended to the orlop-deck, where he found

the major part of the crew and passengers assembled.

“My lords,” said he, addressing the governor and the bishop,
“the schooner has not shown any colours, although our own
are hoisted. I am come down to know your pleasure.
Defence we can make none; and I fear that we are at the
mercy of a pirate.”

“A pirate!” ejaculated several, beating their breasts, and

calling upon their saints.

“Silence, my good people, silence,” quietly observed the

bishop; “as to what it may be best to do,” continued he,
turning to the captain, “I cannot advise; I am a man of
peace, and unfit to hold a place in a council of war. Don
Ribiera, I must refer the point to you and your sons.
Tremble not, my dear Teresa; are we not under the
protection of the Almighty?”

“Holy Virgin, pity us!”

“Come, my sons,” said Don Ribiera, “we will go on deck and

consult: let not any of the men follow us; it is useless
risking lives which may yet be valuable.”

Don Ribiera and his sons followed the captain to the quarter
deck, and with him and Antonio they held a consultation.

“We have but one chance,” observed the old man, after a
time: “let us haul down our colours as if in submission; they
will then range up alongside, and either board us from the
schooner, or from their boats; at all events, we shall find
out what she is, and, if a pirate, we must sell our lives as
dearly as we can. If, when we haul down the colours, she
ranges up alongside, as I expect she will, let all the men be
prepared for a desperate struggle.”

“You are right, Antonio,” replied the governor; “go aft

captain, and haul down the colours!—let us see what she
does now. Down, my boys! and prepare the men to do their
duty.”

As Antonio had predicted, so soon as the colours were

hauled down, the schooner ceased firing and made sail. She
ranged up on the quarter of the ship, and up to her main
peak soared the terrific black flag; her broadside was
poured into the Indiaman, and before the smoke had
cleared away there was a concussion from the meeting
sides, and the bearded pirates poured upon her decks.

The crew of the Portuguese, with the detachment of troops,

still formed a considerable body of men. The sight of the
black flag had struck ice into every heart, but the feeling
was resolved into one of desperation.

“Knives, men, knives!” roared Antonio, rushing on to the

attack, followed by the most brave.

“Blood for blood!” cried the second mate, aiming a blow at

the old man.

“You have it,” replied Antonio, as his knife entered the

pirate’s heart, while, at the same moment, he fell and was
himself a corpse.

The struggle was deadly, but the numbers and ferocity of

the pirates prevailed. Cain rushed forward followed by
Hawkhurst, bearing down all who opposed them. With one
blow from the pirate-captain, the head of Don Ribiera was
severed to the shoulder; a second struck down the eldest
son, while the sword of Hawkhurst passed through the body
of the other. The Portuguese captain had already fallen, and
the men no longer stood their ground. A general massacre
ensued, and the bodies were thrown overboard as fast as
the men were slaughtered. In less than five minutes there
was not a living Portuguese on the bloody decks of the ill-
fated ship.
 Chapter Nine.

The Capture.

“Pass the word for not a man to go below, Hawkhurst,” said

the pirate-captain.

“I have, sir; and sentries are stationed at the hatchways.

Shall we haul the schooner off?”

“No, let her remain; the breeze is faint already: we shall

have a calm in half an hour. Have we lost many men?”

“Only seven, that I can reckon; but we have lost Wallace,”

(the second mate).

“A little promotion will do no harm,” replied Cain; “take a

dozen of our best men and search the ship, there are others
alive yet. By-the-by, send a watch on board of the
schooner; she is left to the mercy of the Kroumen, and—”

“One who is better out of her,” replied Hawkhurst.

“And those we find below—” continued the mate.

“Alive!”

“True; we may else be puzzled where to find that portion of

her cargo which suits us,” said Hawkhurst, going down the
hatchway to collect the men who were plundering on the
main deck and in the captain’s cabin.

“Here, you Maltese! up, there! and look well round if there
is anything in sight,” said the captain, walking aft.
Before Hawkhurst had collected the men and ordered them
on board of the schooner, as usual in those latitudes, it had
fallen a perfect calm.

Where was Francisco during this scene of blood? He had

remained in the cabin of the schooner. Cain had more than
once gone down to him, to persuade him to come on deck
and assist at the boarding of the Portuguese, but in vain—
his sole reply to the threats and solicitations of the pirate
was—

“Do with me as you please—I have made up my mind—you

know I do not fear death—as long as I remain on board of
this vessel, I will take no part in your atrocities. If you do
respect my mother’s memory, suffer her son to seek an
honest and honourable livelihood.”

The words of Francisco were ringing in the ears of Cain as

he walked up and down on the quarter-deck of the
Portuguese vessel, and, debased as he was, he could not
help thinking that the youth was his equal in animal, and
his superior in mental, courage—he was arguing in his own
mind upon the course he should pursue with respect to
Francisco, when Hawkhurst made his appearance on deck,
followed by his men, who dragged up six individuals who
had escaped the massacre. These were the bishop; his
niece, a Portuguese girl; her attendant; the supercargo of
the vessel; a sacristan; and a servant of the ecclesiastic;
they were hauled along the deck and placed in a row before
the captain, who cast his eye upon them in severe scrutiny.
The bishop and his niece looked round, the one proudly
meeting the eye of Cain, although he felt that his hour was
come; the other carefully avoiding his gaze, and glancing
round to ascertain whether there were any other prisoners,
and if so, if her betrothed was amongst them; but her eye
discovered not what she sought—it was met only by the
bearded faces of the pirate-crew, and the blood which
bespattered the deck.

She covered her face with her hands.

“Bring that man forward,” said Cain, pointing to the servant.

“Who are you.”

“A servant of my lord the bishop.”

“And you?” continued the captain.

“A poor sacristan attending upon my lord the bishop.”

“And you?” cried he to a third.

“The supercargo of this vessel.”

“Put him aside, Hawkhurst!”

“Do you want the others?” inquired Hawkhurst significantly.

“No.”

Hawkhurst gave a signal to some of the pirates, who led

away the sacristan and the servant. A stifled shriek and a
heavy plunge in the water were heard a few seconds after.
During this time the pirate had been questioning the
supercargo as to the contents of the vessel, and her
stowage, when he was suddenly interrupted by one of the
pirates, who in a hurried voice, stated that the ship had
received several shot between wind and water, and was
sinking fast. Cain, who was standing on the side of the
carronade with his sword in his hand, raised his arm and
struck the pirate a blow on the head with the hilt, which,
whether intended or not, fractured his skull, and the man
fell upon the deck.
“Take that, babbler! for your intelligence; if these men are
obstinate, we may have worked for nothing.”

The crew, who felt the truth of their captain’s remark, did
not appear to object to the punishment inflicted, and the
body of the man was dragged away.

“What mercy can we expect from those who show no mercy

even to each other?” observed the bishop, lifting his eyes to
heaven.

“Silence!” cried Cain, who now interrogated the supercargo

as to the contents of the hold—the poor man answered as
well as he could—“the plate! the money for the troops—
where are they?”

“The money for the troops is in the spirit-room, but of the

plate I know nothing; it is in some of the cases belonging to
my lord the bishop.”

“Hawkhurst! down at once into the spirit-room, and see to

the money; in the mean time I will ask a few questions of
this reverend father.”

“And the supercargo—do you want him any more?”

“No; he may go.”

The poor man fell down on his knees in thankfulness at

what he considered his escape: he was dragged away by
the pirates, and, it is scarcely necessary to add that in a
minute his body was torn to pieces by the sharks, who,
scenting their prey from a distance, were now playing in
shoals around the two vessels.

The party on the quarter-deck were now (unperceived by

the captain) joined by Francisco, who, hearing from the
Krouman, Pompey, that there were prisoners still on board,
and amongst them two females, had come over to plead the
cause of mercy.

“Most reverend father,” observed Cain, after a short pause,

“you have many articles of value in this vessel?”

“None,” replied the bishop, “except this poor girl; she is,
indeed, beyond price, and will, I trust, soon be an angel in
heaven.”

“Yet is this world, if what you preach be true, a purgatory

which must be passed through previous to arriving there,
and that girl may think death a blessing compared to what
she may expect if you refuse to tell me what I would know.
You have good store of gold and silver ornaments for your
churches—where are they?”

“They are among the packages intrusted to my care.”

“How many may you have in all?”

“A hundred, if not more.”

“Will you deign to inform me where I may find what I

require?”

“The gold and silver are not mine, but are the property of
that God to whom they have been dedicated,” replied the
bishop.

“Answer quickly; no more subterfuge, good sir. Where is it

to be found?”

“I will not tell, thou blood-stained man; at least; in this

instance, there shall be disappointment, and the sea shall
swallow up those earthly treasures to obtain which thou
hast so deeply imbrued thy hands. Pirate! I repeat it, I will
not tell.”

“Seize that girl, my lads!” cried Cain; “she is yours, do with

her as you please.”

“Save me! oh, save me!” shrieked Teresa, clinging to the

bishop’s robe.

The pirates advanced and laid hold of Teresa. Francisco

bounded from where he stood behind the captain, and
dashed away the foremost.

“Are you men?” cried he, as the pirates retreated. “Holy sir,
I honour you. Alas! I cannot save you,” continued Francisco,
mournfully. “Yet will I try. On my knees—by the love you
bore my mother—by the affection you once bore me—do
not commit this horrid deed. My lads!” continued Francisco,
appealing to the pirates, “join with me and entreat your
captain; ye are too brave, too manly, to injure the helpless
and the innocent—above all, to shed the blood of a holy
man, and of this poor trembling maiden.”

There was a pause—even the pirates appeared to side with

Francisco, though none of them dared to speak. The
muscles of the captain’s face quivered with emotion, but
from what source could not be ascertained.

At this moment the interest of the scene was heightened.

The girl who attended upon Teresa, crouched on her knees
with terror, had been casting her fearful eyes upon the men
who composed the pirate-crew; suddenly she uttered a
scream of delight as she discovered among them one that
she well knew. He was a young man, about twenty-five
years of age, with little or no beard. He had been her lover
in his more innocent days; and she, for more than a year,
had mourned him as dead, for the vessel in which he sailed
had never been heard of. It had been taken by the pirate,
and, to save his life, he had joined the crew.

“Filippo! Filippo!” screamed the girl, rushing into his arms.

“Mistress! it is Filippo; and we are safe.”

Filippo instantly recognised her: the sight of her brought

back to his memory his days of happiness and of innocence;
and the lovers were clasped in each other’s arms.

“Save them! spare them!—by the spirit of my mother! I

charge you,” repeated Francisco, again appealing to the
captain.

“May God bless thee, thou good young man!” said the
bishop, advancing and placing his hand upon Francisco’s
head.

Cain answered not; but his broad expanded chest heaved

with emotion—when Hawkhurst burst into the group.

“We are too late for the money, captain: the water is
already six feet above it. We must now try for the treasure.”

This intelligence appeared to check the current of the

captain’s feelings.

“Now, in one word, sir,” said he to the bishop, “where is the

treasure? Trifle not, or, by Heaven—!”

“Name not Heaven,” replied the bishop; “you have had my

answer.”

The captain turned away, and gave some directions to

Hawkhurst, who hastened below.
“Remove that boy,” said Cain to the pirates, pointing to
Francisco, “Separate those two fools,” continued he, looking
towards Filippo and the girl, who were sobbing in each
other’s arms.

“Never!” cried Filippo.

“Throw the girl to the sharks! Do you hear? Am I to be

obeyed?” cried Cain, raising his cutlass.

Filippo started up, disengaged himself from the girl, and,

drawing his knife, rushed towards the captain to plunge it in
his bosom.

With the quickness of lightning the captain caught his

uplifted hand, and, breaking his wrist, hurled him to the
deck.

“Indeed!” cried he, with a sneer.

“You shall not separate us,” said Filippo, attempting to rise.

“I do not intend it, my good lad,” replied Cain. “Lash them

both together and launch them overboard.”

This order was obeyed: for the pirates not only quailed
before the captain’s cool courage, but were indignant that
his life had been attempted. There was little occasion to tie
the unhappy pair together; they were locked so fast in each
other’s arms that it would have been impossible almost to
separate them. In this state they were carried to the
entering-port, and cast into the sea.

“Monster!” cried the bishop, as he heard the splash, “thou

wilt have a heavy reckoning for this.”

“Now bring these forward,” said Cain, with a savage voice.

The bishop and his niece were led to the gangway.

“What dost thou see, good bishop?” said Cain pointing to

the discoloured water, and the rapid motion of the fins of
the sharks, eager in the anticipation of a further supply.

“I see ravenous creatures after their kind,” replied the

bishop, “who will, in all probability, soon tear asunder those
poor limbs; but I see no monster like thyself. Teresa,
dearest, fear not; there is a God, an avenging God; as well
as a rewarding one.”

But Teresa’s eyes were closed—she could not look upon the
scene.

“You have your choice; first torture, and then your body to
those sharks for your own portion: and as for the girl, this
moment I hand her over to my crew.”

“Never!” shrieked Teresa, springing from the deck and

plunging into the wave.

There was a splash of contention, the lashing of tails, until

the water was in a foam, and then the dark colour gradually
cleared away, and nought was to be seen, but the pure blue
wave and the still unsatisfied monsters of the deep.

“The screws—the screws! quick! we’ll have the secret from

him,” cried the pirate-captain, turning to his crew, who,
villains as they were, had been shocked at this last
catastrophe. “Seize him!”

“Touch him not!” cried Francisco, standing on the hammock-

netting; “touch him not! if you are men.”

Boiling with rage, Cain let go the arm of the bishop, drew
his pistol, and levelled it at Francisco. The bishop threw up
the arm of Cain as he fired; saw that he had missed his
aim, and clasping his hands, raised his eyes to heaven in
thankfulness at Francisco’s escape. In this position he was
collared by Hawkhurst, whose anger overcame his
discretion, and who hurled him through the entering-port
into the sea.

“Officious fool!” muttered Cain, when he perceived what the

mate had done. Then, recollecting himself, he cried,—“Seize
that boy and bring him here.”

One or two of the crew advanced to obey his orders; but

Pompey and the Kroumen, who had been attentive to what
was going on, had collected round Francisco, and a scuffle
ensued. The pirates, not being very determined, nor very
anxious to take Francisco, allowed him to be hurried away
in the centre of the Kroumen, who bore him safely to the
schooner.

In the meantime Hawkhurst, and the major part of the men

on board of the ship, had been tearing up the hold to obtain
the valuables, but without success. The water had now
reached above the orlop-deck, and all further attempts were
unavailing. The ship was settling fast, and it became
necessary to quit her, and haul off the schooner; that she
might not be endangered by the vortex of the sinking
vessel. Cain and Hawkhurst, with their disappointed crew,
returned on board the schooner, and before they had
succeeded in detaching the two vessels a cable’s length the
ship went down with all the treasure so coveted. The
indignation and rage which were expressed by the captain
as he rapidly walked the deck in company with his first
mate—his violent gesticulation—proved to the crew that
there was mischief brewing. Francisco did not return to the
cabin; he remained forward with the Kroumen, who,
although but a small portion of the ship’s company, were
known to be resolute and not to be despised. It was also
observed that all of them had supplied themselves with
arms, and were collected forward, huddled together,
watching every motion and manoeuvre, and talking rapidly
in their own language. The schooner was now steered to the
north-westward under all press of sail. The sun again
disappeared, but Francisco returned not to the cabin—he
went below, surrounded by the Kroumen, who appeared to
have devoted themselves to his protection. Once during the
night Hawkhurst summoned them on deck, but they obeyed
not the order; and to the expostulation of the boatswain’s
mate, who came down, they made no reply. But there were
many of the pirates in the schooner who appeared to
coincide with the Kroumen in their regard for Francisco.
There are shades of villainy in the most profligate of
societies; and among the pirate’s crew some were not yet
wholly debased. The foul murder of a holy man—the cruel
fate of the beautiful Teresa—and the barbarous conduct of
the captain towards Filippo and his mistress, were deeds of
an atrocity to which even the most hardened were
unaccustomed. Francisco’s pleadings in behalf of mercy
were at least no crime; and yet they considered that
Francisco was doomed. He was a general favourite; the
worst-disposed of the pirates, with the exception of
Hawkhurst, if they did not love him, could not forbear
respecting him; although at the same time they felt that if
Francisco remained on board the power even of Cain
himself would soon be destroyed. For many months
Hawkhurst, who detested the youth, had been most earnest
that he should be sent out of the schooner. Now he pressed
the captain for his removal in any way, as necessary for
their mutual safety, pointing out to Cain the conduct of the
Kroumen, and his fears that a large proportion of the ship’s
company were equally disaffected. Cain felt the truth of
Hawkhurst’s representation, and he went down to his cabin
to consider upon what should be done.
It was past midnight, when Cain, worn out with the
conflicting passions of the day, fell into an uneasy slumber.
His dreams were of Francisco’s mother—she appeared to
him pleading for her son, and Cain “babbled in his sleep.” At
this time Francisco, with Pompey, had softly crawled aft,
that they might obtain, if they found the captain asleep, the
pistols of Francisco, with some ammunition. Pompey slipped
in first, and started back when he heard the captain’s voice.
They remained at the cabin-door listening. “No, no,”
murmured Cain, “he must die—useless—plead not, woman!
—I know I murdered thee—plead not, he dies!”

In one of the sockets of the silver lamp there was a lighted

wick, the rays of which were sufficient to afford a dim view
of the cabin. Francisco, overhearing the words of Cain,
stepped in, and walked up to the side of the bed. “Boy!
plead not,” continued Cain, lying on his back and breathing
heavily—“plead not—woman!—to-morrow he dies.” A pause
ensued, as if the sleeping man was listening to a reply.
“Yes, as I murdered thee, so will I murder him.”

“Wretch!” said Francisco, in a low, solemn voice, “didst thou

kill my mother?”

“I did—I did!” responded Cain, still sleeping.

“And why?” continued Francisco, who at this

acknowledgment on the part of the sleeping captain was
careless of discovery.

“In my mood she vexed me,” answered Cain.

“Fiend; thou hast then confessed it!” cried Francisco in a

loud voice, which awoke the captain, who started up; but
before his senses were well recovered, or his eyes open so
as to distinguish their forms, Pompey struck out the light,
and all was darkness; he then put his hand to Francisco’s
mouth, and led him out of the cabin.

“Who’s there?—who’s there?” cried Cain.

The officer in charge of the deck hastened down. “Did you

call, sir?”

“Call!” repeated the captain. “I thought there was some one

in the cabin. I want a light—that’s all,” continued he,
recovering himself, as he wiped the cold perspiration from
his forehead.

In the meantime Francisco, with Pompey, had gained his

former place of refuge with the Kroumen. The feelings of
the young man changed from agony to revenge; his object
in returning to the cabin to recover his weapons had been
frustrated, but his determination now was to take the life of
the captain if he possibly could. The following morning the
Kroumen again refused to work or go on deck; and the
state of affairs was reported by Hawkhurst to his chief. The
mate now assumed another tone: for he had sounded not
the majority but the most steady and influential men on
board, who, like himself, were veterans in crime.

“It must be, sir; or you will no longer command this vessel.
I am desired to say so.”

“Indeed!” replied Cain, with a sneer. “Perhaps you have

already chosen my successor?”

Hawkhurst perceived that he had lost ground, and he

changed his manner. “I speak but for yourself: if you do not
command this vessel I shall not remain in her: if you quit
her, I quit also; and we must find another.”

Cain was pacified, and the subject was not renewed.

“Turn the hands up,” at last said the captain. The pirate-
crew assembled aft.

“My lads, I am sorry that our laws oblige me to make an

example; but mutiny and disaffection must be punished. I
am equally bound as yourselves by the laws which we have
laid down for our guidance while we sail together; and you
may believe that in doing my duty in this instance I am
guided by a sense of justice, and wish to prove to you that I
am worthy to command. Francisco has been with me since
he was a child; he has lived with me, and it is painful to
part with him: but I am here to see that our laws are put in
force. He has been guilty of repeated mutiny and contempt,
and—he must die.”

“Death! death!” cried several of the pirates in advance:

“death and justice!”

“No more murder!” said several voices from behind.

“Who’s that that speaks?”

“Too much murder yesterday—no more murder!” shouted

several voices at once.

“Let the men come forward who speak,” cried Cain with a
withering look. No one obeyed this order. “Down, then, my
men! and bring up Francisco.”

The whole of the pirate-crew hastened below, but with

different intentions. Some were determined to seize
Francisco, and hand him over to death—others to protect
him. A confused noise was heard—the shouts of “Down and
seize him!” opposed to those of “No murder! No murder!”

Both parties had snatched up their arms; those who sided

with Francisco joined the Kroumen, whilst the others also
hastened below to bring him on deck. A slight scuffle
ensued before they separated, and ascertained by the
separation the strength of the contending parties. Francisco,
perceiving that he was joined by a large body, desired his
men to follow him, went up the fore-ladder, and took
possession of the forecastle. The pirates on his side supplied
him with arms, and Francisco stood forward in advance.
Hawkhurst, and those of the crew who sided with him, had
retreated to the quarter-deck, and rallied round the captain,
who leaned against the capstern. They were then able to
estimate their comparative strength. The number, on the
whole, preponderated in favour of Francisco; but on the
captain’s side were the older and more athletic of the crew,
and, we may add, the more determined. Still, the captain
and Hawkhurst perceived the danger of their situation, and
it was thought advisable to parley for the present, and
wreak their vengeance hereafter. For a few minutes there
was a low consultation between both parties; at last Cain
advanced.

“My lads,” said he, addressing those who had rallied round
Francisco, “I little thought that a fire-brand would have
been cast in this vessel to set us all at variance. It was my
duty, as your captain, to propose that our laws should be
enforced. Tell me now what is it that you wish. I am only
here as your captain, and to take the sense of the whole
crew. I have no animosity against that lad: I have loved him
—I have cherished him; but like a viper, he has stung me in
return. Instead of being in arms against each other, ought
we not to be united? I have, therefore, one proposal to
make to you, which is this: let the sentence go by vote, or
ballot, if you please; and whatever the sentence may be, I
shall be guided by it. Can I say more?”

“My lads,” replied Francisco, when the captain had done

speaking, “I think it better that you should accept this
proposal rather than that blood should be shed. My life is of
little consequence; say, then, will you agree to the vote,
and submit to those laws, which, as the captain says, have
been laid down to regulate the discipline of the vessel?”

The pirates on Francisco’s side looked round among their

party, and, perceiving that they were the most numerous,
consented to the proposal; but Hawkhurst stepped forward
and observed: “Of course the Kroumen can have no votes,
as they do not belong to the vessel.”

This objection was important, as they amounted to twenty-

five, and, after that number was deducted, in all probability,
Francisco’s adherents would have been in the minority. The
pirates, with Francisco, objected, and again assumed the
attitude of defence.

“One moment,” said Francisco, stepping in advance; “before

this point is settled, I wish to take the sense of all of you as
to another of your laws. I ask you, Hawkhurst, and all who
are now opposed to me, whether you have not one law,
which is Blood for blood?”

“Yes—yes,” shouted all the pirates.

“Then let your captain stand forward, and answer to my

charge, if he dares.”

Cain curled his lip in derision, and walked within two yards
of Francisco.

“Well, boy, I’m here; and what is your charge?”

“First—I ask you, Captain Cain, who are so anxious that the
laws should be enforced, whether you acknowledge that
‘Blood for blood’ is a just law?”
“Most just: and, when shed, the party who revenges is not
amenable.”

“’Tis well: then villain that thou art, answer—Didst thou not
murder my mother?”

Cain, at this accusation, started.

“Answer the truth, or lie like a recreant!” repeated

Francisco. “Did you not murder my mother?”

The captain’s lips and the muscles of his face quivered, but
he did not reply.

“Blood for blood!” cried Francisco, as he fired his pistol at

Cain, who staggered, and fell on the deck.

Hawkhurst and several of the pirates hastened to the

captain, and raised him.

“She must have told him last night,” said Cain, speaking
with difficulty, as the blood flowed from the wound.

“He told me so himself,” said Francisco, turning round to

those who stood by him.

Cain was taken down into the cabin. On examination, his

wound was not mortal, although his loss of blood had been
rapid and very great. In a few minutes Hawkhurst joined
the party on the quarter deck. He found that the tide had
turned more in Francisco’s favour than he had expected;
the law of “Blood for blood” was held most sacred: indeed,
it was but the knowledge that it was solemnly recognised,
and that, if one pirate wounded another, the other was at
liberty to take his life, without punishment, which prevented
constant affrays between parties, whose knives would
otherwise have been the answer to every affront. It was a
more debased law of duelling, which kept such profligate
associates on good terms. Finding, therefore, that this
feeling predominated, even among those who were opposed
to Francisco on the other question, Hawkhurst thought it
advisable to parley.

“Hawkhurst,” said Francisco, “I have but one request to

make, which, if complied with, will put an end to this
contention; it is, that you will put me on shore at the first
land that we make. If you and your party engage to do this,
I will desire those who support me to return to their
obedience.”

“I grant it,” replied Hawkhurst; “and so will the others. Will

you not, my men?”

“Agreed—agreed upon all sides,” cried the pirates, throwing

away their weapons, and mingling with each other, as if
they had never been opposed.

There is an old saying, that there is honour amongst

thieves; and so it often proves. Every man in the vessel
knew that this agreement would be strictly adhered to; and
Francisco now walked the deck with as much composure as
if nothing had occurred.

Hawkhurst, who was aware that he must fulfil his promise,

carefully examined the charts when he went down below,
came up and altered the course of the schooner two points
more to the northward. The next morning he was up at the
mast-head nearly half an hour, when he descended, and
again altered the course. By nine o’clock a low sandy island
appeared on the lee bow; when within half a mile of it, he
ordered the schooner to be hove to, and lowered down the
small boat from the stern. He then turned the hands up.
“My lads, we must keep our promise, to put Francisco on
shore at the first land which we made. There it is!” And a
malicious smile played on the miscreant’s features as he
pointed out to them the barren sand-bank, which promised
nothing but starvation and a lingering death. Several of the
crew murmured; but Hawkhurst was supported by his own
party, and had, moreover, taken the precaution quietly to
remove all the arms, with the exception of those with which
his adherents were provided.

“An agreement is an agreement; it is what he requested

himself, and we promised to perform. Send for Francisco.”

“I am here, Hawkhurst; and I tell you candidly, that,

desolate as is that barren spot, I prefer it to remaining in
your company. I will bring my chest up immediately.”

“No—no; that was not a part of the agreement,” cried

Hawkhurst.

“Every man here has a right to his own property: I appeal

to the whole of the crew.”

“True—true,” replied the pirates; and Hawkhurst found

himself again in the minority.

“Be it so.”

The chest of Francisco was handed into the boat.

“Is that all?” cried Hawkhurst.

“My lads, am I to have no provisions or water?” inquired

Francisco.

“No,” replied Hawkhurst.

“Yes—yes,” cried most of the pirates.

Hawkhurst did not dare put it to the vote; he turned sulkily
away. The Kroumen brought up two breakers of water, and
some pieces of pork.

“Here, massa,” said Pompey, putting into Francisco’s hand a

fishing-line with hooks.

“Thank you, Pompey; but I had forgot—that book in the

cabin—you know which I mean.”

Pompey nodded his head, and went below; but it was some
time before he returned, during which Hawkhurst became
impatient. It was a very small boat which had been lowered
down; it had a lug-sail and two pair of sculls in it, and was
quite full when Francisco’s chest and the other articles had
been put in.

“Come! I have no time to wait,” said Hawkhurst; “in the

boat!”

Francisco shook hands with many of the crew, and wished

all of them farewell. Indeed, now that they beheld the poor
lad about to be cast on the desolate island, even those most
opposed to him felt some emotions of pity. Although they
acknowledged that his absence was necessary, yet they
knew his determined courage; and with them that quality
was always a strong appeal.

“Who will row this lad ashore, and bring the boat off?”

“Not I,” replied one; “it would haunt me ever afterwards.”

So they all appeared to think, for no one volunteered.

Francisco jumped into the boat.

“There is no room for any one but me; and I will row myself
on shore,” cried he. “Farewell, my lads! farewell!”
“Stop? not so; he must not have the boat—he may escape
from the island,” cried Hawkhurst.

“And why shouldn’t he, poor fellow?” replied the men. “Let
him have the boat.”

“Yes—yes, let him have the boat;” and Hawkhurst was again
overruled.

“Here, Massa Francisco—here de book.”

“What’s that, sir?” cried Hawkhurst, snatching the book out

of Pompey’s hand.

“Him, massa, Bible.” Francisco waited for the book.

“Shove off!” cried Hawkhurst.

“Give me my book, Mr Hawkhurst!”

“No!” replied the malignant rascal, tossing the Bible over

the taffrail; “he shall not have that. I’ve heard say that
there is consolation in it for the afflicted.”

Francisco shoved off his boat, and seizing his sculls, pushed
astern, picked up the book, which still floated, and laid it to
dry on the after-thwart of the boat. He then pulled in for the
shore. In the meantime the schooner had let draw her fore-
sheet, and had already left him a quarter of a mile astern.
Before Francisco had gained the sand-bank she was hull-
down to the northward.

Chapter Ten.

The Sand-Bank.
The first half hour that Francisco was on this desolate spot
he watched the receding schooner: his thoughts were
unconnected and vague. Wandering through the various
scenes which had passed on the decks of that vessel, and
recalling to his memory the different characters of those on
board of her, much as he had longed to quit her—disgusted
as he had been with those with whom he had been forced
to associate—still, as her sails grew fainter and fainter to his
view, as she increased her distance, he more than once felt
that even remaining on board of her would have been
preferable to his present deserted lot. “No, no!” exclaimed
he, after a little further reflection, “I had rather perish here,
than continue to witness the scenes which I have been
forced to behold.”

He once more fixed his eyes upon her white sails, and then
sat down on the loose sand, and remained in deep and
melancholy reverie until the scorching heat reminded him of
his situation; he afterwards rose and turned his thoughts
upon his present situation, and to what would be the
measures most advisable to take. He hauled his little boat
still farther on the beach, and attached the painter to one of
the oars, which he fixed deep in the sand; he then
proceeded to survey the bank, and found that but a small
portion was uncovered at high water; for trifling as was the
rise of the tide, the bank was so low that the water flowed
almost over it. The most elevated part was not more than
fifteen feet above high-water mark, and that was a small
knoll of about fifty feet in circumference.

To this part he resolved to remove his effects: he returned

to the boat, and having lifted out his chest, the water, the
provisions, with the other articles which he had obtained, he
dragged them up, one by one, until they were all collected
at the spot he had chosen. He then took out of the boat the
oars and little sail, which, fortunately, had remained in her.
His last object, to haul the little boat up to the same spot,
was one which demanded all his exertion; but, after
considerable fatigue, he contrived, by first lifting round her
bow, and then her stern, to effect his object.

Tired and exhausted, he then repaired to one of the

breakers of water and refreshed himself. The heat, as the
day advanced, had become intolerable; but it stimulated
him to fresh exertion. He turned over the boat, and
contrived that the bow and stern should rest upon two little
hillocks, so as to raise it above the level of the sand
beneath it two or three feet; he spread out the sail from the
keel above, with the thole-pins as pegs, so as to keep off
the rays of the sun. Dragging the breakers of water and the
provisions underneath the boat, he left his chest outside;
and having thus formed for himself a sort of covering which
would protect him from the heat of the day and the damp of
the night, he crept in, to shelter himself until the evening.

Although Francisco had not been on deck, he knew pretty

well whereabouts he then was. Taking out a chart from his
chest, he examined the coast to ascertain the probable
distance which he might be from any prospect of succour.
He calculated that he was on one of a patch of sand-banks
off the coast of Loango, and about seven hundred miles
from the Isle of St. Thomas—the nearest place where he
might expect to fall in with a European face. From the coast
he felt certain that he could not be more than forty or fifty
miles at the most; but could he trust himself among the
savage natives who inhabited it? He knew how ill they had
been treated by Europeans; for at that period, it was quite
as common for the slave-trader to land and take away the
inhabitants as slaves by force, as to purchase them in the
more northern territories: still, he might be fortunate
enough to fall in with some trader on the coast, as there
were a few who still carried on a barter for gold-dust and
ivory.

We do not know—we cannot conceive a situation much

more deplorable than the one we have just described to
have been that of Francisco. Alone—without a chance of
assistance—with only a sufficiency of food for a few days,
and cut off from the rest of his fellow-creatures, with only
so much terra firma as would prevent his being swallowed
up by the vast, unfathomable ocean, into which the horizon
fell on every side around him! And his chance of escape
how small! Hundreds of miles from any from whom he
might expect assistance, and the only means of reaching
them a small boat—a mere cockleshell, which the first
rough gale would inevitably destroy.

Such, indeed, were the first thoughts of Francisco; but he

soon recovered from his despondency. He was young,
courageous, and buoyant with hope; and there is a feeling
of pride—of trust in our own resources and exertions, which
increases and stimulates us in proportion to our danger and
difficulty; it is the daring of the soul, proving its celestial
origin and eternal duration.

So intense was the heat that Francisco almost panted for

sufficient air to support life, as he lay under the shade of
the boat during the whole of that day; not a breath of wind
disturbed the glassy wave—all nature appeared hushed into
one horrible calm. It was not until the shades of night were
covering the solitude that Francisco ventured forth from his
retreat; but he found little relief; there was an unnatural
closeness in the air—a suffocation unusual even in those
climes. Francisco cast his eyes up to the vault of heaven,
and was astonished to find that there were no stars visible
—a grey mist covered the whole firmament. He directed his
view downwards to the horizon, and that, too, was not to be
defined; there was a dark bank all around it. He walked to
the edge of the sand-bank; there was not even a ripple—
the wide ocean appeared to be in a trance, in a state of
lethargy or stupor.

He parted the hair from his feverish brow, and once more
surveying the horrible, lifeless, stagnant waste, his soul
sickened, and he cast himself upon the sand. There he lay
for many hours in a state bordering upon wild despair. At
last he recovered himself, and, rising to his knees, he
prayed for strength and submission to the will of Heaven.

When he was once more upon his feet, and had again
scanned the ocean, he perceived that there was a change
rapidly approaching. The dark bank on the horizon had now
risen higher up; the opaqueness was everywhere more
dense; and low murmurs were heard, as if there was wind
stirring aloft, although the sea was still glassy as a lake.
Signs of some movement about to take place were evident,
and the solitary youth watched and watched. And now the
sounds increased, and here and there a wild thread of air—
whence coming, who could tell? and as rapidly disappearing
—would ruffle, for a second, a portion of the stagnant sea.
Then came whizzing sounds and moans, and then the
rumbling noise of distant thunder—loud and louder yet—still
louder—a broad black line is seen sweeping along the
expanse of water—fearful in its rapidity it comes!—and the
hurricane burst, at once and with all its force, and all its
terrific sounds, upon the isolated Francisco.

The first blast was so powerful and so unexpected that it

threw him down, and prudence dictated to him to remain in
that position, for the loose sand was swept off and whirled
in such force as to blind and prevent his seeing a foot from
him; he would have crawled to the boat for security, but he
knew not in which direction to proceed. But this did not
last; for now the water was borne up upon the strong wings
of the hurricane, and the sand was rendered firm by its
saturation with the element.

Francisco felt that he was drenched, and he raised his head.

All he could discover was, that the firmament was mantled
with darkness, horrible from its intensity, and that the sea
was in one extended foam—boiling everywhere, and white
as milk—but still smooth, as if the power of the wind had
compelled it to be so; but the water had encroached, and
one half the sand-bank was covered with it, while over the
other the foam whirled, each portion chasing the other with
wild rapidity.

And now the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain,
mingled with the spray caught up by the hurricane, was
dashed and hurled upon the forlorn youth, who still lay
where he had been first thrown down. But of a sudden, a
wash of water told him that he could remain there no
longer: the sea was rising—rising fast; and before he could
gain a few paces on his hands and knees, another wave, as
if it chased him in its wrath, repeated the warning of his
extreme danger, and he was obliged to rise on his feet and
hasten to the high part of the sand-bank, where he had
drawn up his boat and his provisions.

Blinded as he was by the rain and spray, he could

distinguish nothing. Of a sudden, he fell violently; he had
stumbled over one of the breakers of water, and his head
struck against a sea-chest. Where, then, was the boat? It
was gone!—it must have been swept away by the fury of
the wind. Alas, then, all chance was over! and, if not
washed away by the angry waters, he had but to prolong
his existence but a few days, and then to die. The effect of
the blow he had received on his forehead, with the shock of
mind occasioned by the disappearance of the boat,
overpowered him, and he remained for some time in a state
of insensibility.

When Francisco recovered, the scene was again changed:

the wide expanse was now in a state of wild and fearful
commotion, and the water roared as loud as did the
hurricane. The whole sand-bank, with the exception of that
part on which he stood, was now covered with tumultuous
foam, and his place of refuge was occasionally invaded,
when some vast mass, o’erlording the other waves,
expended all its fury, even to his feet. Francisco prepared to
die!

But gradually the darkness of the heavens disappeared, and

there was no longer a bank upon the horizon, and Francisco
hoped—alas! hoped what?—that he might be saved from
the present impending death to be reserved for one still
more horrible; to be saved from the fury of the waves,
which would swallow him up, and in a few seconds remove
him from all pain and suffering, to perish for want of
sustenance under a burning sun; to be withered—to be
parched to death—calling in his agony for water; and as
Francisco thought of this he covered his face with his hands,
and prayed, “Oh, God, thy will be done! but in thy mercy,
raise, still higher raise the waters!”

But the waters did not rise higher. The howling of the wind
gradually decreased, and the foaming seas had obeyed the
Divine injunction—they had gone so far, but no farther! And
the day dawned, and the sky cleared: and the first red tints,
announcing the return of light and heat, had appeared on
the broken horizon, when the eyes of the despairing youth
were directed to a black mass on the tumultuous waters. It
was a vessel, with but one mast standing, rolling heavily,
and running before the gale right on for the sand-bank
where he stood; her hull, one moment borne aloft and the
next disappearing from his view in the hollow of the
agitated waters. “She will be dashed to pieces!” thought
Francisco; “she will be lost!—they cannot see the bank!”
And he would have made a signal to her, if he had been
able, to warn her of her danger, forgetting at the time his
own desolate situation.

As Francisco watched, the sun rose, bright and joyous over

this scene of anxiety and pain. On came the vessel, flying
before the gale, while the seas chased her as if they would
fain overwhelm her. It was fearful to see her scud—
agonising to know that she was rushing to destruction.

At last he could distinguish those on board. He waved his

hand, but they perceived him not; he shouted, but his voice
was borne away by the gale. On came the vessel, as if
doomed. She was within two cables’ length of the bank
when those on board perceived their danger. It was too
late!—they had rounded her to—another, and another wave
hurled her towards the sand. She struck!—her only
remaining mast fell over the side, and the roaring waves
hastened to complete their work of destruction and of
death!

Chapter Eleven.

The Escape.

Francisco’s eyes were fixed upon the vessel, over which the
sea now broke with terrific violence. There appeared to be
about eight or nine men on her deck, who sheltered
themselves under the weather bulwarks. Each wave, as it
broke against her side and then dashed in foam over her,
threw her, with a convulsive jerk, still further on the sand-
bank. At last she was so high up that their fury was partly
spent before they dashed against her frame. Had the vessel
been strong and well built—had she been a collier coasting
the English shores—there was a fair chance that she might
have withstood the fury of the storm until it had subsided,
and that by remaining on board, the crew might have
survived: but she was of a very different mould, and, as
Francisco justly surmised, an American brig, built for swift
sailing, very sharp, and, moreover, very slightly put
together.

Francisco’s eyes, as may easily be supposed, were never

removed from the only object which could now interest him
—the unexpected appearance and imminent danger of his
fellow-creatures at this desolate spot. He perceived that two
of the men went to the hatches, and slid them over to
leeward: they then descended, and although the seas broke
over the vessel, and a large quantity of water must have
poured into her, the hatches were not put on again by those
who remained on deck. But in a few minutes this mystery
was solved; one after another, at first, and then by dozens,
poured forth, out of the hold, the kidnapped Africans who
composed her cargo. In a short time the decks were
covered with them: the poor creatures had been released
by the humanity of two English sailors, that they might
have the same chance with themselves of saving their lives.
Still, no attempt was made to quit the vessel. Huddled
together, like a flock of sheep, with the wild waves breaking
over them, there they all remained, both European and
African; and as the heavy blows of the seas upon the sides
of the vessel careened and shook her, they were seen to
cling, in every direction, with no distinction between the
captured and their oppressors.

But this scene was soon changed; the frame of the vessel
could no longer withstand the violence of the waves, and as
Francisco watched, of a sudden it was seen to divide a-
midships, and each portion to turn over. Then was the
struggle for life; hundreds were floating on the raging
element, and wrestling for existence, and the white foam of
the ocean was dotted by the black heads of the negroes
who attempted to gain the bank. It was an awful, terrible
scene, to witness so many at one moment tossed and
dashed about by the waves—so many fellow-beings
threatened with eternity. At one moment they were close to
the beach, forced on to it by some tremendous wave; at the
next, the receding water and the undertow swept them all
back; and of the many who had been swimming one half
had disappeared to rise no more. Francisco watched with
agony as he perceived that the number decreased, and that
none had yet gained the shore. At last he snatched up the
haulyards of his boat’s sail which were near him, and
hastened down to the spot to afford such succour as might
be possible; nor were his efforts in vain. As the seas
washed the apparently inanimate bodies on shore, and
would then have again swept them away to return them in
mockery, he caught hold of them and dragged them safe on
the bank, and thus did he continue his exertions until fifteen
of the bodies of the negroes were spread upon the beach.
Although exhausted and senseless, they were not dead, and
long before he had dragged up the last of the number, many
of those previously saved had, without any other assistance
than the heat of the sun, recovered from their insensibility.

Francisco would have continued his task of humanity, but

the parted vessel had now been riven into fragments by the
force of the waves, and the whole beach was strewed with
her timbers and her stores, which were dashed on shore by
the waters, and then swept back again by the return. In a
short time the severe blows he received from these
fragments disabled him from further exertion, and he sank
exhausted on the sand; indeed, all further attempts were
useless. All on board the vessel had been launched into the
sea at the same moment, and those who were not now on
shore were past all succour. Francisco walked up to those
who had been saved: he found twelve of them were
recovered and sitting on their hams; the rest were still in a
state of insensibility. He then went up to the knoll, where
his chest and provisions had been placed, and, throwing
himself down by them, surveyed the scene.

The wind had lulled, the sun shone brightly, and the sea
was much less violent. The waves had subsided, and, no
longer hurried on by the force of the hurricane, broke
majestically, and solemnly, but not with the wildness and
force which, but a few hours before, they had displayed.
The whole of the beach was strewed with the fragments of
the vessel, with spars and water-casks; and at every
moment was to be observed the corpse of a negro turning
round and round in the froth of the wave, and then
disappearing.

For an hour did he watch and reflect and then he walked

again to where the men who had been rescued were sitting,
not more than thirty yards from him; they were sickly,
emaciated forms, but belonging to a tribe who inhabited the
coast, and who having been accustomed from their infancy
to be all the day in the water, had supported themselves
better than the other slaves, who had been procured from
the interior, or the European crew of the vessel, all of whom
had perished.

The Africans appeared to recover fast by the heat of the

sun, so oppressive to Francisco, and were now exchanging a
few words with each other. The whole of them had revived,
but those who were most in need of aid were neglected by
the others. Francisco made signs to them, but they
understood him not. He returned to the knoll, and pouring
out water into a tin pan from the breaker, brought it down
to them. He offered it to one, who seized it eagerly; water
was a luxury seldom obtained in the hold of a slave-vessel.
The man drank deeply, and would have drained the cup, but
Francisco prevented him, and held it to the lips of another.
He was obliged to refill it three times before they had all
been supplied: he then brought them a handful of biscuit,
and left them, for he reflected that, without some
precautions, the whole sustenance would be seized by them
and devoured. He buried half a foot deep, and covered over
with sand, the breakers of water and the provisions, and by
the time he had finished this task, unperceived by the
negroes, who still squatted together, the sun had sunk
below the horizon. Francisco had already matured his plans,
which were, to form a raft out of the fragments of the
vessel, and, with the assistance of the negroes, attempt to
gain the mainland. He lay down, for the second night, on
this eventful spot of desolation, and commending himself to
the Almighty protection, was soon in a deep slumber.

It was not until the powerful rays of the sun blazed on the
eyes of the youth that he awoke, so tired had he been with
the anxiety and fatigue of the preceding day, and the
sleepless harrowing night which had introduced it. He rose
and seated himself upon his sea-chest: how different was
the scene from that of yesterday! Again the ocean slept, the
sky was serene, and not a cloud to be distinguished
throughout the whole firmament; the horizontal line was
clear, even, and well defined: a soft breeze just rippled over
the dark blue sea, which now had retired to its former
boundary, and left the sand-bank as extended as when first
Francisco had been put on shore. But here the beauty of the
landscape terminated: the foreground was horrible to look
upon; the whole of the beach was covered with the timbers
of the wreck, with water-casks, and other articles, in some
parts heaped and thrown up one upon another; and among
them lay, jammed and mangled, the bodies of the many
who had perished. In other parts there were corpses thrown
up high and dry, or still rolling and turning to the rippling
wave: it was a scene of desolation and of death.

The negroes who had been saved were all huddled up

together, apparently in deep sleep, and Francisco quitted his
elevated position and walked down to the low beach, to
survey the means which the disaster of others afforded him
for his own escape. To his great joy he found not only
plenty of casks, but many of them full of fresh water,
provisions also in sufficiency, and, indeed, everything that
could be required to form a raft, as well as the means of
support for a considerable time for himself and the negroes
who had survived. He then walked up to them and called to
them, but they answered not, nor even moved. He pushed
them, but in vain; and his heart beat quick, for he was
fearful that they were dead from previous exhaustion. He
applied his foot to one of them, and it was not until he had
used force, which in any other case he would have
dispensed with, that the negro awoke from his state of
lethargy and looked vacantly about him. Francisco had
some little knowledge of the language of the Kroumen, and
he addressed the negro in that tongue. To his great joy, he
was answered in a language which, if not the same, had so
great an affinity to it that communication became easy.
With the assistance of the negro, who used still less
ceremony with his comrades, the remainder of them were
awakened, and a palaver ensued.

Francisco soon made them understand that they were to

make a raft and go back to their own country; explaining to
them that if they remained there, the water and provisions
would soon be exhausted, and they would all perish. The
poor creatures hardly knew whether to consider him a
supernatural being or not; they talked among themselves;
they remarked at his having brought them fresh water the
day before; they knew that he did not belong to the vessel
in which they had been wrecked, and they were puzzled.

Whatever might be their speculations, they had one good

effect, which was, that they looked upon the youth as a
superior and a friend, and most willingly obeyed him. He led
them up to the knoll, and, desiring them to scrape away the
sand, supplied them again with fresh water and biscuit.
Perhaps the very supply, and the way in which it was given
to them, excited their astonishment as much as anything.
Francisco ate with them, and, selecting from his sea-chest
the few tools in his possession, desired them to follow him.
The casks were collected and rolled up; the empty ones
arranged for the raft: the spars were hauled up and cleared
of the rigging, which was carefully separated for lashings;
the one or two sails which had been found rolled up on the
spars were spread out to dry; and the provisions and
articles of clothing, which might be useful, laid together on
one side. The negroes worked willingly, and showed much
intelligence: before the evening closed, everything which
might be available was secured, and the waves now only
tossed about lifeless forms, and the small fragments of
timber which could not be serviceable.

It would occupy too much time were we to detail all the

proceedings of Francisco and the negroes for the space of
four days, during which they laboured hard. Necessity is
truly the mother of invention, and many were the ingenious
resources of the party before they could succeed in forming
a raft large enough to carry them and their provisions, with
a mast and sail well secured. At length it was accomplished;
and on the fifth day, Francisco and his men embarked; and,
having pushed clear of the bank with poles, they were at
last able to hoist their sail to a fine breeze, and steer for the
coast before the wind at the rate of about three miles an
hour. But it was not until they had gained half a mile from
the bank that they were no longer annoyed by the dreadful
smell arising from the putrefaction of so many bodies, for to
bury them all would have been a work of too great time.
The last two days of their remaining on the island, the
effluvia had become so powerful as to be a source of the
greatest horror and disgust even to the negroes.

But before night when the raft was about eight leagues
from the sand-bank, it fell calm, and continued so for the
next day, when a breeze sprang up from the south-east, to
which they trimmed their sail with their head to the
northward.

This wind, and the course steered, sent them off from the
land, but there was no help for it; and Francisco felt grateful
that they had such an ample supply of provisions and water
as to enable them to yield to a few days’ contrary wind
without danger of want. But the breeze continued steady
and fresh, and they were now crossing the Bight of Benin;
the weather was fine and the sea smooth; the flying-fish
rose in shoals, and dropped down into the raft, which still
forced its way through the water to the northward.

Thus did Francisco and his negro crew remain for a fortnight
floating on the wide ocean, without any object meeting their
view. Day after day it was the same dreary “sky and water,”
and by the reckoning of Francisco they could not be far
from the land, when, on the fifteenth day, they perceived
two sails to the northward.

Francisco’s heart bounded with joy and gratitude to Heaven;

he had no telescope to examine them, but he steered
directly for them, and, about dark, he made them out to be
a ship and a schooner, hove to.
As Francisco scanned them, surmising what they might be,
the sun set behind the two vessels, and after it had sunk
below the horizon their forms were, for a few minutes,
delineated with remarkable precision and clearness. There
could be no mistake. Francisco felt convinced that the
schooner was the Avenger; and his first impulse was to run
to the sweep with which they were steered, and put the
head of the raft again to the northward. A moment’s
reflection determined him to act otherwise; he lowered
down his sail that he might escape observation, and
watched the motions of the vessels during the few minutes
of light which remained. That the ship had been captured,
and that her capture had been attended with the usual
scene of outrage and violence, he had no doubt. He was
now about four miles from them, and just as they were
vanishing from his straining eyes he perceived that the
schooner had made all sail to the westward. Francisco,
feeling that he was then secure from being picked up by
her, again hoisted his sail with the hope of reaching the
ship, which, if not scuttled, he intended to remove on board
of, and then make sail for the first port on the coast. But
hardly had the raft regained her way when the horizon was
lighted up, and he perceived that the pirates had set fire to
the vessel. Then it was useless to proceed towards her; and
Francisco again thought of putting the head of the raft to
the northward, when the idea struck him, knowing the
character and cruelty of the pirates, that there might be
some unfortunate people left on board to perish in the
flames. He therefore continued his course, watching the
burning vessel; the flames increased in violence, mounting
up to the masts and catching the sails one after another.
The wind blew fresh, and the vessel was kept before the
wind—a circumstance that assured Francisco that there
were people on board. At first she appeared to leave the
raft, but as her sails, one after another, were consumed by
the element, so did she decrease her speed, and Francisco,
in about an hour, was close to her and under her counter.

The ship was now one mass of fire from her bows to her
mainmast; a volume of flame poured from her main hold,
rising higher than her lower masts, and ending in a huge
mass of smoke carried by the wind ahead of her; the
quarter-deck was still free from fire, but the heat on it was
so intense that those on board were all collected at the
taffrail; and there they remained, some violent, others in
mute despair; for the Avenger’s people, in their barbarity,
had cut away and destroyed all the boats, to prevent their
escape. From the light thrown round the vessel, those on
board had perceived the approach of Francisco to their
rescue, and immediately that it was under the counter, and
the sail lowered, almost all of them had descended by
ropes, or the stern ladder, and gained a place in her. In a
few minutes, without scarcely an exchange of a word, they
were all out of the brig, and Francisco pushed off just as the
flames burst from the cabin-windows, darting out in a
horizontal line like the tongues of fiery serpents. The raft,
now encumbered with twelve more persons, was then
steered to the northward; and as soon as those who had
been saved had been supplied with some water, which they
so much needed, Francisco obtained the intelligence which
he desired. The ship was from Carthagena, South America;
had sailed from thence to Lisbon with a Don Cumanos, who
had large property up the Magdalen river. He had wished to
visit a part of his family at Lisbon, and from thence had
sailed to the Canary Isles, where he also had property. In
their way from Lisbon to South America they had been
beaten by stress of weather to the southward, and
afterwards had been chased by the Avenger; being a very
fast sailer she had run down several degrees before she had
been captured. When the pirate took possession, and found
that she had little or no cargo of value to them, for her hold
was chiefly filled with furniture and other articles for the use
of Don Cumanos, angry at their disappointment, they had
first destroyed all their boats and then set fire to the vessel,
taking care not to leave her until all chance of the fire being
put out was hopeless. And thus had these miscreants left
innocent and unfortunate people to perish.

Francisco heard the narrative of Don Cumanos, and then

informed him in what manner he had left the schooner, and
his subsequent adventures. Francisco was now very anxious
to make the land, or obtain succour from some vessel. The
many who were now on board, and the time that he had
already been at sea, obliged him to reduce the allowance of
water. Fortune favoured him after all his trials; on the third
day a vessel hove in sight, and they were seen by her. She
made sail for them, and took them all on board. It was a
schooner trafficking on the coast for gold-dust and ivory;
but the magnificent offers of Don Cumanos induced them to
give up their voyage and run across the Atlantic to
Carthagena. To Francisco it was of little moment where he
went, and in Don Cumanos he had found a sincere friend.

“You have been my preserver,” said the Spaniard, “allow me

to return the obligation—come and live with me.”

As Francisco was equally pleased with Don Cumanos, he

accepted the offer; they all arrived safely at Carthagena,
and from thence proceeded to his estate on the Magdalen
river.
 Chapter Twelve.

The Lieutenant.

When we last mentioned Edward Templemore, we stated

that he was a lieutenant of the admiral’s ship on the West
India station, commanding the tender. Now the name of the
tender was the Enterprise: and it was singular that she was
one of two schooners built at Baltimore, remarkable for
their beauty and good qualities; yet how different were their
employments! Both had originally been built for the slave-
trade; now one hoisted the English pennant, and cruised as
the Enterprise; the other threw out the black flag, and
scoured the seas as the Avenger.

The Enterprise was fitted much in the same way as we have

already described her sister vessel—that is, with one long
brass gun amidships, and smaller ones for her broadside.
But in the numbers of their crew there was a great
disparity; the Enterprise not being manned with more than
sixty-five English sailors, belonging to the admiral’s ship.
She was employed, as most admirals’ tenders usually were,
sometimes carrying a tender made for a supply of
provisions, or a tender of services, if required, from the
admiral; or, if not particularly wanted, with the important
charge of a tender billet-doux to some fair friend. But this is
a tender subject to touch upon. In the meantime it must be
understood that she had the same commission to sink,
burn, and destroy, as all other of his Majesty’s vessels, if
anything came in her way; but as she usually carried
despatches, the real importance of which were, of course,
unknown, she was not to go out of her way upon such
service.
Edward Templemore did, however, occasionally go a little
out of his way, and had lately captured a very fine privateer
after a smart action, for which he anticipated his promotion;
but the admiral thought him too young, and therefore gave
the next vacancy to his own nephew, who, the admiral quite
forgot, was much younger.

Edward laughed when he heard of it, upon his arrival at Port

Royal; and the admiral, who expected that he would make
his appearance pouting with disappointment, when he came
up to the Penn to report himself, was so pleased with his
good humour that he made a vow that Templemore should
have the next vacancy; but this he also quite forgot,
because Edward happened to be, at the time it occurred, on
a long cruise,—and “out of sight out of mind” is a proverb
so well established, that it may be urged as an excuse for a
person who had so many other things to think of as the
admiral entrusted with the command of the West India
station.

Lieutenant Templemore had, in consequence, commanded

the Enterprise for nearly two years, and without grumbling;
for he was of a happy disposition, and passed a very happy
sort of life. Mr Witherington was very indulgent to him, and
allowed him to draw liberally; he had plenty of money for
himself or for a friend who required it, and he had plenty of
amusement. Amongst other diversions, he had fallen most
desperately in love; for, in one of his trips to the Leeward
Isles (so called from their being to windward) he had
succoured a Spanish vessel, which had on board the new
Governor of Porto Rico, with his family, and had taken upon
himself to land them on that island in safety; for which
service the English admiral received a handsome letter,
concluding with the moderate wish that his Excellency might
live a thousand years, and Edward Templemore an invitation
to go and see them whenever he might pass that way;
which, like most general invitations, was as much a
compliment as the wish which wound up the letter to the
admiral. It did, however, so happen that the Spanish
governor had a very beautiful and only daughter, carefully
guarded by a duenna, and a monk who was the depository
of all the sins of the governor’s establishment; and it was
with this daughter that Edward Templemore fell into the
heresy of love.

She was, indeed, very beautiful; and, like all her

countrywomen, was ardent in her affection. The few days
that she was on board the schooner with her father, during
the time that the Enterprise convoyed the Spanish vessel
into port, were quite sufficient to ignite two such
inflammable beings as Clara d’Alfarez and Edward
Templemore. The monk had been left on board of the leaky
vessel; there was no accommodation in the schooner for
him or the duenna, and Don Felix de Maxos de Cobas de
Manilla d’Alfarez was too busy with his cigar to pay
attention to his daughter.

When they were landed, Edward Templemore was asked to

their residence, which was not in the town, but at a lovely
bay on the south side of the island. The town mansion was
appropriated to business and the ceremony of the court: it
was too hot for a permanent abode, and the governor only
went there for a few hours each day.

Edward Templemore remained a short time at the island,

and at his departure received the afore-mentioned letter
from the father to the English admiral, and an assurance of
unalterable fidelity from the daughter to the English
lieutenant. On his return he presented the letter, and the
admiral was satisfied with his conduct.
When ordered out to cruise, which he always was when
there was nothing else to do, he submitted to the admiral
whether, if he should happen to be near Porto Rico, he could
not leave an answer to the Spanish governor’s letter; and
the admiral, who knew the value of keeping up a good
understanding with foreign relations, took the hint, and
gave him one to deliver, if convenient. The second meeting
was, as may be supposed, more cordial than the first on the
part of the young lady; not so, however, on the part of the
duenna and holy friar, who soon found out that their charge
was in danger from heretical opinions.

Caution became necessary; and as secrecy adds a charm to

an amour, Clara received a long letter and a telescope from
Edward. The letter informed her that, whenever he could,
he would make his appearance in his schooner off the south
of the island, and await a signal made by her at a certain
window, acknowledging her recognition of his vessel. On the
night of that signal he would land in his boat and meet her
at an appointed spot. This was all very delightful; and it so
happened that Edward had four or five times contrived,
during the last year, to meet Clara without discovery, and
again and again to exchange his vows. It was agreed
between them that when he quitted the station, she would
quit her father and her home, and trust her future
happiness to an Englishman and a heretic.

It may be a matter of surprise to some of our readers that

the admiral should not have discovered the frequent visits
of the Enterprise to Porto Rico, as Edward was obliged to
bring his log for examination every time that he returned;
but the admiral was satisfied with Edward’s conduct, and his
anxiety to cruise when there was nothing else for him to do.
His logs were brought on shore to the admiral’s secretary,
carefully rolled and sealed up. The admiral’s secretary threw
the packages on one side, and thought no more of the
matter, and Edward had always a ready story to tell when
he took his seat at the admiral’s dinner-table; besides, he is
a very unfit person to command a vessel who does not
know how to write a log that will bear an investigation. A
certain latitude is always allowed in every degree of latitude
as well as longitude.

The Enterprise had been despatched to Antigua, and

Edward thought this an excellent opportunity to pay a visit
to Clara d’Alfarez: he therefore, upon his return, hove to off
the usual headland, and soon perceived the white curtain
thrown out of the window.

“There it is, sir,” said one of the midshipmen who was near
him—for he had been there so often that the whole crew of
the Enterprise were aware of his attachment—“She has
shown her flag of truce.”

“A truce to your nonsense, Mr Warren,” replied Edward,

laughing; “how came you to know anything about it?”

“I only judge by cause and effect, sir; and I know that I

shall have to go on shore and wait for you tonight.”

“That’s not unlikely; but let draw the foresheet; we must

now get behind the headland.”

The youngster was right: that evening, a little before dark,

he attended his commander on shore, the Enterprise lying
to with a lantern at her peak.

“Once more, dearest Clara!” said Edward, as he threw off

her long veil and pressed her in his arms.

“Yes, Edward, once more—but I am afraid only once more;

for my maid, Inez, has been dangerously ill, and has
confessed to Friar Ricardo. I fear much that, in her fright
(for she thought that she was dying), she has told all. She
is better now.”

“Why should you imagine so, Clara?”

“Oh, you know not what a frightened fool that Inez is when
she is ill! Our religion is not like yours.”

“No, dear, it is not; but I will teach you a better.”

“Hush, Edward, you must not say that. Holy Virgin! if Friar
Ricardo should hear you! I think that Inez must have told
him, for he fixes his dark eyes upon me so earnestly.
Yesterday he observed to me that I had not confessed.”

“Tell him to mind his own business.”

“That is his business, and I was obliged to confess to him

last night. I told him a great many things, and then he
asked if that was all. His eyes went through me. I trembled
as I uttered an untruth, for I said it was.”

“I confess my sins but to my Maker, Clara! and I confess my

love but to you. Follow my plan, dearest!”

“I will half obey you, Edward. I will not tell my love.”

“And sins you have none, Clara; so you will obey me in all.”

“Hush, Edward, you must not say that. We all have sins;
and, oh! what a grievous sin they say it is to love you, who
are a heretic! Holy Virgin, pardon me! but I could not help
it.”

“If that is your only sin, dearest, I can safely give you
absolution.”
“Nay, Edward, don’t joke, but hear me. If Inez has
confessed, they will look for me here, and we must not
meet again—at least not in this place. You know the little
bay behind the rock, it is not much farther off, and there is
a cave where I can wait: another time it must be there.”

“It shall be there, dearest; but is it not too near the beach?
will you not be afraid of the men in the boat, who must see
you?”

“But we can leave the beach. It is Ricardo alone that I am in

dread of, and the Donna Maria. Merciful Heaven! should my
father know all, we should be lost—be separated for ever!”
and Clara laid her forehead on Edward’s shoulder, as her
tears fell fast.

“There is nought to fear, Clara. Hush! I heard a rustling in

those orange-trees. Listen!”

“Yes! yes!” whispered Clara, hastily; “there is some one.

Away! dear Edward, away!”

Clara sprang from his side, and hastened up the grove.

Edward made his retreat, and flying down the rocky and
narrow path through the underwood, was soon on the
beach and into his boat. The Enterprise arrived at head
quarters, and Edward reported himself to the admiral.

“I have work for you, Mr Templemore,” said the admiral;

“you must be ready to proceed on service immediately.
We’ve found your match.”

“I hope I may find her, sir,” replied the lieutenant.

“I hope so, too; for, if you give a good account of her, it will
put another swab on your shoulder. The pirate schooner,
which has so long infested the Atlantic, has been seen and
chased off Barbadoes by the Amelia: but it appears that
there is not a vessel in the squadron which can come near
her unless it be the Enterprise. She has since captured two
West Indiamen, and was seen steering with them towards
the coast of Guiana. Now, I am going to give you thirty
additional hands, and send you after her.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Edward, his countenance beaming

with delight.

“How soon will you be ready?” inquired the admiral.

“To-morrow morning, sir.”

“Very good. Tell Mr Hadley to bring me the order for the

men and your sailing orders, and I will sign them; but
recollect, Mr Templemore, you will have an awkward
customer. Be prudent—brave I know you to be.”

Edward Templemore promised everything, as most people

do in such cases; and before the next evening the
Enterprise was well in the offing, under a heavy press of
sail.

Chapter Thirteen.

The Landing.

The property of Don Cumanos, to which he had retired with

his family, accompanied by Francisco, extended from the
mouth of, to many miles up, the Magdalen river. It was a
fine alluvial soil, forming one vast strip of rich meadow,
covered with numerous herds of cattle. The house was not a
hundreds yards from the bank of the magnificent stream,
and a small but deep creek ran up to the adjacent
buildings; for Don Cumanos had property even more
valuable, being proprietor of a gold mine near the town of
Jambrano, about eight miles farther up, and which mine had
latterly become exceedingly productive. The ore was
brought down the river in boats, and smelted in the
outhouses near the creek to which we have just referred.

It will be necessary to observe that the establishment of the

noble Spaniard was numerous, consisting of nearly one
hundred persons, employed in the smelting-house or
attached to the household.

For some time Francisco remained here happy and

contented; he had become the confidential supervisor of
Don Cumanos’ household, proved himself worthy of a trust
so important, and was considered as one of the family.

One morning, as Francisco was proceeding down to the

smelting-house to open the hatches of the small deck boats
which had arrived from Jambrano with ore, and which were
invariably secured with a padlock by the superintendent
above, to which Don Cumanos had a corresponding key, one
of the chief men informed him that a vessel had anchored
off the mouth of the river the day before, and weighed
again early that morning, and that she was now standing off
and on.

“From Carthagena, probably, beating up,” replied Francisco.

“Valga me Dios, if I know that, sir,” said Diego, “I should

have thought nothing about it; but Giacomo and Pedro, who
went out to fish last night, as usual, instead of coming back
before midnight, have not been heard of since.”

“Indeed! that is strange. Did they ever stay so long before?”

“Never, sir; and they have fished together now for seven
years.”

Francisco gave the key to the man, who opened the locks of
the hatches, and returned it.

“There she is!” cried the man; the head-sails making their
appearance as the vessel opened to their view from the
projecting point distant about four miles. Francisco directed
his eye towards her, and, without further remark, hastened
to the house.

“Well, Francisco,” said Don Cumanos, who was stirring a

small cup of chocolate, “what’s the news this morning?”

“The Nostra Señora del Carmen and the Aguilla have

arrived, and I have just unlocked the hatches. There is a
vessel off the point which requires examination, and I have
come for the telescope.”

“Requires examination! Why, Francisco?”

“Because Giacomo and Pedro, who went fishing last night,

have not returned, and there are no tidings of them.”

“That is strange! But how is this connected with the vessel?”

“That I will explain as soon as I have had an examination of

her,” replied Francisco, who had taken up the telescope, and
was drawing out the tube. Francisco fixed the glass against
the sill of the window, and examined the vessel some time
in silence.

“Yes! by the living God, it is the Avenger, and no other,”

exclaimed he, as he removed the telescope from his eye.

“Eh?” cried Don Cumanos.

“It is the pirate vessel—the Avenger—I’ll forfeit my life upon
it! Don Cumanos, you must be prepared. I know that they
have long talked of a visit to this quarter, and anticipate
great booty, and they have those on board who know the
coast well. The disappearance of your two men convinces
me that they sent up their boats last night to reconnoitre,
and have captured them. Torture will extract the
information which the pirates require, and I have little
doubt but that the attack will be made, when they learn
how much bullion there is at present on your premises.”

“You may be right,” replied Don Cumanos, thoughtfully;

“that is, provided you are sure that it is the pirate vessel.”

“Sure, Don Cumanos! I know every timber and plank in her;

there is not a rope nor a block but I can recognise. At the
distance of four miles, with such a glass as this, I can
discover every little variety in her rigging from other craft, I
will swear to her,” repeated Francisco, once more looking
through the telescope.

“And if they attack, Francisco?”

“We must defend ourselves, and, I trust, beat them off.

They will come in their boats, and at night. If they were to
run in the schooner by daylight and anchor abreast of us,
we should have but a poor chance. But they little think that
I am here, and that they are recognised. They will attack
this night, I rather think.”

“And what do you then propose, Francisco?”

“That we should send all the females away to Don Teodoro’s

—it is but five miles—and call the men together as soon as
possible. We are strong enough to beat them off if we
barricade the house. They cannot land more than from
ninety to one hundred men, as some must remain in charge
of the schooner; and we can muster quite as many. It may
be as well to promise our men a reward if they do their
duty.”

“That is all right enough; and the bullion we have here.”

“Here we had better let it remain; it will take too much time
to remove it, and, besides, will weaken our force by the
men who must be in charge of it. The out-houses must be
abandoned, and everything which is of consequence taken
from them. Fire them they will, in all probability. At all
events we have plenty of time before us, if we begin at
once.”

“Well, Francisco, I shall make you commandant, and leave

the arrangements to you, while I go and speak to Donna
Isidora. Send for the men and speak to them; promise them
rewards, and act as if you were ordering upon your own
responsibility.”

“I trust I shall prove myself worthy of your confidence, sir,”

replied Francisco.

“Carambo!” exclaimed the old don, as he left the room; “but

it is fortunate you are here. We might all have been
murdered in our beds.”

Francisco sent for the head men of the establishment, and

told them what he was convinced they would have to
expect; and he then explained to them his views. The rest
were all summoned; and Francisco pointed out to them the
little mercy they would receive if the pirates were not
repulsed, and the rewards which were promised by Don
Cumanos if they did their duty.

Spaniards are individually brave; and, encouraged by

Francisco, they agreed that they would defend the property
to the last.

The house of Don Cumanos was well suited to resist an

attack of this description, in which musketry only was
expected to be employed. It was a long parallelogram of
stone walls, with a wooden veranda on the first floor,—for it
was only one story high. The windows on the first story
were more numerous, but at the basement there were but
two, and no other opening but the door in the whole line of
building. It was of a composite architecture, between the
Morisco and the Spanish. If the lower part of the house,
which was of stone, could be secured from entrance, the
assailants would, of course, fight under a great
disadvantage. The windows below were the first secured by
piling a heavy mass of stones in the interior of the rooms
against them, rising to the ceiling from a base like the
segment of a pyramid, extending to the opposite side of the
chamber; and every preparation was made for effectually
barricading the door before night. Ladders were then fixed
to ascend to the veranda, which was rendered musket-proof
nearly as high as its railings, to protect the men. The Donna
Isidora, and the women of the establishment, were, in the
afternoon, despatched to Don Teodoro’s; and, at the
request of Francisco, joined to the entreaties of Donna
Isidora, Don Cumanos was persuaded to accompany them.
The don called his men, and telling them that he left
Francisco in command, expected them to do their duty; and
then shaking hands with him, the cavalcade was soon lost
in the woods behind the narrow meadows which skirted the
river.

There was no want of muskets and ammunition. Some were

employed casting bullets, and others in examining the arms
which had long been laid by. Before evening all was ready;
every man had received his arms and ammunition; the
flints had been inspected; and Francisco had time to pay
more attention to the schooner, which had, during the day,
increased her distance from the land, but was now again
standing in for the shore. Half-an-hour before dusk, when
within three miles, she wore round and put her head to the
offing.

“They’ll attack this night,” said Francisco, “I feel almost

positive: their yards and stay-tackles are up, all ready for
hoisting out the long-boat.”

“Let them come, señor; we will give them a warm

reception,” replied Diego, the second in authority.

It was soon too dark to perceive the vessel. Francisco and

Diego ordered every man, but five, into the house; the door
was firmly barricaded, and some large pieces of rock, which
had been rolled into the passage, piled against it. Francisco
then posted the five men down the banks of the river, at a
hundred yards’ distance from each other, to give notice of
the approach of the boats. It was about ten o’clock at night,
when Francisco and Diego descended the ladder and went
to examine their outposts.

“Señor,” said Diego, as he and Francisco stood on the bank

of the river, “at what hour is it your idea that these villains
will make their attempt?”

“That is difficult to say. If the same captain commands them

who did when I was on board of her, it will not be until after
the moon is down, which will not be till midnight; but
should it be any other who is in authority, they may not be
so prudent.”

“Holy Virgin! señor, were you ever on board of that vessel?”

“Yes, Diego, I was, and for a long while, too; but not with
my own good will. Had I not been on board I never should
have recognised her.”

“Very true, señor; then we may thank the saints that you
have once been a pirate.”

“I hope that I never was that, Diego,” replied Francisco,

smiling; “but I have been a witness to dreadful proceedings
on board of that vessel, at the remembrance of which, even
now, my blood curdles.”

To pass away the time, Francisco then detailed many scenes

of horror to Diego which he had witnessed when on board of
the Avenger; and he was still in the middle of a narrative
when a musket was discharged by the farthermost sentinel.

“Hark, Diego!”

Another, and another, nearer and nearer to them, gave the

signal that the boats were close at hand. In a few minutes
the men all came in, announcing that the pirates were
pulling up the stream in three boats, and were less than a
quarter of a mile from the landing-place.

“Diego, go to the house with these men, and see that all is
ready,” said Francisco. “I will wait here a little longer; but do
not fire till I come to you.”

Diego and the men departed, and Francisco was left on the
beach alone.

In another minute, the sound of the oars was plainly

distinguishable, and Francisco’s ears were directed to catch,
if possible, the voices. “Yes,” thought he, “you come with
the intentions of murder and robbery; but you will, through
me, be disappointed.” As the boats approached, he heard
the voice of Hawkhurst. The signal muskets fired had told
the pirates that they were discovered, and that, in all
probability, they would meet with resistance; silence was,
therefore, no longer of any advantage.

“Oars, my lads!—oars!” cried Hawkhurst.

One boat ceased rowing, and soon afterwards the two

others. The whole of them were now plainly seen by
Francisco, at the distance of about one cable’s length from
where he stood; and the clear still night carried the sound
of their voices along the water.

“Here is a creek, sir,” said Hawkhurst, “leading up to those

buildings. Would it not be better to land there, as, if they
are not occupied, they will prove a protection to us if we
have a hard fight for it?”

“Very true, Hawkhurst,” replied a voice, which Francisco

immediately recognised to be that of Cain.

“He is alive, then,” thought Francisco, “and his blood is not

yet upon my hands.”

“Give way, my lads!” cried Hawkhurst.

The boats dashed up the creek, and Francisco hastened

back to the house.

“Now, my lads,” said he, as he sprang up the ladder, “you

must be resolute; we have to deal with desperate men. I
have heard the voices of the captain and the chief mate; so
there is no doubt as to its being the pirate. The boats are
up the creek and will land behind the out-buildings. Haul up
these ladders, and lay them fore and aft on the veranda;
and do not fire without taking a good aim. Silence! my men
—silence! Here they come.”
The pirates were now seen advancing from the out-buildings
in strong force. In the direction in which they came, it was
only from the side of the veranda, at which not more than
eight or ten men could be placed, that the enemy could be
repulsed. Francisco therefore gave orders that as soon as
some of the men had fired they should retreat and load
their muskets, to make room for others.

When the pirates had advanced halfway to the house, on

the clear space between it and the outbuildings, Francisco
gave the word to fire. The volley was answered by another,
and a shout from the pirates, who, with Hawkhurst and Cain
at their head, now pressed on, but not until they had
received a second discharge from the Spaniards, and the
pirates had fired in return. As the Spaniards could not at
first fire a volley of more than a dozen muskets at a time,
their opponents imagined their force to be much less than it
really was. They now made other arrangements. They
spread themselves in a semicircle in front of the veranda,
and kept up a continued galling fire. This was returned by
the party under Francisco for nearly a quarter of an hour;
and as all the muskets were now called into action, the
pirates found out that they had a more formidable enemy to
cope with than they had anticipated.

It was now quite dark, and not a figure was to be

distinguished, except by the momentary flashing of the fire-
arms. Cain and Hawkhurst, leaving their men to continue
the attack, had gained the house, and a position under the
veranda. Examining the windows and door, there appeared
but little chance of forcing an entrance; but it immediately
occurred to them that under the veranda their men would
not be exposed, and that they might fire through the
wooden floor of it upon those above. Hawkhurst hastened
away, and returned with about half the men, leaving the
others to continue their attack as before. The advantage of
this manoeuvre was soon evident. The musket-balls of the
pirates pierced the planks, and wounded many of the
Spaniards severely; and Francisco was at last obliged to
order his men to retreat into the house, and fire out of the
windows.

But even this warfare did not continue; for the supporting-
pillars of the veranda being of wood, and very dry, they
were set fire to by the pirates. Gradually the flames wound
round them, and their forked tongues licked the balustrade.
At last, the whole of the veranda was in flames. This was a
great advantage to the attacking party, who could now
distinguish the Spaniards without their being so clearly seen
themselves. Many were killed and wounded. The smoke and
heat became so intense in the upper story that the men
could no longer remain there; and, by the advice of
Francisco, they retreated to the basement of the house.

“What shall we do now, señor?” said Diego, with a grave

face.

“Do?” replied Francisco; “they have burnt the veranda, that

is all. The house will not take fire; it is of solid stone: the
roof indeed may; but still here we are. I do not see that
they are more advanced than they were before. As soon as
the veranda has burnt down, we must return above, and
commence firing again from the windows.”

“Hark, sir! they are trying the door.”

“They may try a long while; they should have tried the door
while the veranda protected them from our sight. As soon
as it is burnt, we shall be able to drive them away from it. I
will go up again and see how things are.”

“No, señor; it is of no use. Why expose yourself now that

the flames are so bright?”
“I must go and see if that is the case, Diego. Put all the
wounded men in the north chamber, it will be the safest,
and more out of the way.”

Francisco ascended the stone staircase, and gained the

upper story. The rooms were filled with smoke, and he
could distinguish nothing. An occasional bullet whistled past
him. He walked towards the windows, and sheltered himself
behind the wall between them.

The flames were not so violent, and the heat more

bearable. In a short time, a crash, and then another told
him that the veranda had fallen in. He looked through the
window. The mass of lighted embers had fallen down in
front of the house, and had, for a time, driven away the
assailants. Nothing was left of the veranda but the burning
ends of the joists fixed in the wall above the windows, and
the still glowing remains of the posts which once supported
it.

But the smoke from below now cleared away, and the
discharge of one or two muskets told Francisco that he was
perceived by the enemy.

“The roof is safe,” thought he, as he withdrew from the

window; “and now I do not know whether the loss of the
veranda may not prove a gain to us.”

What were the intentions of the pirates it was difficult to

ascertain. For a time they had left off firing, and Francisco
returned to his comrades. The smoke had gradually cleared
away, and they were able to resume their position above;
but as the pirates did not fire, they, of course, could do
nothing, as it was only by the flashing of the muskets that
the enemy was to be distinguished. No further attempts
were made at the door or windows below; and Francisco in
vain puzzled himself as to the intended plans of the
assailants.

Nearly half an hour of suspense passed away. Some of the

Spaniards were of opinion that they had retreated to their
boats and gone away, but Francisco knew them better. All
he could do was to remain above, and occasionally look out
to discover their motions. Diego, and one or two more,
remained with him; the other men were kept below, that
they might be out of danger.

“Holy Francis! but this has been a dreadful night, señor!

How many hours until daylight?” said Diego.

“Two hours at least, I should think,” replied Francisco; “but

the affair will be decided before that.”

“The saints protect us! See, señor, are they not coming?”

Francisco looked through the gloom, in the direction of the

outbuildings, and perceived a group of men advancing. A
few moments and he could clearly make them out.

“Yes, truly, Diego; and they have made ladders, which they
are carrying. They intend to storm the windows. Call them
up; and now we must fight hard indeed.”

The Spaniards hastened up and filled the room above,

which had three windows in the front, looking towards the
river, and which had been sheltered by the veranda.

“Shall we fire now, señor?”

“No—no: do not fire till your muzzles are at their hearts.

They cannot mount more than two at a time at each
window. Recollect, my lads, that you must now fight hard,
for your lives will not be spared; they will show no quarter
and no mercy.”

The ends of the rude ladders now made their appearance

above the sill of each window. They had been hastily, yet
firmly, constructed; and were nearly as wide as the
windows. A loud cheer was followed by a simultaneous
mounting of the ladders.

Francisco was at the centre window, when Hawkhurst made

his appearance, sabre in hand. He struck aside the musket
aimed at him, and the ball whizzed harmless over the broad
water of the river. Another step, and he would have been in,
when Francisco fired his pistol; the ball entered the left
shoulder of Hawkhurst, and he dropped his hold. Before he
could regain it, a Spaniard charged at him with a musket,
and threw him back. He fell, bearing down with him one or
two of his comrades, who had been following him up the
ladder.

Francisco felt as if the attack at that window was of little

consequence after the fall of Hawkhurst, whose voice he
had recognised; and he hastened to the one on the left, as
he had heard Cain encouraging his men in that direction. He
was not wrong in his conjecture; Cain was at the window,
attempting to force an entrance, but was opposed by Diego
and other resolute men. But the belt of the pirate-captain
was full of pistols, and he had already fired three with
effect. Diego and the two best men were wounded, and the
others who opposed him were alarmed at his giant
proportions. Francisco rushed to attack him; but what was
the force of so young a man against the Herculean power of
Cain! Still Francisco’s left hand was at the throat of the
pirate, and the pistol was pointed in his right, when a flash
of another pistol, fired by one who followed Cain, threw its
momentary vivid light upon the features of Francisco, as he
cried out, “Blood for blood!” It was enough; the pirate
captain uttered a yell of terror at the supposed supernatural
appearance; and he fell from the ladder in a fit among the
still burning embers of the veranda.

The fall of their two chiefs, and the determined resistance of

the Spaniards, checked the impetuosity of the assailants.
They hesitated; and they at last retreated, bearing away
with them their wounded. The Spaniards cheered, and, led
by Francisco, followed them down the ladders, and, in their
turn, became the assailants. Still the pirates’ retreat was
orderly: they fired, and retired rank behind rank
successively. They kept the Spaniards at bay, until they had
arrived at the boats; when a charge was made, and a
severe conflict ensued. But the pirates had lost too many
men, and, without their commander, felt dispirited.
Hawkhurst was still on his legs and giving his orders as
coolly as ever. He espied Francisco, and rushing at him,
while the two parties were opposed muzzle to muzzle,
seized him by his collar and dragged him in amongst the
pirates. “Secure him at all events!” cried Hawkhurst, as they
slowly retreated and gained the out-houses. Francisco was
overpowered and hauled into one of the boats, all of which
in a few minutes afterwards were pulling with all their might
to escape from the muskets of the Spaniards, who followed
the pirates by the banks of the river, annoying them in their
retreat.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Meeting.

The pirates returned to their vessel discomfited. Those on

board, who were prepared to hoist in ingots of precious
metal, had to receive nought but wounded men, and many
of their comrades had remained dead on the shore. Their
captain was melancholy and downcast. Hawkhurst was
badly wounded, and obliged to be carried below as soon as
he came on board. The only capture which they had made
was their former associate Francisco, who, by the last words
spoken by Hawkhurst as he was supported to his cabin was
ordered to be put in irons. The boats were hoisted in
without noise, and a general gloom prevailed. All sail was
then made upon the schooner, and when day dawned she
was seen by the Spaniards far away to the northward.

The report was soon spread through the schooner that

Francisco had been the cause of their defeat; and this was
only a surmise, still, as they considered that had he not
recognised the vessel the Spaniards would not have been
prepared, they had good grounds for what had swelled into
an assertion. He became, therefore, to many of them, an
object of bitter enmity, and they looked forward with
pleasure to his destruction, which his present confinement
they considered but the precursor of.

“Hist! Massa Francisco!” said a low voice near to where

Francisco sat on the chest. Francisco turned round and
beheld the Krouman, his old friend.

“Ah! Pompey, are you all still on board?” said Francisco.

“All! no,” replied the man, shaking his head; “some die—
some get away—only four Kroumen left. Massa Francisco,
how you come back again? Everybody tink you dead. I say
no, not dead—ab charm with him—ab book.”

“If that was my charm, I have it still,” replied Francisco,

taking the Bible out of his vest; for, strange to say,
Francisco himself had a kind of superstition relative to that
Bible, and had put it into his bosom previous to the attack
made by the pirates.

“Dat very good, Massa Francisco; den you quite safe. Here
come Johnson—he very bad man. I go away.”

In the meantime Cain had retired to his cabin with feelings

scarcely to be analysed. He was in a bewilderment.
Notwithstanding the wound he had received by the hand of
Francisco, he would never have sanctioned Hawkhurst
putting him on shore on a spot which promised nothing but
a lingering and miserable death. Irritated as he had been by
the young man’s open defiance, he loved him—loved him
much more than he was aware of himself; and when he had
recovered sufficiently from his wound, and had been
informed where Francisco had been sent on shore, he
quarrelled with Hawkhurst, and reproached him bitterly and
sternly, in language which Hawkhurst never forgot or
forgave. The vision of the starving lad haunted Cain, and
rendered him miserable. His affection for him, now that he
was, as he supposed, lost for ever, increased with tenfold
force; and since that period Cain had never been seen to
smile. He became more gloomy, more ferocious than ever,
and the men trembled when he appeared on deck.

The apparition of Francisco after so long an interval, and in

such an unexpected quarter of the globe, acted, as we have
before described, upon Cain. When he was taken to the
boat he was still confused in his ideas, and it was not until
they were nearly on board that he perceived that this young
man was indeed at his side. He could have fallen on his
neck and kissed him: for Francisco had become to him a
capture more prized than all the wealth of the Indies. But
one pure, good feeling was unextinguished in the bosom of
Cain; stained with every crime—with his hands so deeply
imbrued in blood—at enmity with all the rest of the world,
that one feeling burnt bright and clear, and was not to be
quenched. It might have proved a beacon-light to steer him
back to repentance and to good works.

But there were other feelings which also crowded upon the
mind of the pirate-captain. He knew Francisco’s firmness
and decision. By some inscrutable means, which Cain
considered as supernatural, Francisco had obtained the
knowledge, and had accused him, of his mother’s death.
Would not the affection which he felt for the young man be
met with hatred and defiance? He was but too sure that it
would. And then his gloomy, cruel disposition would
reassume its influence, and he thought of revenging the
attack upon his life. His astonishment at the reappearance
of Francisco was equally great, and he trembled at the sight
of him, as if he were his accusing and condemning spirit.
Thus did he wander from one fearful fancy to another, until
he at last summoned up resolution to send for him.

A morose, dark man, whom Francisco had not seen when

he was before in the schooner, obeyed the commands of the
captain. The irons were unlocked, and Francisco was
brought down into the cabin. The captain rose and shut the
door.

“I little thought to see you here, Francisco,” said Cain.

“Probably not,” replied Francisco, boldly, “but you have me

again, in your power, and may now wreak your vengeance.”

“I feel none, Francisco; nor would I have suffered you to

have been put on shore as you were, had I known of it.
Even now that our expedition has failed through your
means, I feel no anger towards you, although I shall have
some difficulty in preserving you from the enmity of others.
Indeed, Francisco, I am glad to find that you are alive, and I
have bitterly mourned your loss:” and Cain extended his
hand.

But Francisco folded his arms, and was silent.

“Are you then so unforgiving?” said the captain. “You know

that I tell the truth.”

“I believe that you state the truth, Captain Cain, for you are
too bold to lie; and, as far as I am concerned, you have all
the forgiveness you may wish; but I cannot take that hand;
nor are our accounts yet settled.”

“What would you more? Cannot we be friends again? I do

not ask you to remain on board. You are free to go where
you please. Come, Francisco, take my hand, and let us
forget what is past.”

“The hand that is imbrued with my mother’s blood,

perhaps!” exclaimed Francisco. “Never!”

“Not so, by God!” exclaimed Cain. “No, no; not quite so bad
as that. In my mood I struck your mother; I grant it. I did
not intend to injure her, but I did, and she died. I will not lie
—that is the fact. And it is also the fact that I wept over her,
Francisco; for I loved her as I do you.

“It was a hasty, bitter blow, that,” continued Cain,

soliloquising, with his hand to his forehead, and
unconscious of Francisco’s presence at the moment. “It
made me what I am, for it made me reckless.”

“Francisco,” said Cain, raising his head, “I was bad, but I

was no pirate when your mother lived. There is a curse
upon me: that which I love most I treat the worst. Of all the
world, I loved your mother most: yet did she from me
receive much injury, and at last I caused her death. Next to
your mother, whose memory I at once revere and love, and
tremble when I think of (and each night does she appear to
me), I have loved you, Francisco; for you, like her, have an
angel’s feelings: yet have I treated you as ill. You thwarted
me, and you were right. Had you been wrong, I had not
cared; but you were right, and it maddened me. Your
appeals by day—your mother’s in my dreams—”

Francisco’s heart was softened; if not repentance, there was

at least contrition. “Indeed I pity you,” replied Francisco.

“You must do more, Francisco; you must be friends with

me,” said Cain, again extending his hand.

“I cannot take that hand, it is too deeply dyed in blood,”

replied Francisco.

“Well, well, so would have said your mother. But hear me,
Francisco,” said Cain, lowering his voice to a whisper, lest he
should be overheard; “I am tired of this life—perhaps sorry
for what I have done—I wish to leave it—have wealth in
plenty concealed where others know not. Tell me, Francisco,
shall we both quit this vessel, and live together happily and
without doing wrong? You shall share all, Francisco. Say,
now, does that please you?”

“Yes; it pleases me to hear that you will abandon your

lawless life, Captain Cain; but share your wealth I cannot,
for how has it been gained?”

“It cannot be returned, Francisco; I will do good with it. I

will indeed, Francisco. I—will—repent;” and again the hand
was extended.

Francisco hesitated.
“I do, so help me God! I do repent, Francisco!” exclaimed
the pirate-captain.

“And I, as a Christian, do forgive you all,” replied Francisco,

taking the still extended hand. “May God forgive you, too!”

“Amen!” replied the pirate, solemnly, covering his face up in

his hands.

In this position he remained some minutes, Francisco

watching him in silence. At last the face was uncovered,
and, to the surprise of Francisco, a tear was on the cheek of
Cain and his eyes suffused with moisture. Francisco no
longer waited for the hand to be extended; he walked up to
the captain, and taking him by the hand, pressed it warmly.

“God bless you, boy! God bless you!” said Cain; “but leave
me now.”

Francisco returned on deck with a light and grateful heart.

His countenance at once told those who were near him that
he was not condemned, and many who dared not before
take notice of him, now saluted him. The man who had
taken him out of irons looked round; he was a creature of
Hawkhurst, and he knew not how to act. Francisco observed
him, and, with a wave of the hand, ordered him below. That
Francisco was again in authority was instantly perceived,
and the first proof of it was, that the new second mate
reported to him that there was a sail on the weather bow.

Francisco took the glass to examine her. It was a large

schooner under all sail. Not wishing that any one should
enter the cabin but himself, he went down to the cabin-
door, and knocked before he entered, and reported the
vessel.
“Thank you, Francisco; you must take Hawkhurst’s duty for
the present—it shall not be for long; and fear not that I
shall make another capture. I swear to you I will not,
Francisco. But this schooner—I know very well what she is:
she has been looking after us some time: and a week ago,
Francisco, I was anxious to meet her, that I might shed
more blood. Now I will do all I can to avoid her, and escape.
I can do no more, Francisco. I must not be taken.”

“There I cannot blame you. To avoid her will be easy, I

should think; the Avenger outsails everything.”

“Except, I believe, the Enterprise, which is a sister-vessel.

By heaven! it’s a fair match,” continued Cain, his feelings of
combativeness returning for a moment; “and it will look like
a craven to refuse the fight: but fear not, Francisco—I have
promised you, and I shall keep my word.”

Cain went on deck, and surveyed the vessel through the

glass.

“Yes, it must be her,” said he aloud, so as to be heard by

the pirates; “she has been sent out by the admiral on
purpose, full of his best men. What a pity we are short-
handed!”

“There’s enough of us, sir,” observed the boatswain.

“Yes,” replied Cain, “if there was anything but hard blows to
be got; but that is all, and I cannot spare more men. Ready
about!” continued he, walking aft.

The Enterprise, for she was the vessel in pursuit, was then
about five miles distant, steering for the Avenger, who was
on a wind. As soon as the Avenger tacked, the Enterprise
took in her topmast studding-sail, and hauled her wind. This
brought the Enterprise well on the weather-quarter of the
Avenger, who now made all sail. The pirates, who had had
quite enough of fighting, and were not stimulated by the
presence of Hawkhurst, or the wishes of their captain, now
showed as much anxiety to avoid, as they usually did to
seek, a combat.

At the first trial of sailing between the two schooners there

was no perceptible difference; for half an hour they both
continued on a wind, and when Edward Templemore
examined his sextant a second time, he could not perceive
that he had gained upon the Avenger one cable’s length.

“We will keep away half a point,” said Edward to his second
in command. “We can afford that, and still hold the
weather-gage.”

The Enterprise was kept away, and increased her speed:

they neared the Avenger more than a quarter of a mile.

“They are nearing us,” observed Francisco; “we must keep

away a point.”

Away went the Avenger, and would have recovered her

distance, but the Enterprise was again steered more off the
wind.

Thus did they continue altering their course until the

studding-sails below and aloft were set by both, and the
position of the schooners was changed; the Enterprise now
being on the starboard instead of the larboard quarter of
the Avenger. The relative distance between the two
schooners was, however, nearly the same, that is, about
three miles and a half from each other; and there was every
prospect of a long and weary chase on the part of the
Enterprise, who again kept away a point to near the
Avenger.
Both vessels were now running to the eastward.

It was about an hour before dark that another sail hove in

sight right a-head of the Avenger, and was clearly made out
to be a frigate. The pirates were alarmed at this unfortunate
circumstance, as there was little doubt but that she would
prove a British cruiser; and, if not, they had equally reason
to expect that she would assist in their capture. She had
evidently perceived the two schooners, and had made all
sail, tacking every quarter of an hour so as to keep her
relative position. The Enterprise, who had also made out the
frigate, to attract her attention, although not within range of
the Avenger, commenced firing with her long-gun.

“This is rather awkward,” observed Cain.

“It will be dark in less than an hour,” observed Francisco;

“and that is our only chance.”

Cain reflected a minute.

“Get the long-gun ready, my lads! We will return her fire,

Francisco, and hoist American colours; that will puzzle the
frigate at all events, and the night may do the rest.”

The long-gun of the Avenger was ready.

“I would not fire the long-gun,” observed Francisco, “it will

show our force, and will give no reason for our attempt to
escape. Now, if we were to fire our broadside-guns, the
difference of report between them and the one of large
calibre fired by the other schooner would induce them to
think that we are an American vessel.”

“Very true,” replied Cain, “and, as America is at peace with

all the world, that our antagonist is a pirate. Hold fast the
long-gun, there; and unship the starboard ports. See that
the ensign blows out clear.”

The Avenger commenced firing an occasional gun from her

broadside, the reports of which were hardly to be heard by
those on board of the frigate; while the long-gun of the
Enterprise reverberated along the water, and its loud
resonance was swept by the wind to the frigate to leeward.

Such was the state of affairs when the sun sank down in the
wave, and darkness obscured the vessels from each other’s
sight, except with the assistance of the night telescopes.

“What do you propose to do, Captain Cain?” said Francisco.

“I have made up my mind to do a bold thing. I will run

down to the frigate, as if for shelter; tell him that the other
vessel is a pirate, and claim his protection. Leave me to
escape afterwards; the moon will not rise till nearly one
o’clock.”

“That will be a bold ruse, indeed; but suppose you are once
under her broadside, and she suspects you?”

“Then I will show her my heels. I should care nothing for

her and her broadside if the schooner was not here.”

In an hour after dark the Avenger was close to the frigate,

having steered directly for her. She shortened sail gradually,
as if she had few hands on board; and, keeping his men out
of sight, Cain ran under the stern of the frigate.

“Schooner ahoy! What schooner is that?”

“Eliza of Baltimore, from Carthagena,” replied Cain,

rounding to under the lee of the man-of-war, and then
continuing: “That vessel in chase is a pirate. Shall I send a
boat on board?”

“No; keep company with us.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied Cain.

“Hands about ship!” now resounded with the boatswain’s

whistle on board of the frigate, and in a minute they were
on the other tack. The Avenger also tacked and kept close
under the frigate’s counter.

In the meantime, Edward Templemore and those on board

of the Enterprise who, by the course steered, had gradually
neared them, perceiving the motions of the two other
vessels, were quite puzzled. At one time they thought they
had made a mistake, and that it was not the pirate vessel;
at another they surmised that the crew had mutinied and
surrendered to the frigate. Edward hauled his wind, and
steered directly for them, to ascertain what the real facts
were. The captain of the frigate, who had never lost sight of
either vessel, was equally astonished at the boldness of the
supposed pirate.

“Surely the rascal does not intend to board us?” said he to

the first-lieutenant.

“There is no saying, sir; you know what a character he has:

and some say there are three hundred men on board, which
is equal to our ship’s company. Or perhaps, sir, he will pass
to windward of us, and give us a broadside, and be off in
the wind’s eye again.”

“At all events we will have a broadside ready for him,”

replied the captain. “Clear away the starboard guns, and
take out the tompions. Pipe starboard watch to quarters.”
The Enterprise closed with the frigate to windward,
intending to run round her stern and bring to on the same
tack.

“He does not shorten sail yet, sir,” said the first-lieutenant,
as the schooner appeared skimming along about a cable’s
length on their weather bow.

“And she is full of men, sir,” said the master, looking at her
through the night-glass.

“Fire a gun at her!” said the captain.

Bang! The smoke cleared away, and the schooner’s

foretopsail, which she was in the act of clewing up, lay over
side. The shot had struck the foremast of the Enterprise,
and cut it in two below the catharpings. The Enterprise was,
for the time, completely disabled.

“Schooner ahoy! What schooner is that?”

“His Majesty’s schooner Enterprise.”

“Send a boat on board immediately.”

“Ay, ay, sir.”

“Turn the hands up? Shorten sail!”

The top-gallant and courses of the frigate were taken in,

and the mainsail hove to the mast.

“Signalman, whereabouts is that other schooner now?”

“The schooner, sir? On the quarter,” replied the signalman,

who with everybody else on board, was so anxious about
the Enterprise, that they had neglected to watch the
motions of the supposed American. The man had replied at
random, and he now jumped upon the signal-chests abaft
to look for her. But she was not to be seen. Cain, who had
watched all that passed between the other two vessels, and
had been prepared to slip off at a moment’s warning, as
soon as the gun was fired at the other schooner, had wore
round and made all sail on a wind. The night-glass
discovered her half a mile astern; and the ruse was
immediately perceived. The frigate filled and made sail,
leaving Edward to return on board—for there was no time to
stop for the boat—tacked, and gave chase. But the Avenger
was soon in the wind’s-eye of her; and at daylight was no
longer to be seen.

In the meantime, Edward Templemore had followed the

frigate as soon as he could set sail on his vessel, indignant
at his treatment, and vowing that he would demand a
court-martial. About noon the frigate rejoined him, when
matters were fully explained. Annoyed as they all felt at not
having captured the pirate, it was unanimously agreed, that
by his audacity and coolness he deserved to escape. It was
found that the mast of the Enterprise could be fished and
scarfed, so as to enable her to continue her cruise. The
carpenters of the frigate were sent on board; and in two
days the injury was repaired, and Edward Templemore once
more went in pursuit of the Avenger.
 Chapter Fifteen.

The Mistake.

The Avenger stood under a press of sail to the northward.

She had left her pursuers far behind; and there was not a
speck on the horizon, when, on the second morning,
Francisco, who had resumed his berth in the captain’s cabin,
went up on deck. Notwithstanding the request of Cain,
Francisco refused to take any part in the command of the
schooner, considering himself as a passenger, or prisoner on
parole.

He had not been on deck but a few minutes, when he

observed the two Spanish fishermen belonging to the
establishment of Don Cumanos conversing together
forward. Their capture had quite escaped his memory, and
he went forward to speak to them. Their surprise at seeing
him was great, until Francisco informed them of what had
passed. They then recounted what had occurred to them,
and showed their thumbs, which had been put into screws
to torture from them the truth. Francisco shuddered, but
consoled them by promising that they should soon be at
liberty, and return to their former master.

As Francisco returned from forward, he found Hawkhurst on

the deck. Their eyes met and flashed in enmity. Hawkhurst
was pale from loss of blood, and evidently suffering; but he
had been informed of the apparent reconciliation between
Francisco and the captain, and he could no longer remain in
his bed. He knew, also, how the captain had avoided the
combat with the Enterprise; and something told him that
there was a revolution of feeling in more than one point.
Suffering as he was, he resolved to be a spectator of what
passed, and to watch narrowly. For both Francisco and Cain
he had imbibed a deadly hatred, and was watching for an
opportunity to wreak his revenge. At present they were too
powerful; but he felt that the time was coming when he
might be triumphant.

Francisco passed Hawkhurst without speaking.

“You are at liberty again, I see,” observed Hawkhurst with a

sneer.

“I am not, at all events, indebted to you for it,” replied

Francisco, haughtily; “nor for my life either.”

“No, indeed; but I believe that I am indebted to you for this

bullet in my shoulder,” replied the mate.

“You are,” replied Francisco, coolly.

“And depend upon it the debt shall be repaid with usury.”

“I have no doubt of it, if ever it is in your power; but I fear

you not.”

As Francisco made this reply, the captain came up the

ladder. Hawkhurst turned away and walked forward.

“There is mischief in that man, Francisco,” said the captain

in an under-tone; “I hardly know whom to trust; but he
must be watched. He is tampering with the men, and has
been for some time; not that it is of much consequence, if
he does but remain quiet for a little while. The command of
this vessel he is welcome to very soon; but if he attempts
too early—”

“I have those I can trust to,” replied Francisco. “Let us go

below.”
Francisco sent for Pompey the Krouman, and gave him his
directions in the presence of the captain. That night, to the
surprise of all, Hawkhurst kept his watch; and
notwithstanding the fatigue, appeared every day to be
rapidly recovering from his wound.

Nothing occurred for several days, during which the

Avenger still continued her course. What the captain’s
intentions were did not transpire; they were known only to
Francisco.

“We are very short of water, sir,” reported Hawkhurst one

morning: “shall we have enough to last us to where we are
going?”

“How many days of full allowance have we on board?”

“Not above twelve at the most.”

“Then we must go on half allowance,” replied Cain.

“The ship’s company wish to know where we are going, sir.”

“Have they deputed you to ask the question?”

“Not exactly, sir; but I wish to know myself,” replied

Hawkhurst, with an insolent air.

“Turn the hands up,” replied Cain: “as one of the ship’s
company under my orders, you will, with the others, receive
the information you require.”

The crew of the pirate collected aft.

“My lads,” said Cain, “I understand, from the first mate,

that you are anxious to know where you are going? In reply,
I acquaint you, that having so many wounded men on
board, and so much plunder in the hold, I intend to repair
to our rendezvous when we were formerly in this part of the
world—the Caicos. Is there any other question you may
wish to ask of me?”

“Yes,” replied Hawkhurst; “we wish to know what your

intentions are relative to that young man Francisco. We
have lost immense wealth; we have now thirty men
wounded in the hammocks, and nine we left dead on the
shore; and I have a bullet through my body, all of which has
been occasioned by him. We demand justice!”

Here Hawkhurst was supported by several of the pirates;

and there were many voices which repeated the cry of
“Justice!”

“My men! you demand justice, and you shall have it,”
replied Cain. “This lad you all know well; I have brought him
up from a child. He has always disliked our mode of life, and
has often requested to leave it, but has been refused. He
challenged me by our own laws, ‘Blood for blood!’ He
wounded me; but he was right in his challenge, and,
therefore, I bear no malice. Had I been aware that he was
to have been sent on shore to die with hunger, I would not
have permitted it. What crime had he committed? None; or,
if any, it was against me. He was then sentenced to death
for no crime, and you yourselves exclaimed against it. Is it
not true?”

“Yes—yes,” replied the majority of the pirates.

“By a miracle he escapes, and is put in charge of another

man’s property. He is made a prisoner, and now you
demand justice. You shall have it. Allowing that his life is
forfeit for this offence,—you have already sentenced him,
and left him to death unjustly, and therefore are bound in
justice to give his life in this instance. I ask it, my men, not
only as his right, but as a favour to your captain.”

“Agreed; it’s all fair!” exclaimed the majority of the pirate’s

crew.

“My men, I thank you,” replied Cain; “and in return, as soon

as we arrive at the Caicos, my share of the plunder on
board shall be divided among you.”

This last observation completely turned the tables in favour

of the captain; and those who had joined Hawkhurst now
sided with the captain. Hawkhurst looked like a demon.

“Let those who choose to be bought off, take your money,”

replied he; “but I will not. Blood for blood I will have; and
so I give you warning. That lad’s life is mine, and have it I
will! Prevent me, if you can!” continued the mate, holding
up his clenched hand, and shaking it almost in the pirate-
captain’s face.

The blood mantled even to the forehead of Cain. One

moment he raised himself to his utmost height, then seizing
a hand spike, which lay near, he felled Hawkhurst to the
deck.

“Take that for your mutiny!” exclaimed Cain, putting his foot
on Hawkhurst’s neck. “My lads, I appeal to you. Is this man
worthy to be in command as mate? Is he to live?”

“No! no!” cried the pirates. “Death!”

Francisco stepped forward. “My men, you have granted your

captain one favour; grant me another, which is the life of
this man. Recollect how often he has led you to conquest,
and how brave and faithful he has been until now! Recollect
that he is suffering under his wound, which has made him
irritable. Command you he cannot any longer, as he will
never have the confidence of your captain; but let him live,
and quit the vessel.”

“Be it so, if you agree,” replied Cain, looking at the men; “I

do not seek his life.”

The pirates consented. Hawkhurst rose slowly from the

deck, and was assisted below to his cabin. The second mate
was then appointed as the first, and the choice of the man
to fill up the vacancy was left to the pirate-crew.

For three days after this scene all was quiet and orderly on
board of the pirate. Cain, now that he had more fully made
up his mind how to act, imparted to Francisco his plans;
and his giving up to the men his share of the booty still on
board was, to Francisco, an earnest of his good intentions.
A cordiality, even a kind of feeling which never existed
before, was created between them; but of Francisco’s
mother, and the former events of his own life, the pirate
never spoke. Francisco more than once put questions on the
subject; the answer was,—“You shall know some of these
days, Francisco, but not yet; you would hate me too much!”

The Avenger was now clear of the English isles, and with
light winds running down the shores of Porto Rico. In the
evening of the day on which they had made the land, the
schooner was becalmed about three miles from the shore,
and the new first mate proposed that he should land in the
boat and obtain a further supply of water from a fall which
they had discovered with the glasses. As this was
necessary, Cain gave his consent, and the boat quitted the
vessel full of breakers.

Now it happened that the Avenger lay becalmed abreast of

the country-seat of Don d’Alfarez, the governor of the
island. Clara had seen the schooner; and, as usual, had
thrown out the white curtain as a signal of recognition; for
there was no perceptible difference, even to a sailor, at that
distance, between the Avenger and the Enterprise. She had
hastened down to the beach, and hurried into the cave,
awaiting the arrival of Edward Templemore. The pirate-boat
landed at the very spot of rendezvous, and the mate leaped
out of the boat. Clara flew to receive her Edward, and was
instantly seized by the mate, before she discovered her
mistake.

“Holy Virgin! who and what are you?” cried she, struggling
to disengage herself.

“One who is very fond of a pretty girl!” replied the pirate,

still detaining her.

“Unhand me, wretch!” cried Clara. “Are you aware whom

you are addressing?”

“Not I! nor do I care,” replied the pirate.

“You will perhaps, sir, when you learn that I am the

daughter of the governor!” exclaimed Clara, pushing him
away.

“Yes! by heavens! you are right, pretty lady, I do care; for a

governor’s daughter will fetch a good ransom at all events.
So come, my lads, a little help here; for she is as strong as
a young mule. Never mind the water, throw the beakers into
the boat again: we have a prize worth taking!”

Clara screamed; but she was gagged with a handkerchief

and lifted into the boat, which immediately rowed back to
the schooner.
When the mate came on board and reported his capture the
pirates were delighted at the prospect of addition to their
prize-money. Cain could not, of course, raise any
objections; it would have been so different from his general
practice, that it would have strengthened suspicions already
set afloat by Hawkhurst, which Cain was most anxious just
then to remove. He ordered the girl to be taken down into
the cabin, hoisted in the boat, and the breeze springing up
again, made sail.

In the mean time Francisco was consoling the unfortunate

Clara, and assuring her that she need be under no alarm,
promising her the protection of himself and the captain.

The poor girl wept bitterly, and it was not until Cain came
down into the cabin and corroborated the assurances of
Francisco that she could assume any degree of composure;
but to find friends when she had expected every insult and
degradation—for Francisco had acknowledged that the
vessel was a pirate—was some consolation. The kindness
and attention of Francisco restored her to comparative
tranquillity.

The next day she confided to him the reason of her coming
to the beach, and her mistake with regard to the two
vessels, and Francisco and Cain promised her that they
would themselves pay her ransom, and not wait until she
heard from her father. To divert her thoughts Francisco
talked much about Edward Templemore, and on that subject
Clara could always talk. Every circumstance attending the
amour was soon known to Francisco.

But the Avenger did not gain her rendezvous as soon as she
expected. When to the northward of Porto Rico an English
frigate bore down upon her, and the Avenger was obliged to
run for it. Before the wind is always a schooner’s worst
point of sailing, and the chase was continued for three days
before a fresh wind from the southward, until they had
passed the Bahama Isles.

The pirates suffered much from want of water, as it was

necessary still further to reduce their allowance. The frigate
was still in sight, although the Avenger had dropped her
astern when the wind became light, and at last it subsided
into a calm, which lasted two days more. The boats of the
frigate were hoisted out on the eve of the second day to
attack the schooner, then distant five miles, when a breeze
sprang up from the northward, and the schooner being then
to windward, left the enemy hull down.

It was not until the next day that Cain ventured to run
again to the southward to procure at one of the keys the
water so much required. At last it was obtained, but with
difficulty and much loss of time, from the scantiness of the
supply, and they again made sail for the Caicos. But they
were so much impeded by contrary winds and contrary
currents that it was not until three weeks after they had
been chased from Porto Rico that they made out the low
land of their former rendezvous.

We must now return to Edward Templemore in the

Enterprise, whom we left off the coast of South America in
search of the Avenger, which had so strangely slipped
through their fingers. Edward had examined the whole
coast, ran through the passage and round Trinidad, and
then started off to the Leeward Isles in his pursuit. He had
spoken every vessel he met with without gaining any
information, and had at last arrived off Porto Rico.

This was no time to think of Clara; but, as it was not out of

his way, he had run down the island, and as it was just
before dark when he arrived off that part of the coast where
the governor resided, he had hove to for a little while, and
had examined the windows: but the signal of recognition
was not made, and after waiting till dark he again made
sail, mad with disappointment, and fearing that all had been
discovered by the governor; whereas the fact was, that he
had only arrived two days after the forcible abduction of
Clara. Once more he directed his attention to the discovery
of the pirate, and after a fortnight’s examination of the
inlets and bays of the Island of St. Domingo without
success, his provisions and water being nearly expended,
he returned, in no very happy mood, to Port Royal.

In the mean time the disappearance of Clara had created

the greatest confusion in Porto Rico, and upon the
examination of her attendant, who was confronted by the
friar and the duenna, the amour of her mistress was
confessed. The appearance of the Avenger off the coast on
that evening confirmed their ideas that the Donna Clara had
been carried off by the English lieutenant, and Don Alfarez
immediately despatched a vessel to Jamaica, complaining of
the outrage, and demanding the restoration of his daughter.

This vessel arrived at Port Royal a few days before the

Enterprise, and the admiral was very much astonished. He
returned a very polite answer to Don Alfarez, promising an
investigation immediately upon the arrival of the schooner,
and to send a vessel with the result of the said
investigation.

“This is a pretty business,” said the admiral to his secretary.

“Young madcap, I sent him to look after a pirate and he
goes after the governor’s daughter! By the lord Harry, Mr
Templemore, but you and I shall have an account to settle.”

“I can hardly believe it, sir,” replied the secretary; “and yet
it does look suspicious. But on so short an acquaintance—”
“Who knows that, Mr Hadley? Send for his logs, and let us
examine them; he may have been keeping up the
acquaintance.”

The logs of the Enterprise were examined, and there were

the fatal words—Porto Rico, Porto Rico, bearing in every
division of the compass, and in every separate cruise, nay,
even when the schooner was charged with despatches.

“Plain enough,” said the admiral. “Confounded young

scamp, to embroil me in this way! Not that his marrying the
girl is any business of mine; but I will punish him for
disobedience of orders, at all events. Try him by a court-
martial, by heavens!”

The secretary made no reply: he knew very well that the

admiral would do no such thing.

“The Enterprise anchored at daylight, sir,” reported the

secretary as the admiral sat down to breakfast.

“And where’s Mr Templemore?”

“He is outside in the veranda. They have told him below of

what he has been accused, and he swears it is false. I
believe him, sir, for he appears half mad at the intelligence.”

“Stop a moment. Have you looked over his log?”

“Yes, sir. It appears that he was off Porto Rico on the 19th;
but the Spanish governor’s letter says that he was there on
the 17th, and again made his appearance on the 19th. I
mentioned it to him, and he declares upon his honour that
he was only there on the 19th, as stated in his log.”

“Well, let him come in and speak for himself.”

Edward came in, in a state of great agitation.

“Well, Mr Templemore, you have been playing pretty tricks!

What is all this, sir? Where is the girl, sir—the governor’s
daughter?”

“Where she is, sir, I cannot pretend to say; but I feel

convinced that she has been carried off by the pirates.”

“Pirates! Poor girl, I pity her!—and—I pity you too, Edward.

Come, sit down here, and tell me all that has happened.”

Edward knew the admiral’s character so well, that he

immediately disclosed all that had passed between him and
Clara. He then stated how the Avenger had escaped him by
deceiving the frigate, and the agreement made with Clara
to meet for the future on the beach, and his conviction that
the pirate schooner, so exactly similar in appearance to the
Enterprise, must have preceded him at Porto Rico, and have
carried off the object of his attachment.

Although Edward might have been severely taken to task,

yet the admiral pitied him, and, therefore, said nothing
about his visits to Porto Rico. When breakfast was over he
ordered the signal to be made for a sloop of war to prepare
to weigh, and the Enterprise to be revictualled by the boats
of the squadron.

“Now, Edward, you and the Comus shall sail in company

after this rascally pirate, and I trust you will give me a good
account of her, and also of the governor’s daughter. Cheer
up, my boy! depend upon it they will try for ransom before
they do her any injury.”

That evening the Enterprise and Comus sailed on their

expedition, and having run by Porto Rico and delivered a
letter to the governor, they steered to the northward, and
early the next morning made the land of the Caicos, just as
the Avenger had skirted the reefs and bore up for the
narrow entrance.

“There she is!” exclaimed Edward; “there she is, by

heavens!” making the signal for the enemy, which was
immediately answered by the Comus.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Caicos.

The small patch of islands called the Caicos, or Cayques, is

situated about two degrees to the northward of Saint
Domingo, and is nearly the southernmost of a chain which
extends up to the Bahamas. Most of the islands of this chain
are uninhabited, but were formerly the resort of piratical
vessels,—the reefs and shoals with which they are all
surrounded afforded them protection from their larger
pursuers, and the passages through this dangerous
navigation being known only to the pirates who frequented
them, proved an additional security. The largest of the
Caicos islands forms a curve, like an opened horseshoe, to
the southward, with safe and protected anchorage when
once in the bay on the southern side; but, previous to
arriving at the anchorage, there are coral reefs, extending
upwards of forty miles, through which it is necessary to
conduct a vessel. This passage is extremely intricate, but
was well known to Hawkhurst, who had hitherto been pilot.
Cain was not so well acquainted with it and it required the
greatest care in taking in the vessel, as, on the present
occasion, Hawkhurst could not be called upon for this
service. The islands themselves—for there were several of
them—were composed of coral rock; a few cocoa-trees
raised their lofty heads where there was sufficient earth for
vegetation, and stunted brush-wood rose up between the
interstices of the rocks. But the chief peculiarity of the
islands, and which rendered them suitable to those who
frequented them, was the numerous caves with which the
rocks were perforated, some above high-water mark, but
the majority with the sea-water flowing in and out of them,
in some cases merely rushing in, and at high-water filling
deep pools, which were detached from each other when the
tide receded, in others with a sufficient depth of water at all
times to allow you to pull in with a large boat. It is hardly
necessary to observe how convenient the higher and dry
caves were as receptacles for articles which were intended
to be concealed until an opportunity occurred for disposing
of them.

In our last chapter we stated that, just as the Avenger had

entered the passage through the reefs, the Comus and
Enterprise hove in sight and discovered her: but it will be
necessary to explain the positions of the vessels. The
Avenger had entered the southern channel, with the wind
from the southward, and had carefully sounded her way for
about four miles, under little or no sail.

The Enterprise and Comus had been examining Turk’s

Island, to the eastward of the Caicos, and had passed to the
northward of it on the larboard tack, standing in for the
northern point of the reef, which joined on to the great
Caicos Island. They were, therefore, in a situation to
intercept the Avenger before she arrived at her anchorage,
had it not been for the reefs that barred their passage. The
only plan which the English vessels could act upon was to
beat to the southward, so as to arrive at the entrance of the
passage, when the Enterprise would, of course, find
sufficient water to follow the Avenger; for, as the passage
was too narrow to beat through, and the wind was from the
southward, the Avenger could not possibly escape. She was
caught in a trap; and all that she had to trust to was the
defence which she might be able to make in her stronghold
against the force which could be employed in the attack.
The breeze was fresh from the southward, and appeared
inclined to increase, when the Comus and Enterprise made
all sail, and worked, in short tacks, outside the reef.

On board the Avenger, the enemy and their motions were

clearly distinguished, and Cain perceived that he was in an
awkward dilemma. That they would be attacked he had no
doubt; and although, at any other time, he would almost
have rejoiced in such an opportunity of discomfiting his
assailants, yet now he thought very differently, and would
have sacrificed almost everything to have been able to
avoid the rencontre, and be permitted quietly to withdraw
himself from his associates, without the spilling of more
blood. Francisco was equally annoyed at this unfortunate
collision; but no words were exchanged between him and
the pirate-captain during the time that they were on deck.

It was about nine o’clock, when having safely passed nearly

half through the channel, that Cain ordered the kedge-
anchor to be dropped, and sent down the people to their
breakfast. Francisco went down into the cabin, and was
explaining their situation to Clara, when Cain entered. He
threw himself on the locker, and appeared lost in deep and
sombre meditation.

“What do you intend to do?” said Francisco.

“I do not know; I will not decide myself, Francisco,” replied

Cain. “If I were to act upon my own judgment, probably I
should allow the schooner to remain where she is. They can
only attack in the boats, and, in such a case, I do not fear;
whereas, if we run right through, we allow the other
schooner to follow us, without defending the passage; and
we may be attacked by her in the deep water inside, and
overpowered by the number of men the two vessels will be
able to bring against us. On the other hand, we certainly
may defend the schooner from the shore as well as on
board; but we are weak-handed. I shall, however, call up
the ship’s company and let them decide. God knows, if left
to me I would not fight at all.”

“Is there no way of escape?” resumed Francisco.

“Yes, we might abandon the schooner; and this night, when

they would not expect it, run with the boats through the
channel between the great island and the north Cayque: but
that I daren’t propose, and the men would not listen to it:
indeed, I very much doubt if the enemy will allow us the
time. I knew this morning, long before we saw those
vessels, that my fate would be decided before the sun went
down.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this, Francisco,” said Cain; “that your mother, who

always has visited me in my dreams whenever anything
(dreadful now to think of!) was about to take place,
appeared to me last night; and there was sorrow and pity in
her sweet face as she mournfully waved her hand, as if to
summon me to follow her. Yes, thank God! she no longer
looked upon me as for many years she has done.”

Francisco made no answer; and Cain again seemed to be

lost in meditation.

After a little while Cain rose, and taking a small packet from
one of the drawers, put it into the hands of Francisco.
“Preserve that,” said the pirate-captain; “should any
accident happen to me, it will tell you who was your
mother; and it also contains directions for finding treasure
which I have buried. I leave everything to you, Francisco. It
has been unfairly obtained; but you are not the guilty party,
and there are none to claim it. Do not answer me now. You
may find friends, whom you will make after I am gone, of
the same opinion as I am. I tell you again, be careful of that
packet.”

“I see little chance of it availing me,” replied Francisco. “If I

live, shall I not be considered as a pirate?”

“No, no; you can prove the contrary.”

“I have my doubts. But God’s will be done!”

“Yes, God’s will be done!” said Cain, mournfully. “I dared not

have said that a month ago.” And the pirate-captain went
on deck, followed by Francisco.

The crew of the Avenger were summoned aft, and called

upon to decide as to the measures they considered to be
most advisable. They preferred weighing the anchor and
running into the bay, where they would be able to defend
the schooner, in their opinion, much better than by
remaining where they were.

The crew of the pirate-schooner weighed the anchor and

continued their precarious course: the breeze had
freshened, and the water was in strong ripples, so that they
could no longer see the danger beneath her bottom. In the
meantime, the sloop of war and Enterprise continued to
turn to windward outside the reef.

By noon the wind had considerably increased, and the

breakers now turned and broke in wild foam over the coral
reefs, in every direction. The sail was still more reduced on
board the Avenger, and her difficulties increased from the
rapidity of her motion.

A storm-jib was set, and the others hauled down yet even
under this small sail she flew before the wind.

Cain stood at the bowsprit, giving his directions to the

helmsman. More than once they had grazed the rocks and
were clear again. Spars were towed astern, and every
means resorted to, to check her way. They had no guide but
the breaking of the wild water on each side of them.

“Why should not Hawkhurst, who knows the passage so

well, be made to pilot us?” said the boatswain to those who
were near him on the forecastle.

“To be sure! let’s have him up!” cried several of the crew;
and some of them went down below.

In a minute they reappeared with Hawkhurst, whom they

led forward. He did not make any resistance, and the crew
demanded that he should pilot the vessel.

“And suppose I will not?” said Hawkhurst, coolly.

“Then you lose your passage, that’s all,” replied the

boatswain. “Is it not so, my lads?” continued he, appealing
to the crew.

“Yes; either take us safe in, or—overboard,” replied several.

“I do not mind that threat, my lads,” replied Hawkhurst;

“you have all known me as a good man and true, and it’s
not likely that I shall desert you now. Well, since your
captain there cannot save you, I suppose I must; but,”
exclaimed he, looking about him, “how’s this? We are out of
the passage already. Yes—and whether we can get into it
again I cannot tell.”

“We are not out of the passage,” said Cain; “you know we
are not.”

“Well, then, if the captain knows better than I, he had

better take you through,” rejoined Hawkhurst.

But the crew thought differently, and insisted that

Hawkhurst, who well knew the channel, should take charge.
Cain retired aft, as Hawkhurst went out on the bowsprit.

“I will do my best, my lads,” said Hawkhurst “but recollect,

if we strike in trying to get into the right channel, do not
blame me. Starboard a little—starboard yet—steady, so—
there’s the true passage my lads,” cried he, pointing to
some smoother water between the breakers; “port a little—
steady.”

But Hawkhurst, who knew that he was to be put on shore

as soon as convenient, had resolved to lose the schooner,
even if his own life were forfeited, and he was now running
her out of the passage on the rocks. A minute after he had
conned her, she struck heavily again and again. The third
time she struck, she came broadside to the wind and heeled
over: a sharp coral rock found its way through her slight
timbers and planking, and the water poured in rapidly.

During this there was a dead silence on the part of the

marauders.

“My lads,” said Hawkhurst, “I have done my best, and now

you may throw me overboard if you please. It was not my
fault, but his,” continued he, pointing to the captain.
“It is of little consequence whose fault it was, Mr
Hawkhurst,” replied Cain; “we will settle that point by-and-
by; at present we have too much on our hands. Out boats,
men! as fast as you can, and let every man provide himself
with arms and ammunition. Be cool! the schooner is fixed
hard enough, and will not go down; we shall save
everything by-and-by.”

The pirates obeyed the orders of the captain. The three

boats were hoisted out and lowered down. In the first were
placed all the wounded men and Clara d’Alfarez, who was
assisted up by Francisco. As soon as the men had provided
themselves with arms, Francisco, to protect Clara, offered
to take charge of her, and the boat shoved off.

The men-of-war had seen the Avenger strike on the rocks,

and the preparations of the crew to take to their boats.
They immediately hove to, hoisted out and manned their
own boats, with the hopes of cutting them off before they
could gain the island and prepare for a vigorous defence;
for, although the vessels could not approach the reefs, there
was sufficient water in many places for the boats to pass
over them. Shortly after Francisco, in the first boat, had
shoved off from the Avenger, the boats of the men-of-war
were darting through the surf to intercept them. The pirates
perceived this, and hastened their arrangements; a second
boat soon left her, and into that Hawkhurst leaped as it was
shoving off. Cain remained on board, going round the lower
decks to ascertain if any of the wounded men were left; he
then quitted the schooner in the last boat and followed the
others, being about a quarter of a mile astern of the
second, in which Hawkhurst had secured his place.

At the time that Cain quitted the schooner, it was difficult to

say whether the men-of-war’s boats would succeed in
intercepting any of the pirate’s boats. Both parties exerted
themselves to their utmost; and when the first boat, with
Francisco and Clara, landed, the headmost of the assailants
was not much more than half a mile from them; but,
shallow water intervening, there was a delay, which was
favourable to the pirate. Hawkhurst landed in his boat as
the launch of the Comus fired her eighteen-pound
carronade. The last boat was yet two hundred yards from
the beach, when another shot from the Comus’s launch,
which had been unable hitherto to find a passage through
the reef, struck her on the counter, and she filled and went
down.

“He is gone!” exclaimed Francisco, who had led Clara to a

cave, and stood at the mouth of it to protect her: “they
have sunk his boat—no, he is swimming to the shore, and
will be here soon, long before the English seamen can land.”

This was true. Cain was breasting the water manfully,

making for a small cove nearer to where the boat was sunk
than the one in which Francisco had landed with Clara and
the wounded men, and divided from the other by a ridge of
rocks which separated the sandy beach, and extended some
way into the water before they were submerged. Francisco
could easily distinguish the pirate-captain from the other
men, who also were swimming for the beach; for Cain was
far ahead of them, and as he gained nearer to the shore he
was shut from Francisco’s sight by the ridge of rocks.
Francisco, anxious for his safety, climbed up the rocks and
was watching. Cain was within a few yards of the beach
when there was the report of a musket; the pirate-captain
was seen to raise his body convulsively half out of the water
—he floundered—the clear blue wave was discoloured—he
sank, and was seen no more.

Francisco darted forward from the rocks, and perceived

Hawkhurst, standing beneath them with the musket in his
hand, which he was recharging.

“Villain!” exclaimed Francisco, “you shall account for this.”

Hawkhurst had reprimed his musket and shut the pan.

“Not to you,” replied Hawkhurst, levelling his piece, and

taking aim at Francisco.

The ball struck Francisco on the breast; he reeled back from

his position, staggered across the sand, gained the cave,
and fell at the feet of Clara.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed the poor girl, “are you hurt? who is
there then, to protect me?”

“I hardly know,” replied Francisco, faintly; and, at intervals,

“I feel no wound, I feel stronger;” and Francisco put his
hand to his heart.

Clara opened his vest, and found that the packet given to
Francisco by Cain, and which he had deposited in his breast,
had been struck by the bullet, which had done him no injury
further than the violent concussion of the blow—
notwithstanding he was faint from the shock, and his head
fell upon Clara’s bosom.

But we must relate the proceedings of those who were

mixed up in this exciting scene. Edward Templemore had
watched from his vessel, with an eager and painful curiosity,
the motions of the schooner—her running on the rocks, and
the subsequent actions of the intrepid marauders. The long
telescope enabled him to perceive distinctly all that passed,
and his feelings were increased into a paroxysm of agony
when his straining eyes beheld the white and fluttering
habiliments of a female for a moment at the gunwale of the
stranded vessel—her descent, as it appeared to him,
nothing loth, into the boat—the arms held out to receive,
and the extension of hers to meet those offered. Could it be
Clara? Where was the reluctance, the unavailing attempts at
resistance, which should have characterised her situation?
Excited by feelings which he dared not analyse, he threw
down his glass, and seizing his sword, sprang into the boat,
which was ready manned alongside, desiring the others to
follow him. For once, and the only time in his existence
when approaching the enemy, did he feel his heart sink
within him—a cold tremor ran through his whole frame, and
as he called to mind the loose morals and desperate habits
of the pirates, horrible thoughts entered his imagination. As
he neared the shore, he stood up in the stern-sheets of the
boat, pale, haggard, and with trembling lips; and the
intensity of his feelings would have been intolerable but for
a more violent thirst for revenge. He clenched his sword,
while the quick throbs of his heart seemed, at every
pulsation, to repeat to him his thoughts of blood! blood!
blood! He approached the small bay and perceived that
there was a female at the mouth of the cave—nearer and
nearer, and he was certain that it was his Clara—her name
was on his lips when he heard the two shots fired one after
another by Hawkhurst—he saw the retreat and fall of
Francisco—when, madness to behold! he perceived Clara
rush forward, and there lay the young man supported by
her, and with his head on her bosom. Could he believe what
he saw! could she really be his betrothed! Yes, there she
was, supporting the handsome figure of a young man, and
that man a pirate—she had even put her hand into his vest,
and was now watching over his reviving form. Edward could
bear no more: he covered his eyes, and now, maddened
with jealousy, in a voice of thunder, he called out:

“Give way, my lads! for your lives, give way!”

The gig was within half-a-dozen strokes of the oar from the
beach, and Clara, unconscious of wrong, had just taken the
packet of papers from Francisco’s vest, when Hawkhurst
made his appearance from behind the rocks which
separated the two little sandy coves. Francisco had
recovered his breath, and, perceiving the approach of
Hawkhurst, he sprang upon his feet to recover his musket;
but, before he could succeed, Hawkhurst had closed in with
him, and a short and dreadful struggle ensued. It would
soon have terminated fatally to Francisco, for the superior
strength of Hawkhurst had enabled him to bear down the
body of his opponent with his knee; and he was fast
strangling him by twisting his handkerchief round his throat,
while Clara shrieked, and attempted in vain to tear the
pirate from him. As the prostrate Francisco was fast
blackening into a corse, and the maiden screamed for pity,
and became frantic in her efforts for his rescue, the boat
dashed high up on the sand; and, with the bound of a
maddened tiger, Edward sprang upon Hawkhurst, tearing
him down on his back, and severing his wrist with his
sword-blade until his hold of Francisco was relaxed, and he
wrestled in his own defence.

“Seize him, my lads!” said Edward, pointing with his left

hand to Hawkhurst; as with his sword directed to the body
of Francisco he bitterly continued, “This victim is mine!” But
whatever were his intentions, they were frustrated by
Clara’s recognition, who shrieked out, “My Edward!” sprang
into his arms, and was immediately in a state of
insensibility.

The seamen who had secured Hawkhurst looked upon the

scene with curious astonishment, while Edward waited with
mingled feelings of impatience and doubt for Clara’s
recovery: he wished to be assured by her that he was
mistaken, and he turned again and again from her face to
that of Francisco, who was fast recovering. During this
painful suspense, Hawkhurst was bound and made to sit
down.

“Edward! dear Edward!” said Clara, at last, in a faint voice,

clinging more closely to him; “and am I then rescued by
thee, dearest!”

Edward felt the appeal; but his jealousy had not yet
subsided.

“Who is that, Clara?” said he sternly.

“It is Francisco. No pirate, Edward, but my preserver.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Hawkhurst, with a bitter sneer, for he

perceived how matters stood.

Edward Templemore turned towards him with an inquiring

look.

“Ha, ha!” continued Hawkhurst; “why, he is the captain’s

son! No pirate, eh? Well, what will women not swear to, to
save those they dote upon!”

“If the captain’s son,” said Edward, “why were you

contending?”

“Because just now I shot his scoundrel father.”

“Edward!” said Clara, solemnly, “this is no time for

explanation, but, as I hope for mercy, what I have said is
true; believe not the villain.”

“Yes,” said Francisco, who was now sitting up, “believe him
when he says that he shot the captain, for that is true; but,
sir, if you value your own peace of mind, believe nothing to
the prejudice of that young lady.”

“I hardly know what to believe,” muttered Edward

Templemore; “but, as the lady says, this is no time for
explanation. With your permission, madam,” said he to
Clara, “my coxswain will see you in safety on board of the
schooner, or the other vessel, if you prefer it; my duty will
not allow me to accompany you.”

Clara darted a reproachful yet fond look on Edward, as, with

swimming eyes, she was led by the coxswain to the boat,
which had been joined by the launch of the Comus, the
crew of which were, with their officers, wading to the beach.
The men of the gig remained until they had given
Hawkhurst and Francisco in charge of the other seamen,
and then shoved off with Clara for the schooner. Edward
Templemore gave one look at the gig as it conveyed Clara
on board, and ordering Hawkhurst and Francisco to be
taken to the launch, and a guard to be kept over them,
went up, with the remainder of the men, in pursuit of the
pirates.

During the scene we have described, the other boats of the

men-of-war had landed on the island, and the Avenger’s
crew, deprived of their leaders, and scattered in every
direction, were many of them slain or captured. In about
two hours it was supposed that the majority of the pirates
had been accounted for, and the prisoners being now very
numerous, it was decided that the boats should return with
them to the Comus, the captain of which vessel, as
commanding officer, would then issue orders as to their
future proceedings.

The captured pirates, when mustered on the deck of the

Comus, amounted to nearly sixty, out of which number one-
half were those who had been sent on shore wounded, and
had surrendered without resistance. Of killed there were
fifteen; and it was conjectured that as many more had been
drowned in the boat when she was sunk by the shot from
the carronade of the launch. Although, by the account given
by the captured pirates, the majority were secured, yet
there was reason to suppose that some were still left on the
island concealed in the caves.

As the captain of the Comus had orders to return as soon as

possible, he decided to sail immediately for Port Royal with
the prisoners, leaving the Enterprise to secure the
remainder, if there were any, and recover anything of value
which might be left in the wreck of the Avenger, and then to
destroy her.

With the usual celerity of the service these orders were

obeyed. The pirates, among whom Francisco was included,
were secured, the boats hoisted up, and in half an hour the
Comus displayed her ensign, and made all sail on a wind,
leaving Edward Templemore with the Enterprise, at the back
of the reef, to perform the duties entailed upon him; and
Clara, who was on board of the schooner, to remove the
suspicion and jealousy which had arisen in the bosom of her
lover.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Trial.

In a week, the Comus arrived at Port Royal, and the captain

went up to the Penn to inform the admiral of the successful
result of the expedition.
“Thank God,” said the admiral, “we have caught these
villains at last! A little hanging will do them no harm. The
captain, you say, was drowned?”

“So it is reported, sir,” replied Captain Manly; “he was in the

last boat which left the schooner, and she was sunk by a
shot from the launch.”

“I am sorry for that; the death was too good for him.
However, we must make an example of the rest; they must
be tried by the Admiralty Court, which has the jurisdiction
of the high seas. Send them on shore, Manly, and we wash
our hands of them.”

“Very good, sir: but there are still some left on the island,
we have reason to believe; and the Enterprise is in search
of them.”

“By-the-by, did Templemore find his lady?”

“Oh yes, sir; and—all’s right, I believe: but I had very little
to say to him on the subject.”

“Humph!” replied the admiral. “I am glad to hear it. Well,

send them on shore, Manly, to the proper authorities. If any
more be found, they must be hung afterwards when
Templemore brings them in. I am more pleased at having
secured these scoundrels than if we had taken a French
frigate.”

About three weeks after this conversation, the secretary

reported to the admiral that the Enterprise had made her
number outside; but that she was becalmed, and would not
probably be in until the evening.

“That’s a pity,” replied the admiral; “for the pirates are to be

tried this morning. He may have more of them on board.”
“Very true, sir; but the trial will hardly be over to-day: the
judge will not be in court till one o’clock at the soonest.”

“It’s of little consequence, certainly; as it is, there are so

many that they must be hanged by divisions. However, as
he is within signal distance, let them telegraph ‘Pirates now
on trial.’ He can pull on shore in his gig, if he pleases.”

It was about noon on the same day that the pirates, and
among them Francisco, escorted by a strong guard, were
conducted to the Court House, and placed at the bar. The
Court House was crowded to excess, for the interest excited
was intense.

Many of them who had been wounded in the attack upon

the property of Don Cumanos, and afterwards captured,
had died in their confinement. Still forty-five were placed at
the bar; and their picturesque costume, their bearded faces,
and the atrocities which they had committed, created in
those present a sensation of anxiety mingled with horror
and indignation.

Two of the youngest amongst them had been permitted to

turn king’s evidence. They had been on board of the
Avenger but a few months; still their testimony as to the
murder of the crews of three West India ships, and the
attack upon the property of Don Cumanos, was quite
sufficient to condemn the remainder.

Much time was necessarily expended in going through the

forms of the court; in the pirates answering to their various
names; and, lastly, in taking down the detailed evidence of
the above men. It was late when the evidence was read
over to the pirates, and they were asked if they had
anything to offer in their defence. The question was
repeated by the judge; when Hawkhurst was the first to
speak. To save himself he could scarcely hope; his only
object was to prevent Francisco pleading his cause
successfully, and escaping the same disgraceful death.

Hawkhurst declared that he had been some time on board

the Avenger, but that he had been taken out of a vessel and
forced to serve against his will, as could be proved by the
captain’s son, who stood there (pointing to Francisco), who
had been in the schooner since her first fitting out:—that he
had always opposed the captain, who would not part with
him, because he was the only one on board who was
competent to navigate the schooner: that he had intended
to rise against him, and take the vessel, having often
stimulated the crew so to do; and that, as the other men,
as well as the captain’s son, could prove, if they chose, he
actually was in confinement for that attempt when the
schooner was entering the passage to the Caicos; and that
he was only released because he was acquainted with the
passage, and threatened to be thrown overboard if he did
not take her in; that, at every risk, he had run her on the
rocks; and aware that the captain would murder him, he
had shot Cain as he was swimming to the shore, as the
captain’s son could prove; for he had taxed him with it, and
he was actually struggling with him for life, when the
officers and boat’s crew separated them, and made them
both prisoners: that he hardly expected that Francisco, the
captain’s son, would tell the truth to save him, as he was
his bitter enemy, and in the business at the Magdalen river,
which had been long planned (for Francisco had been sent
on shore under the pretence of being wrecked, but, in fact,
to ascertain where the booty was, and to assist the pirates
in their attack), Francisco had taken the opportunity of
putting a bullet through his shoulder, which was well known
to the other pirates, and Francisco could not venture to
deny. He trusted that the court would order the torture to
Francisco, and then he would probably speak the truth; at
all events, let him speak now.

When Hawkhurst had ceased to address the court, there

was an anxious pause for some minutes. The day was fast
declining, and most parts of the spacious Court House were
already deeply immersed in gloom; while the light, sober,
solemn, and almost sad, gleamed upon the savage and
reckless countenances of the prisoners at the bar. The sun
had sunk down behind a mass of heavy yet gorgeous
clouds, fringing their edges with molten gold. Hawkhurst
had spoken fluently and energetically, and there was an
appearance of almost honesty in his coarse and deep-toned
voice. Even the occasional oaths with which his speech was
garnished, but which we have omitted, seemed to be
pronounced more in sincerity than in blasphemy, and gave a
more forcible impression to his narrative.

We have said, that when he concluded there was a profound

silence; and amid the fast-falling shadows of the evening,
those who were present began to feel, for the first time, the
awful importance of the drama before them, the number of
lives which were trembling upon the verge of existence,
depending upon the single word of “Guilty.” This painful
silence, this harrowing suspense, was at last broken by a
restrained sob from a female; but owing to the obscurity
involving the body of the court, her person could not be
distinguished. The wail of a woman so unexpected—for who
could there be of that sex interested in the fate of these
desperate men?—touched the heart of its auditors, and
appeared to sow the first seeds of compassionate and
humane feeling among those who had hitherto expressed
and felt nothing but indignation towards the prisoners.

The judge upon the bench, the counsel at the bar, and the
jury impannelled in their box, felt the force of the appeal;
and it softened down the evil impression created by the
address of Hawkhurst against the youthful Francisco. The
eyes of all were now directed towards the one doubly
accused—accused not only by the public prosecutor, but
even by his associate in crime,—and the survey was
favourable. They acknowledged that he was one whose
personal qualities might indeed challenge the love of
woman in his pride, and her lament in his disgrace; and as
their regard was directed towards him, the sun, which had
been obscured, now pierced through a break in the mass of
clouds, and threw a portion of his glorious beams from a
window opposite upon him, and him alone, while all the
other prisoners who surrounded him were buried more or
less in deep shadow. It was at once evident that his
associates were bold yet commonplace villains—men who
owed their courage, their only virtue perhaps, to their
habits, to their physical organisation, or the influence of
those around them. They were mere human butchers, with
the only adjunct that, now that the trade was to be
exercised upon themselves, they could bear it with sullen
apathy—a feeling how far removed from true fortitude!
Even Hawkhurst, though more commanding than the rest,
with all his daring mien and scowl of defiance, looked
nothing more than a distinguished ruffian. With the
exception of Francisco, the prisoners had wholly neglected
their personal appearance; and in them the squalid and
sordid look of the mendicant seemed allied with the ferocity
of the murderer.

Francisco was not only an exception, but formed a beautiful

contrast to the others; and as the evening beams lighted up
his figure, he stood at the bar, if not with all the splendour
of a hero of romance, certainly a most picturesque and
interesting personage, elegantly if not richly attired.
The low sobs at intervals repeated, as if impossible to be
checked, seemed to rouse and call him to a sense of the
important part which he was called upon to act in the
tragedy there and then performing. His face was pale, yet
composed; his mien at once proud and sorrowful: his eye
was bright, yet his glance was not upon those in court, but
far away, fixed, like an eagle’s, upon the gorgeous beams of
the setting sun, which glowed upon him through the window
that was in front of him.

At last the voice of Francisco was heard, and all in that wide
court started at the sound—deep, full, and melodious as the
evening chimes. The ears of those present had, in the
profound silence, but just recovered from the harsh, deep-
toned, and barbarous idiom of Hawkhurst’s address, when
the clear, silvery, yet manly voice of Francisco, riveted their
attention. The jury stretched forth their heads, the counsel
and all in court turned anxiously round towards the
prisoner, even the judge held up his forefinger to intimate
his wish for perfect silence.

“My lord and gentlemen,” commenced Francisco, “when I

first found myself in this degrading situation, I had not
thought to have spoken or to have uttered one word in my
defence. He that has just now accused me has
recommended the torture to be applied; he has already had
his wish, for what torture can be more agonising than to
find myself where I now am? So tortured, indeed, have I
been through a short yet wretched life, that I have often felt
that anything short of self-destruction which would release
me would be a blessing; but within these few minutes I
have been made to acknowledge that I have still feelings in
unison with my fellow-creatures; that I am not yet fit for
death, and all too young, too unprepared to die: for who
would not reluctantly leave this world while there is such a
beauteous sky to love and look upon, or while there is one
female breast who holds him innocent, and has evinced her
pity for his misfortunes? Yes, my lord! mercy, and pity, and
compassion, have not yet fled from earth; and therefore do
I feel I am too young to die. God forgive me! but I thought
they had—for never have they been shown in those with
whom by fate I have been connected; and it has been from
this conviction that I have so often longed for death. And
now may that righteous God who judges us not here, but
hereafter, enable me to prove that I do not deserve an
ignominious punishment from my fellow-sinners—men!

“My lord, I know not the subtleties of the laws, nor the
intricacy of pleadings. First, let me assert that I have never
robbed; but I have restored unto the plundered: I have
never murdered; but I have stood between the assassin’s
knife and his victim. For this have I been hated and reviled
by my associates, and for this, is my life now threatened by
those laws against which I never had offended. The man
who last addressed you has told you that I am the pirate-
captain’s son; it is the assertion of the only irreclaimable
and utterly remorseless villain among those who now stand
before you to be judged—the assertion of one whose glory,
whose joy, whose solace has been blood-shedding.

“My lord, I had it from the mouth of the captain himself,

previous to his murder by that man, that I was not his son.
His son! thank God, not so. Connected with him and in his
power I was, most certainly and most incomprehensibly.
Before he died, he delivered me a packet that would have
told me who I am; but I have lost it, and deeply have I felt
the loss. One only fact I gained from him whom they would
call my father, which is, that with his own hand he slew—
yes, basely slew—my mother.”

The address of Francisco was here interrupted by a low

deep groan of anguish, which startled the whole audience.
It was now quite dark, and the judge ordered the court to
be lighted previous to the defence being continued. The
impatience and anxiety of those present were shown in low
murmurs of communication until the lights were brought in.
The word “Silence!” from the judge produced an immediate
obedience, and the prisoner was ordered to proceed.

Francisco then continued his address, commencing with the

remembrances of his earliest childhood. As he warmed with
his subject, he became more eloquent; his action became
energetical without violence; and the pallid and modest
youth gradually grew into the impassioned and inspired
orator. He recapitulated rapidly, yet distinctly and with
terrible force, all the startling events in his fearful life. There
was truth in the tones of his voice, there was conviction in
his animated countenance, there was innocence in his open
and expressive brow.

All who heard believed; and scarcely had he concluded his

address, when the jury appeared impatient to rise and give
their verdict in his favour. But the judge stood up, and,
addressing the jury, told them that it was his most painful
duty to remind them that as yet they had heard but
assertion, beautiful and almost convincing assertion truly;
but still it was not proof.

“Alas!” observed Francisco, “what evidence can I bring

forward, except the evidence of those around me at the bar,
which will not be admitted? Can I recall the dead from the
grave? Can I expect those who have been murdered to rise
again to assert my innocence? Can I expect that Don
Cumanos will appear from distant leagues to give evidence
on my behalf? Alas he knows not how I am situated, or he
would have flown to my succour. No, no; not even can I
expect that the sweet Spanish maiden, the last to whom I
offered my protection, will appear in such a place as this to
meet the bold gaze of hundreds!”

“She is here!” replied a manly voice; and a passage was

made through the crowd; and Clara, supported by Edward
Templemore, dressed in his uniform, was ushered into the
box for the witnesses. The appearance of the fair girl, who
looked round her with alarm, created a great sensation. As
soon as she was sufficiently composed, she was sworn, and
gave her evidence as to Francisco’s behaviour during the
time that she was a prisoner on board of the Avenger. She
produced the packet which had saved the life of Francisco,
and substantiated a great part of his defence. She extolled
his kindness and his generosity; and when she had
concluded, every one asked of himself, “Can this young man
be a pirate and a murderer?” The reply was, “It is
impossible.”

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, “I request permission

to ask the prisoner a question. When I was on board of the
wreck of the Avenger, I found this book floating in the
cabin. I wish to ask the prisoner, whether, as that young
lady has informed me, it is his?” And Edward Templemore
produced the Bible.

“It is mine,” replied Francisco.

“May I ask you by what means it came into your

possession?”

“It is the only relic left of one who is now no more. It was
the consolation of my murdered mother; it has since been
mine. Give it to me, sir; I may probably need its support
now more than ever.”

“Was your mother murdered, say you?” cried Edward

Templemore, with much agitation.
“I have already said so; and I now repeat it.”

The judge again rose, and recapitulated the evidence to the

jury. Evidently friendly to Francisco he was obliged to point
out to them, that although the evidence of the young lady
had produced much which might be offered in extenuation,
and induce him to submit it to His Majesty, in hopes of his
gracious pardon after condemnation, yet, that many acts in
which the prisoner had been involved had endangered his
life and no testimony had been brought forward to prove
that he had not, at one time, acted with the pirates,
although he might since have repented. They would of
course, remember that the evidence of the mate,
Hawkhurst, was not of any value, and must dismiss any
impression which it might have made against Francisco. At
the same time he had the unpleasant duty to point out, that
the evidence of the Spanish lady was so far prejudicial, that
it pointed out the good terms subsisting between the young
man and the pirate-captain. Much as he was interested in
his fate, he must reluctantly remind the jury, that the
evidence on the whole was not sufficient to clear the
prisoner; and he considered it their duty to return a verdict
of guilty against all the prisoners at the bar.

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, a few seconds after the

judge had resumed his seat; “may not the contents of this
packet, the seal of which I have not ventured to break,
afford some evidence in favour of the prisoner? Have you
any objection that it should be opened previous to the jury
delivering their verdict?”

“None,” replied the judge: “but what are its supposed

contents?”

“The contents, my lord,” replied Francisco, “are in the

writing of the pirate-captain. He delivered that packet into
my hands previous to our quitting the schooner, stating that
it would inform me who were my parents. My lord, in my
present situation I claim that packet, and refuse that its
contents should be read in court. If I am to die an
ignominious death, at least those who are connected with
me shall not have to blush at my disgrace, for the secret of
my parentage shall die with me.”

“Nay—nay; be ruled by me,” replied Edward Templemore,

with much emotion. “In the narrative, the handwriting of
which can be proved by the king’s evidence, there may be
acknowledgment of all you have stated, and it will be
received as evidence; will it not, my lord?”

“If the handwriting is proved, I should think it may,” replied

the judge, “particularly as the lady was present when the
packet was delivered, and heard the captain’s assertion. Will
you allow it to be offered as evidence, young man?”

“No, my lord,” replied Francisco; “unless I have permission

first to peruse it myself. I will not have its contents
divulged, unless I am sure of an honourable acquittal. The
jury must deliver their verdict.”

The jury turned round to consult, during which Edward

Templemore walked to Francisco, accompanied by Clara, to
entreat him to allow the packet to be opened; but Francisco
was firm against both their entreaties. At last the foreman
of the jury rose to deliver the verdict. A solemn and awful
silence prevailed throughout the court; the suspense was
painful to a degree.

“My lord,” said the foreman of the jury, “our verdict is—”

“Stop, sir!” said Edward Templemore as he clasped one arm

round the astonished Francisco, and extended the other
towards the foreman. “Stop, sir! harm him not! for he is my
brother!”

“And my preserver!” cried Clara, kneeling on the other side

of Francisco, and holding up her hands in supplication.

The announcement was electrical; the foreman dropped into

his seat; the judge and whole court were in mute
astonishment. The dead silence was followed by confusion,
to which, after a time, the judge in vain attempted to put a
stop.

Edward Templemore, Clara, and Francisco, continued to

form the same group; and never was there one more
beautiful. And now that they were together, every one in
court perceived the strong resemblance between the two
young men.

Francisco’s complexion was darker than Edward’s from his

constant exposure, from infancy, to a tropical sun; but the
features of the two were the same.

It was some time before the judge could obtain silence in

the court; and when it had been obtained, he was himself
puzzled how to proceed.

Edward and Francisco, who had exchanged a few words,

were now standing side by side.

“My lord,” said Edward Templemore, “the prisoner consents

that the packet shall be opened.”

“I do,” said Francisco, mournfully; “although I have but little

hope from its contents. Alas! now that I have everything to
live for—not that I cling to life, I feel as if every chance was
gone! The days of miracles have passed; and nothing but
the miracle of the reappearance of the pirate-captain from
the grave can prove my innocence.”

“He reappears from the grave to prove thine innocence,

Francisco!” said a deep, hollow voice, which startled the
whole court, and most of all Hawkhurst and the prisoners at
the bar. Still more did fear and horror distort their
countenances when into the witness-box stalked the giant
form of Cain.

But it was no longer the figure which we have described in

the commencement of this narrative; his beard had been
removed, and he was pale, wan, and emaciated. His sunken
eyes, his hollow cheek, and a short cough, which
interrupted his speech, proved that his days were nearly at
a close.

“My lord,” said Cain, addressing the judge, “I am the pirate

Cain, and was the captain of the Avenger! Still am I free! I
come here voluntarily, that I may attest the innocence of
that young man! As yet, my hand has not known the
manacle, nor my feet the gyves! I am not a prisoner, nor
included in the indictment, and at present my evidence is
good. None know me in this court, except those whose
testimony, as prisoners, is unavailing; and therefore, to
save that boy, and only to save him, I demand that I may
be sworn.”

The oath was administered, with more than usual solemnity.

“My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, I have been in court

since the commencement of the trial, and I declare that
every word which Francisco has uttered in his own defence
is true. He is totally innocent of any act of piracy or murder;
the packet would, indeed, have proved as much: but in that
packet there are secrets which I wished to remain unknown
to all but Francisco; and, rather than it should be opened, I
have come forward myself. How that young officer
discovered that Francisco is his brother I know not; but if he
also is the son of Cecilia Templemore, it is true. But the
packet will explain all.

“And now, my lords, that my evidence is received, I am

content: I have done one good deed before I die, and I
surrender myself, as a pirate and a foul murderer, to justice.
True, my life is nearly closed—thanks to that villain there;
but I prefer that I should meet that death I merit, as an
expiation of my many deeds of guilt.”

Cain then turned to Hawkhurst, who was close to him, but

the mate appeared to be in a state of stupor; he had not
recovered from his first terror, and still imagined the
appearance of Cain to be supernatural.

“Villain!” exclaimed Cain, putting his mouth close to

Hawkhurst’s ear; “doubly damned villain! thou’lt die like a
dog, and unrevenged! The boy is safe, and I’m alive!”

“Art thou really living?” said Hawkhurst, recovering from his

fear.

“Yes, living—yes, flesh and blood; feel, wretch! feel this

arm, and be convinced: thou hast felt the power of it before
now,” continued Cain, sarcastically. “And now, my lord, I
have done. Francisco, fare thee well! I loved thee, and have
proved my love. Hate not, then, my memory, and forgive
me—yes, forgive me when I’m no more,” said Cain, who
then turned his eyes to the ceiling of the court-house.
—“Yes, there she is, Francisco!—there she is! and see,”
cried he, extending both arms above his head, “she smiles
upon—yes, Francisco, your sainted mother smiles and
pardons—”
The sentence was not finished; for Hawkhurst, when Cain’s
arms were upheld, perceived his knife in his girdle, and,
with the rapidity of thought, he drew it out, and passed it
through the body of the pirate-captain.

Cain fell heavily on the floor while the court was again in
confusion. Hawkhurst was secured, and Cain raised from
the ground.

“I thank thee, Hawkhurst!” said Cain, in an expiring voice;

“another murder thou hast to answer for: and you have
saved me from the disgrace, not of the gallows, but of the
gallows in thy company. Francisco, boy, farewell!” and Cain
groaned deeply, and expired.

Thus perished the renowned pirate-captain, who in his life

had shed so much blood, and whose death produced
another murder. “Blood for blood!”

The body was removed; and it now remained but for the
jury to give their verdict. All the prisoners were found guilty,
with the exception of Francisco, who left the dock
accompanied by his newly-found brother, and the
congratulations of every individual who could gain access to
him.
 Chapter Eighteen.

Conclusion.

Our first object will be to explain to the reader by what

means Edward Templemore was induced to surmise that in
Francisco, whom he considered as a rival, he had found a
brother; and also to account for the reappearance of the
pirate Cain.

In pursuance of his orders, Edward Templemore had

proceeded on board of the wreck of the Avenger; and while
his men were employed in collecting articles of great value
which were on board of her, he had descended into the
cabin, which was partly under water. He had picked up a
book floating near the lockers, and on examination found it
to be a Bible.

Surprised at seeing such a book on board of a pirate, he

had taken it with him when he returned to the Enterprise,
and had shown it to Clara, who immediately recognised it as
the property of Francisco. The book was saturated with the
salt water, and as Edward mechanically turned over the
pages, he referred to the title-page to see if there was any
name upon it. There was not: but he observed that the
blank or fly-leaf next to the binding had been pasted down,
and that there was writing on the other side. In its present
state it was easily detached from the cover; and then, to his
astonishment, he read the name of Cecilia Templemore—his
own mother. He knew well the history; how he had been
saved, and his mother and brother supposed to be lost; and
it may readily be imagined how great was his anxiety to
ascertain by what means her Bible had come into the
possession of Francisco. He dared not think Francisco was
his brother—that he was so closely connected with one he
still supposed to be a pirate: but the circumstance was
possible; and although he had intended to have remained a
few days longer, he now listened to the entreaties of Clara,
whose peculiar position on board was only to be justified by
the peculiar position from which she had been rescued, and
returning that evening to the wreck he set fire to her, and
then made all sail for Port Royal.

Fortunately he arrived, as we have stated, on the day of the

trial; and as soon as the signal was made by the admiral he
immediately manned his gig, and, taking Clara with him, in
case her evidence might be of use, arrived at the Court
House when the trial was about half over.

In our last chapter but one, we stated that Cain had been
wounded by Hawkhurst, when he was swimming on shore,
and had sunk; the ball had entered his chest, and passed
through his lungs. The contest between Hawkhurst and
Francisco, and their capture by Edward, had taken place on
the other side of the ridge of rocks in the adjacent cove,
and although Francisco had seen Cain disappear, and
concluded that he was dead, it was not so; he had again
risen above the water, and dropping his feet and finding
bottom, he contrived to crawl out, and wade into a cave
adjacent, where he lay down to die.

But in this cave there was one of the Avenger’s boats, two
of the pirates mortally wounded, and the four Kroumen,
who had concealed themselves there with the intention of
taking no part in the conflict, and, as soon as it became
dark, of making their escape in the boat, which they had
hauled up dry into the cave.

Cain staggered in, recovered the dry land; and fell. Pompey,
the Krouman, perceiving his condition, went to his
assistance and bound up his wound, and the stanching of
the blood soon revived the pirate-captain. The other pirates
died unaided.

Although the island was searched in every direction, this

cave, from the water flowing into it, escaped the vigilance
of the British seamen; and when they re-embarked, with
the majority of the pirates captured, Cain and the Kroumen
were undiscovered.

As soon as it was dark, Cain informed them of his

intentions; and although the Kroumen would probably have
left him to his fate, yet, as they required his services to
know how to steer to some other island, he was assisted
into the stern-sheets, and the boat was backed out of the
cave.

By the direction of Cain they passed through the passage

between the great island and the northern Caique, and
before daylight were far away from any chance of capture.

Cain had now to a certain degree recovered, and knowing

that they were in the channel of the small traders, he
pointed out to the Kroumen that, if supposed to be pirates,
they would inevitably be punished, although not guilty, and
that they must pass off as the crew of a small coasting-
vessel which had been wrecked. He then, with the
assistance of Pompey, cut off his beard as close as he could,
and arranged his dress in a more European style. They had
neither water nor provisions, and were exposed to a vertical
sun. Fortunately for them, and still more fortunately for
Francisco, on the second day they were picked up by an
American brig bound to Antigua.

Cain narrated his fictitious disasters, but said nothing about

his wound, the neglect of which would certainly have
occasioned his death a very few days after he appeared at
the trial, had he not fallen by the malignity of Hawkhurst.

Anxious to find his way to Port Royal, for he was indifferent

as to his own life, and only wished to save Francisco, he
was overjoyed to meet a small schooner trading between
the islands, bound to Port Royal. In that vessel he obtained
a passage for himself and the Kroumen, and had arrived
three days previous to the trial, and during that time had
remained concealed until the day that the Admiralty Court
assembled.

It may be as well here to remark, that Cain’s reason for not

wishing the packet to be opened was, that among the other
papers relative to Francisco were directions for the recovery
of the treasure which he had concealed, and which, of
course, he wished to be communicated to Francisco alone.

We will leave the reader to imagine what passed between

Francisco and Edward after the discovery of their kindred,
and proceed to state the contents of the packet, which the
twin-brothers now opened in the presence of Clara alone.

We must, however, condense the matter, which was very

voluminous. It stated that Cain, whose real name was
Charles Osborne, had sailed in a fine schooner from Bilboa,
for the coast of Africa, to procure a cargo of slaves; and had
been out about twenty-four hours when the crew perceived
a boat apparently with no one in her, about a mile ahead of
them. The water was then smooth, and the vessel had but
little way. As soon as they came up with the boat, they
lowered down their skiff to examine her.

The men sent in the skiff soon returned, towing the boat
alongside. Lying at the bottom of the boat were found
several men almost dead, and reduced to skeletons; and in
the stern-sheets a negro woman, with a child at her breast,
and a white female in the last state of exhaustion.

Osborne was then a gay and unprincipled man, but not a

hardened villain and murderer, as he afterwards became; he
had compassion and feeling—they were all taken on board
the schooner: some recovered, others were too much
exhausted. Among those restored was Cecilia Templemore
and the infant, who at first had been considered quite dead;
but the negro woman, exhausted by the demands of her
nursling and her privations, expired as she was being
removed from the boat. A goat, that fortunately was on
board, proved a substitute for the negress; and before
Osborne had arrived off the coast, the child had recovered
its health and vigour, and the mother her extreme beauty.

We must now pass over a considerable portion of the

narrative. Osborne was impetuous in his passions, and
Cecilia Templemore became his victim. He had, indeed,
afterwards quieted her qualms of conscience by a pretended
marriage, when he arrived at the Brazils with his cargo of
human flesh. But that was little alleviation of her sufferings;
she who had been indulged in every luxury, who had been
educated with the greatest care, was now lost for ever, an
outcast from the society to which she could never hope to
return, and associating with those she both dreaded and
despised. She passed her days and her nights in tears; and
had soon more cause for sorrow from the brutal treatment
she received from Osborne, who had been her destroyer.
Her child was her only solace; but for him, and the fear of
leaving him to the demoralising influence of those about
him, she would have laid down and died: but she lived for
him—for him attempted to recall Osborne from his career of
increasing guilt—bore meekly with reproaches and with
blows. At last Osborne changed his nefarious life for one of
deeper guilt: he became a pirate, and still carried with him
Cecilia and her child.

This was the climax of her misery: she now wasted from
day to day, and grief would soon have terminated her
existence, had it not been hastened by the cruelty of Cain,
who, upon an expostulation on her part, followed up with a
denunciation of the consequences of his guilty career, struck
her with such violence that she sank under the blow. She
expired with a prayer that her child might be rescued from
a life of guilt; and when the then repentant Cain promised
what he never did perform, she blessed him, too, before
she died.

Such was the substance of the narrative, as far as it related

to the unfortunate mother of these two young men, who,
when they had concluded, sat hand-in-hand in mournful
silence. This, however, was soon broken by the innumerable
questions asked by Edward of his brother, as to what he
could remember of their ill-fated parent, which were
followed up by the history of Francisco’s eventful life.

“And the treasure, Edward,” said Francisco; “I cannot take

possession of it.”

“No, nor shall you either,” replied Edward; “it belongs to the
captors, and must be shared as prize-money. You will never
touch one penny of it, but I shall, I trust, pocket a very fair
proportion of it! However, keep this paper, as it is addressed
to you.”

The admiral had been made acquainted with all the

particulars of the eventful trial, and had sent a message to
Edward, requesting that, as soon as he and his brother
could make it convenient, he would be happy to see them
at the Penn, as well as the daughter of the Spanish
governor, whom he must consider as being under his
protection during the time that she remained at Port Royal.
This offer was gladly accepted by Clara; and on the second
day after the trial they proceeded up to the Penn. Clara and
Francisco were introduced, and apartments and suitable
attendance provided for the former.

“Templemore,” said the admiral, “I’m afraid I must send you

away to Porto Rico, to assure the governor of his daughter’s
safety.”

“I would rather you would send some one else, sir, and I’ll
assure her happiness in the meantime.”

“What! by marrying her? Humph! you’ve a good opinion of

yourself! Wait till you’re a captain, sir.”

“I hope I shall not have to wait long, sir,” replied Edward,

demurely.

“By-the-bye,” said the admiral, “did you not say you have
notice of treasure concealed in those islands?”

“My brother has: I have not.”

“We must send for it. I think we must send you, Edward. Mr
Francisco, you must go with him.”

“With pleasure, sir,” replied Francisco, laughing; “but I think

I’d rather wait till Edward is a captain. His wife and his
fortune ought to come together. I think I shall not deliver up
my papers until the day of his marriage!”

“Upon my word,” said Captain Manly, “I wish, Templemore,

you had your commission, for there seems so much
depending on it—the young lady’s happiness, my share of
the prize-money, and the admiral’s eighth. Really, admiral,
it becomes a common cause; and I’m sure he deserves it!”

“So do I, Manly,” replied the admiral; “and to prove that I

have thought so here comes Mr Hadley with it in his hand;
it only wants one little thing to complete it—”

“Which is your signature, admiral, I presume,” replied

Captain Manly, taking a pen full of ink, and presenting it to
his senior officer.

“Exactly,” replied the admiral, scribbling at the bottom of

the paper; “and now—it does not want that. Captain
Templemore, I wish you joy!”

Edward made a very low obeisance, as his flushed

countenance indicated his satisfaction.

“I cannot give commissions, admiral,” said Francisco,

presenting a paper in return; “but I can give information—
and you will find it not unimportant—for the treasure
appears of great value.”

“God bless my soul! Manly, you must start at daylight!”

exclaimed the admiral; “why, there is enough to load your
sloop! There!—read it!—and then I will write your orders,
and enclose a copy of it, for fear of accident.”

“That was to have been my fortune,” said Francisco, with a

grave smile; “but I would not touch it.”

“Very right, boy!—a fine principle! But we are not quite so

particular,” said the admiral. “Now, where’s the young lady?
Let her know that dinner’s on the table.”

A fortnight after this conversation, Captain Manly returned

with the treasure; and the Enterprise, commanded by
another officer, returned from Porto Rico, with a letter from
the governor in reply to one from the admiral, in which the
rescue of his daughter by Edward had been communicated.
The letter was full of thanks to the admiral, and
compliments to Edward; and, what was of more
importance, it sanctioned the union of the young officer
with his daughter, with a dozen boxes of gold doubloons.

About six weeks after the above-mentioned important

conversation, Mr Witherington, who had been reading a
voluminous packet of letters in his breakfast-room in
Finsbury Square, pulled his bell so violently that old
Jonathan thought his master must be out of his senses.
This, however, did not induce him to accelerate his solemn
and measured pace; and he made his appearance at the
door, as usual, without speaking.

“Why don’t that fellow answer the bell?” cried Mr

Witherington.

“I am here, sir,” said Jonathan, solemnly.

“Well, so you are! but, confound you! you come like the
ghost of a butler!—But who do you think is coming here,
Jonathan?”

“I cannot tell, sir.”

“But I can!—you solemn old! Edward’s coming here!—

coming home directly?”

“Is he to sleep in his old room, sir?” replied the

imperturbable butler.

“No! the best bedroom! Why, Jonathan, he is married—he is

made a captain—Captain Templemore!”
“Yes—sir.”

“And he has found his brother, Jonathan; his twin-brother!”

“Yes—sir.”

“His brother Francis—that was supposed to be lost! But it’s

a long story, Jonathan—and a very wonderful one! his poor
mother has long been dead!”

“In caelo quies!” said Jonathan, casting up his eyes.

“But his brother has turned up again.”

“Resurgam!” said the butler.

“They will be here in ten days—so let everything be in

readiness, Jonathan. God bless my soul!” continued the old
gentleman, “I hardly know what I’m about. It’s a Spanish
girl, Jonathan!”

“What is, sir?”

“What is, sir!—who, Captain Templemore’s wife; and he was

tried as a pirate!”

“Who, sir?”

“Who sir! why, Francis, his brother! Jonathan, you’re a

stupid old fellow!”

“Have you any further commands, sir?”

“No—no!—there—that’ll do—go away.”

And in three weeks after this conversation, Captain and Mrs

Templemore, and his brother Frank, were established in the
house, to the great delight of Mr Witherington; for he had
long been tired of solitude and old Jonathan.

The twin-brothers were a comfort to him in his old age:

they closed his eyes in peace—they divided his blessing and
his large fortune and thus ends our history of The Pirate!

| Chapter 1 | | Chapter 2 | | Chapter 3 | | Chapter 4 | | Chapter 5 | |

Chapter 6 | | Chapter 7 | | Chapter 8 | | Chapter 9 | | Chapter 10 | |
Chapter 11 | | Chapter 12 | | Chapter 13 | | Chapter 14 | | Chapter 15 | |
Chapter 16 | | Chapter 17 | | Chapter 18 |
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PIRATE
***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old
editions will be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S.
copyright law means that no one owns a United States
copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can
copy and distribute it in the United States without
permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special
rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this
license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT
GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is
a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge
for an eBook, except by following the terms of the
trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the
Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything
for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark
license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any
purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports,
performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may
be modified and printed and given away—you may do
practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not
protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to
the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.
START: FULL LICENSE
 THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG
LICENSE
PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS
WORK
To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the
free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing
this work (or any other work associated in any way with the
phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all
the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available
with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.
Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works
1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have
read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this
license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright)
agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of
this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or
access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do
not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you
may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you
paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may
only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic
work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this
agreement. There are a few things that you can do with
most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without
complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do
with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the
terms of this agreement and help preserve free future
access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See
paragraph 1.E below.
1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
(“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright
in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works.
Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the
public domain in the United States. If an individual work is
unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you
are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to
prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work
as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed.
Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic
works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in
compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping
the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work.
You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
keeping this work in the same format with its attached full
Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without
charge with others.
1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located
also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws
in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you
are outside the United States, check the laws of your
country in addition to the terms of this agreement before
downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing
or creating derivative works based on this work or any other
Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work
in any country other than the United States.
1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project
Gutenberg:
1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License
must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project
Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the

United States and most other parts of the world at no
cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You
may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook
or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located
in the United States, you will have to check the laws of
the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is

derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law
(does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with
permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
and distributed to anyone in the United States without
paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or
providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you
must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs
1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the
work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in
paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use
and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1
through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the
copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the
Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the
permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of
this work.
1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project
Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files
containing a part of this work or any other work associated
with Project Gutenberg™.
1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or
redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this
electronic work, without prominently displaying the
sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or
immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.
1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any
binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or
proprietary form, including any word processing or
hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or
distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the
official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™
website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional
cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of
exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or
other form. Any alternate format must include the full
Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing,
displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project
Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8
or 1.E.9.
1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or
providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works provided that:

• You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits

you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™
works calculated using the method you already use
to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark,
 but he has agreed to donate royalties under this
paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within
60 days following each date on which you prepare
(or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked
as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation at the address specified in
Section 4, “Information about donations to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”
• You provide a full refund of any money paid by a
user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail)
within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree
to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License.
You must require such a user to return or destroy all
copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
and discontinue all use of and all access to other
copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.
• You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a
full refund of any money paid for a work or a
replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work
is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
receipt of the work.
• You comply with all other terms of this agreement
for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project

Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different
terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain
permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™
trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3
below.
1.F.
1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend
considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on,
transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S.
copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection.
Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works,
and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete,
inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright
or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or
damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or
computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your
equipment.
1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES -
Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described
in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™
trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses,
including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO
REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH
OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE
FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY
DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT,
CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES
EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.
1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If
you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days
of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if
any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the
person you received the work from. If you received the
work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that
provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a
replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the
work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you
may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the
work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is
also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without
further opportunities to fix the problem.
1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund
set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you
‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND,
EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY
PURPOSE.
1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain
implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain
types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in
this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to
this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make
the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the
applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any
provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining
provisions.
1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the
Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of
the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this
agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability,
costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly
or indirectly from any of the following which you do or
cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project
Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions
or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.
Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project
Gutenberg™
Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free
distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the
widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-
aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of
hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all
walks of life.
Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with
the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project
Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project
Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for
generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and
donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the
Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.
Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-
profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under
the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt
status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s
EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541.
Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted
by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.
The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North
1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887.
Email contact links and up to date contact information can
be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at
www.gutenberg.org/contact
Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive
without widespread public support and donations to carry
out its mission of increasing the number of public domain
and licensed works that can be freely distributed in
machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of
equipment including outdated equipment. Many small
donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to
maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.
The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws
regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states
of the United States. Compliance requirements are not
uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork
and many fees to meet and keep up with these
requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where
we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To
SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance
for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.
While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states
where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we
know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited
donations from donors in such states who approach us with
offers to donate.
International donations are gratefully accepted, but we
cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of
donations received from outside the United States. U.S.
laws alone swamp our small staff.
Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current
donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in
a number of other ways including checks, online payments
and credit card donations. To donate, please visit:
www.gutenberg.org/donate.
Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™
electronic works
Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that
could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he
produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with
only a loose network of volunteer support.
Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several
printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected
by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is
included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in
compliance with any particular paper edition.
Most people start at our website which has the main PG
search facility: www.gutenberg.org.
This website includes information about Project
Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the
Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help
produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email
newsletter to hear about new eBooks.