down in yonder fog-bank. But I’ll keep a sharp look-out, for it may be
there’s a sail close on to us, without our knowing it, in this mist.”
The night had been intensely dark, but was now breaking away overhead,
where a few stars could be seen twinkling on the patches of half-hid
azure sky. All round the horizon, however, but especially to leeward,
hung a dark, massy curtain of mist, shrouding everything on the
sea-board in impenetrable obscurity, and, like piled up fleeces, laying
thick and palpable upon the immediate surface of the ocean, but
gradually becoming thinner and lighter as it ascended upwards, until it
finally terminated in a thin, gauze-like haze, almost obscuring the
stars on the mid heaven above. So dense was the mist in our immediate
vicinity, that the man at the helm could not discern the end of the
bowsprit; while the upper yards of the brigantine looked like shadowy
lines in the gloom. Occasionally, the light breeze would undulate the
fog, lifting it for a moment from the water, and disclosing to our sight
a few fathoms of the unruffled sea around us; but before a minute had
passed the vapors would again settle in fantastic wreaths upon the face
of the deep, wrapping us once more in the profoundest obscurity. Not a
sound was heard except the occasional rubbing of the boom, the sullen
flap of a sail, or the low ripple of the swell under our cut-water, as
we stole noiselessly along in the impenetrable gloom. The tread of one
of the watch, or the sudden thrashing of a reef-point against the sail,
broke on the ear with startling distinctness. Suddenly I heard a noise
as of a stifled cry coming up out of the thick fog to leeward, from a
spot apparently a few points more on our quarter than the last sound.
The boatswain heard it also, and turning quickly to me, he said—
“There’s something wrong there, Mr. Parker, or my name isn’t Jack
Benson. And look—don’t you see a ship’s royal through the fog
there—just over that gun—that shadowy object, like a whiff of
tobacco-smoke, down here to the right, is what I mean.”
“By heavens! you are right—and—see!—yonder comes her fore-top-mast,
rising above the undulating mist.”
“Ship ahoy!” hailed the second lieutenant, at that moment appearing on
deck, and listening to my report, “what craft is that?”
The hoarse summons sailed down to leeward, like the wailing of some
melancholy spirit, but no answer was returned. A couple of minutes
elapsed.
“Ship ah—o—o—y!” sung out the officer again, “answer, or I’ll fire
into you—this is the Fire-Fly, an armed vessel of the free state of New
York.”
“We are a merchantman, belonging to Philadelphia,” answered a gruff
voice in reply.
“Send your boat on board.”
“We can’t,” answered the same voice, “for one of them was washed
overboard, three days ago, in a gale, and the other one was swamped.”
At this instant, one of those sudden puffs of wind, to which I have
already alluded, momentarily swept away the fog from around the
approaching ship, and we beheld, to our astonishment, that her sails had
been backed, and that she was slowly falling astern of us, as if with
the intention of slipping across our wake, and going off to windward.
“Fill away again, there,” thundered the lieutenant, perceiving their
manœuvre, “or I’ll fire on you—fill away, I say.”
“By the holy aposthles,” said O’Shaughnessy at this moment, “isn’t there
a schooner’s mast, on the lee-quarter of the fellow—yes—there it
is—see?”
Every eye was instantly turned in the direction to which he had pointed.
A single glance established the keenness of his vision. Right under the
weather quarter of the merchantman, might be seen the mast of apparently
a small schooner. The sails were down, and only the bare stick could be
discerned; but the whole truth flashed upon us as if with the rapidity
of lightning.
“The ship is in the hands of pirates,” I exclaimed involuntarily, “God
help the poor wretches who compose her crew.”
“Boarders ahoy!” sung out the voice of the captain, breaking, like a
trumpet-call, upon the momentary silence of the horror-struck crew,
“muster on the forecastle, all—up with the helm, quarter-master—ready
to grapple there—heave,” and the huge irons, as we bore down upon the
ship, went crashing among her hamper.
The instant that discovered the true nature of our position, worked a
change in the whole appearance of the merchantman. Her deserted decks
swarmed with men; her silence gave place to shouts, oaths, and the
clashing of arms; and after a momentary confusion, we saw, in the
obscurity, a dark group of ruffians clustered on the forecastle,
awaiting our attack.
“Boarders ahoy!” again shouted Captain Stuart, brandishing his sword on
high, “follow me,” and springing into the fore-rigging of the
merchantman, he levelled a pistol at the first pirate attempting to
oppose him, and followed by a score, and more, of hardy tars, rushed,
the next instant, down upon her decks.
“Stand to your posts, my men,” thundered the pirate captain, as he stood
by the main-mast, surrounded by his swarthy followers, “stand to your
posts, and remember, you fight for your lives—come on,” and drawing a
pistol from his belt, he levelled it at the first lieutenant, who,
pressing on, aside of Captain Stuart, received the ball in his side, and
fell, apparently, lifeless on the deck.
“Revenge! Revenge!” thundered the Captain, turning to cheer on his men,
“sweep the miscreants from the deck, on—on,” and waving his sword
aloft, he dashed into the fray. The men answered by a cheer, and bore
down upon the pirates with an impetuosity, doubly more vehement from
their desire to avenge the fallen lieutenant.
For full five minutes the contest was terrific. Desperation lent
additional vigor to the freebooters’ muscles, while our own men were
inflamed to madness by the fall of Lennox. I had never been in a
conflict of any kind whatever before, and for the first few moments—I
will not hesitate to own it—a strange whirling sensation, akin to fear,
swept through my brain. But a half a minute had not passed before it had
vanished; and I felt a wild tumultuous excitement which seemed to endow
me with the strength of a Hercules. I lost all sight of the turmoil
around me. I could only see that it had become a general _mêleé_, in
which personal prowess was of more importance than discipline. I heard a
wild mingling of oaths, shouts, cries for mercy, the clashing of arms,
the explosion of pistols, the shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce
tramping of men struggling together in the last stage of mortal combat.
But I had no time for more detailed observations. A giant ruffian
singling me out from the crowd, rushed upon me with uplifted cutlass,
and the next instant I would have been clove in twain, had I not caught
the blow upon my blade. But so tremendous was its force that it
splintered my trusty steel to fragments, and sent a shock through every
nerve of my system. I staggered. But not a moment was to be lost.
Already the gigantic arm of the pirate was raised on high. Happily my
pistols were both as yet untouched. Springing back a step or two I
jerked one from my belt, levelled it at his brain, and fired. He whirled
around as if intoxicated, staggered, would have caught at the mast for
support, and fell over dead upon the deck.
But I had no leisure to regard my fallen foe. The contest still raged
around me fiercer than ever. On our side of the ship, however, the
pirates had broken, and were retreating slowly and doggedly toward the
stern. We pressed on hotly in pursuit, while shouts, curses, and huzzas,
the groans of the dying, and the fierce rattling of cutlasses, formed a
tumult around us of stirring excitement; but just as I rushed past the
gangway, followed by a few of the bravest of our crew, a wild, long,
thrilling scream from the cabin below, rose up over all the uproar of
the conflict. It could come from no one but a woman—that prolonged cry
of mortal agony! In an instant the retreating pirates were forgotten; I
thought only of the danger of the sufferer below. Dashing aside, with
the power of a giant, a brawny ruffian who would have impeded my
progress, I sprang, at one leap, half way down the gangway, and with
another stride found myself in the cabin of the ship.
Never shall I forget the scene that there met my eyes.
The apartment in which I stood was elegantly, even luxuriously
furnished, presenting the appearance rather of a sumptuous drawing-room,
than of a merchantman’s cabin. The state-rooms were of mahogany,
elegantly inlaid with ebony. A service of silver and rich cut glass was
ranged in the beaufut around the mast. Silken ottomans stretched along
the sides of the room; a silver lamp of exquisite workmanship, depended
from the ceiling; and a carpet of gorgeous pattern, and of the finest
quality, covered the floor. But not a solitary individual was to be
seen. A lady’s guitar, however, lay carelessly on one of the ottomans,
and a few books were scattered around it in easy negligence. Could I be
deceived with this corroborative testimony? Yet where was the owner of
these little trifles? These reflections did not, however, occupy an
instant; for I had scarcely finished a rapid survey of the cabin before
another, and another shriek, ringing out just before me, roused every
emotion of my heart to an uncontrollable fury. Catching sight of an
undulating curtain at the farther end of the apartment, which I had
imagined was only the drapery of the windows, I darted forward, and
lifting up the damask, started back in horror at the sight that met my
eyes.
This after cabin was smaller, and even more luxuriously fitted up than
the other. But I did not remark this, at the time, for such a scene as I
then witnessed, God grant I may never be called to look upon again.
As I pushed aside the curtain, three swarthy, olive-complexioned
ruffians, dressed with more elaboration than any of their comrades I had
yet seen, turned hastily around as if interrupted in some infamous deed,
scowling upon me with the looks of demons. It needed but a glance to
detect their fiendish work. A well dressed elderly man was extended at
their feet, weltering in his blood. On an ottoman before them half
lying, half sitting, was one of the fairest beings I had ever seen, her
night dress disordered, her frame trembling, and her hair, wild and
dishevelled, hanging in loose tresses from her shoulders. Her hands were
covered in one or two places with blood; her eyes were wild; her face
was flushed; and she panted as one does whose strength has been nearly
overtasked in a desperate struggle. Never shall I forget the unutterable
agony depicted on that countenance when I first entered; never shall I
forget the lightning-like change which came over it as her eye fell upon
me. Rushing frantically forward, while joy beamed in every feature of
her face, she flung herself into my arms, shrieking hysterically,
“Oh! save me—save me—for the love of your mother, save me.”
My sudden appearance had startled the three ruffians, and for a moment
they stood idle, suffering her to dart between them; but at the sound of
her voice, they rushed as one man upon me. The odds were fearful, but I
felt, at that instant, as if I could have dared heaven and earth in
behalf of that suffering maiden. Clasping my arm around her waist, and
retreating hastily into the other cabin, I shouted aloud for aid,
parrying, with a cutlass I picked up at random, the attack of the
miscreants. But the attempt was desperation itself. Already I had
received two cuts across my arm, and I could scarcely hold my weapon in
it, when the foremost ruffian, leaving my death, as he thought, to his
comrades, laid his unholy hand once more upon the maiden. Good God! I
thought my heart would have burst at this new insult. My determination
was quicker than the electric spark of heaven. Hastily releasing the
lovely burden from my hold, I seized my remaining pistol with the
disengaged hand, and before the villain could perceive my purpose
planted it against his face and fired. The brains spattered the ceiling,
and even fell upon my own face and arm. But the miscreant was dead. Oh,
the joy, the rapture of that moment! I heard, too, as the report
subsided, the death-groan of another of the ruffians falling beneath the
avenging cutlass of our men, who now, victorious on deck, came pouring
down the hatchway. In another instant, as a shout of victory rang
through the cabin, I had raised the almost senseless girl from the
floor. She looked eagerly into my face, gazed wildly around, uttered a
cry of joy, and convulsively clinging to me, as if for shelter, buried
her head upon my bosom, and burst into a passion of hysteric tears.
The emotions of that moment were such as I had never deemed mortal being
capable of experiencing. Feelings I cannot even now describe whirled
through me, until my brain seemed almost to spin around in a delirium of
joy. Yet there was a holiness in my emotions, far, far different from
the common sensations of pleasure. I felt—I knew not how—a sudden
interest in the fair being, sobbing convulsively upon my shoulder, which
made her already seem dearer to me than life itself. I pressed her
involuntarily to me; but a mother could not have done so with more
purity to a new-born infant. Her sobs melted me so that I could scarcely
keep my own eyes dry.
“God bless you, my poor, sweet girl,” I said in a husky voice, “you are
among friends now.”
The tone, the words went to her very heart; she clasped me convulsively
again, and burst into a fresh flood of tears. Poor dove! she had just
escaped from the hands of the spoiler, and fluttered, as yet,
involuntarily on her rescuer’s bosom.
“God—in—hea—ven—bless you,” she murmured, betwixt her sobs, after a
while, raising her tearful countenance from my shoulder, and looking
upon me with eyes, whose depth, and whose gratitude I had never seen
equalled—“God—bless—you, sir, for this act. Oh! if a life of prayers
for your welfare can repay you,” she continued, with uplifted hands, and
a countenance, which, in despite of its earnestness, was crimsoned with
blushes, “it shall be freely given by me. But my uncle! my poor uncle!
alas! they have murdered him,” and she covered her eyes with her hands,
as if to shut out the fearful sight.
“Say nothing, my dear girl,” said I, the tears standing in my own eyes,
“all are friends around you now. The ship has been rescued—the pirates
are no more. Compose yourself—none here will harm you—your slightest
wish shall be attended to, and you shall be served with the purity with
which we serve a saint. Do not thus give way to grief—let me insist on
your retiring—here is your maid,” said I, as the trembling creature
emerged from a state-room, in which she had locked herself when her
mistress was in danger, “a little rest will compose you.”
“Oh! my uncle, my more than parent—heaven bless you,” sobbed the
beautiful, but still agitated girl, as she suffered herself to be led
away by her little less agitated maid.
The prize turned out to be the British West-Indiaman, which had been
surprised by pirates about a quarter of an hour before we hailed her.
The beautiful being and her uncle were the only passengers. It is
needless to say that very few of the ruffians survived the conflict, and
that those who did were tried summarily by a court-martial the next day,
and hung at the ship’s yard-arm. Their little schooner, or rather
oyster-boat, was scuttled and sunk.
The wounds in my arm proved serious, though not dangerous, but they did
not disable me from continuing on duty. I would willingly have lost the
limb in such a holy cause.
The first appearance on deck of Beatrice Derwent—for such was the name
of her I rescued—was at the burial of her uncle on the evening
succeeding the re-capture of the ship. She appeared, leaning on the arm
of her maid, and as her eye, just lifted for one moment from the deck,
happened to catch mine, her face became suffused with crimson, and such
a look of gratitude toward the living, combined with grief for the dead,
flashed over her countenance as I never saw equalled. But in another
moment her eyes dropped once more on the corpse, and I saw, by the
convulsive heaving of her bosom, how fearful was her grief. When the
corpse was launched into the deep, her sorrow broke all the restraint of
custom, and she sobbed aloud. Directly, however, they subsided
partially; and as she turned to re-enter the cabin, the last rays of the
setting sun, gilding the mast-head with a crown of glory, and glittering
along the surface of the deep, lingered a moment on her sunny hair, like
the smile of the departed spirit.
The prize meantime, proving to be richly laden, was allotted to me to
conduct into port, as the first lieutenant’s wound prevented him from
assuming the command, and the second lieutenant chose rather to remain
with the brigantine. Beatrice Derwent was, as a matter of course, to
continue on board the merchantman. Thus did destiny again link my fate
with this lovely creature, and by one of those simple accidents which so
often occur, open for me a train of events, whose transaction it is my
purpose to detail in the following crude autobiography.
The sensations with which I watched the receding brigantine, after
assuming my new command, and hauling up on our course, may well be
imagined. Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed since I first launched on the
deep, a nameless, unknown, irresponsible midshipman; and now, by one of
fortune’s wildest freaks, I was commanding a prize of untold value, and
become the protector of the loveliest of her sex.
“There’s a divinity that shapes our fortunes,
Rough hew them as we will.”
It was not till the third day after parting company with the brigantine,
that Miss Derwent, with her maid, appeared once more upon the deck. The
shock of her uncle’s death had brought on an illness, which confined her
during that time to the cabin; and even now, there was a languor in her
fine countenance, and a melancholy in her dark eye, which, though they
added to the interest of her appearance, betokened the acuteness of her
grief. She was attired in a dark silken dress; her hair was plainly
braided back, and she wore no ornaments of any kind whatever. Rarely had
I beheld a vision of such surpassing loveliness. I stepped forward to
assist her to a seat. She smiled faintly, her eyes sparkled a moment,
and then a deep blush shot across her saddened features. But I will not
detail the scene that ensued. Suffice it to say that, from that moment I
loved Beatrice; and that though she had not bid me hope, there was
nothing in her conduct to bid me despair.
* * * * *
SABBATH BELLS.—IMPROMPTU.
BY WILLIS G. CLARK.
Sweet Sabbath! to my ear,
Thy bells, with mingling tone,
Tell of the distant and the dear
In yon far blue unknown.
Of happier days they tell,
When o’er the vernal ground,
Fairer than Ocean’s richest shell,
Young Nature breathed around:
When Hope, as at a shrine,
To Fancy poured her lay,
And hues, inspiring and divine,
Painted the live-long day.
Sweet bells! They have a voice,
Lost to the usual air,
Which bids the sorrowing heart rejoice,
Though life no more be fair.
Though dust to dust has gone,
They speak of brighter hours,
When Memory, as from a throne,
Surveyed her paths of flowers.
Of sunny spots, where Love
Unfurled his purple wings,
And filled the spirit and the grove
With glorious offerings!
* * * * *
A SEA SCENE.
BY ROBERT MORRIS.
The world is hushed and still, save where the sea
Against the rock-bound shore, in monster glee
Rushes and roars, and far along the coast,
In solemn thunders o’er the loved and lost
A constant requiem pours. Above—beyond—
No glimmering light is seen! No cheerful sound
Steals from the distance. Not a lonely star
Gleams from the dim, mysterious depths afar,
To win the eye, and, like a spirit chart,
To chase the sadness from the sea-boy’s heart.
His craft is small and frail—the waves are high—
And fresh and chill the wild breeze whistles by!
On, madly, blindly, rushes his slight sail,
An arrow winged before the maddened gale.
His heart is stout and firm; his messmates true,
Will, at his call, their hopeless toil renew!
But hark! that peal! Old ocean reels and rings,
While wilder still, the poor craft bends and springs;
And see yon flash—like lava from the sky
Poured rashly out by some dread hand on High,
And dealing death to those unfit to die!
Again—again! And mingling with the sea
The frail thing sinks and mounts. Eternity
Now yawns at every plunge, and each strong wave
Seems hurrying on to some cold ocean grave!
Now lost to view—now soaring with the swell—
Ah! who the thoughts of that pale crew may tell!
How radiant, Home, must seem thy beauties now!
How far thy low roof from that vessel’s prow!
How angel-like fond features, sunny eyes,
Rise o’er the waves in memory’s paradise!
Sweet gentle words are heard amid the storm,
And hands are clasped, whose blood flows fast and warm.
The future breaks upon the mental sight,
And Hope’s eternal watch-fire gives it light!
The soul again is nerved—the storm rolls on—
Morn breaks, and with it comes the welcome sun,
And though, as yet, no land salutes the eye,
Some tropic bird comes wheeling gaily by;
The air seems sweeter, and the ocean’s foam
Looks fresher, brighter, and reminds of home!
Oh! who may paint the rapture of that hour—
The peril past, the breeze, with fresh’ning power,
Filling the out-spread canvass! Who may tell
The wild emotions that each bosom swell,
As the glad morrow dawns upon the soul;
And feeling’s fountain bursts beyond control—
As welcome voices greet, or lip to lip,
In speechless joy, the heart’s companionship—
Is mutely told—or, as in some fair face
A gentler, deeper, thought of love we trace,
And mark with joy the chosen one’s embrace!
* * * * *
THE SYRIAN LETTERS.
WRITTEN FROM DAMASCUS, BY SERVILIUS PRISCUS OF CONSTANTINOPLE, TO HIS
KINSMAN, CORNELIUS DRUSUS, RESIDING AT ATHENS, AND BUT NOW TRANSLATED.
LETTER I.
Damascus.
Servilius to Cornelius—Greeting:
How cheering it is, my dear Cornelius, after a long and perilous voyage,
and the fearful pitchings of a frail vessel, to feel your accustomed
security of footstep, and trace in the wide plains and lofty mountains
the varying forms of nature’s loveliness, doubly enchanting after a
temporary separation. Such were my emotions after landing on the shore
of Berytus, heightened by the delightful and unexpected surprise of
meeting an old friend in a strange land.
Sulpicius behaved toward us in the most elegant and hospitable manner,
and so swiftly did the interval between arrival and departure fly, that
the scene of parting salutation was in sad contrast with the joy of our
first greeting. But as I have revived these recollections, let me give a
hasty sketch of what passed on the second evening of our landing. Having
gathered around the tables to the evening repast, cheerfulness reigned
triumphant. Tossed for days upon the whirling waters, we were now in
conscious security gaily, assembled in the harmonious circle, with not a
care to distract, and every reasonable pleasure to elevate. The music
ceasing, Lactantius observed he was sure he had heard that strain
before, he thought, when off the coast of Cyprus.
“Yes,” I replied, with a smile, “Lactantius you are right, I also heard
it.”
“Ah!” said he, “I believed every eye had been closed in sleep. It was my
custom at the dead hour of night, that time so fruitful of meditation
and of better thoughts—when silence reigns and unarmed repose throws
her soft mantle over every living thing; and the air robbed of its noon
day heat grows cool and balmy, to order before me the events of the day,
and mark wherein I had done amiss. Pardon me, Lactantius, this was not
all, have I not heard you, on more than one occasion, breathe passages
not of poetry only, but of bright description and solid thought? Come, I
call upon you, in the name of those around, should you approve, to
narrate the story of our voyage.”
“Yes! a good thought,” they cried. “And interweave,” says Marcus, “as
much poetry in the narration as you are wont.”