OF THE VOYAGE OF LUCILLE.
Beneath the rock I had selected as our shelter for the night I kindled a
fire, and the wind, taking the smoke away, made the place comfortable.
The heat served to dry our garments and warmed our chilled blood.
Lucille clung to me, trembling with the recollection of all she had
passed through, and I held her in my arms and bade her be of better
cheer, for the worst was now past.
“You had a long voyage,” I said, for I did not know how to begin so that
she might tell me of the cruise of the Eagle.
“And a terrible one,” she answered, with a shudder. “Oh, Edward, my
love, I thought never to see you again, and I wished myself dead a
hundred times. There was naught but fear and misery in my heart, but
now--now--I am so very happy. Yet not altogether happy, Edward.”
“And why?” I asked.
“Because I think of the morrow.”
“So you fear for me, my sweet?”
“Much, Edward, for he is a terrible man.”
“So am I, when I fight for love,” was my reply.
Then there was silence for a time, and she seemed to be thinking of
something.
“Why did he call you Sir Francis, Edward?” she asked, presently.
“Because, dear, it is my name,” I said.
“Why, I thought----” she began, but I was not ready to tell her all yet.
“To-morrow will do for my story,” I interposed. “The night is short, let
me hear about yourself.”
“There may be no to-morrow,” whispered Lucille.
“It is as God wills,” I said, simply, and I kissed her.
Then she told me of the voyage with Sir George.
“When I found that you were in Salem gaol, charged with witchcraft,” she
began, “I recalled how few had come out of there alive, after such an
accusation. I knew, as you did not, since you had been absent, how
fierce was the hue and cry after witches, or those poor wretches so
called. I knew how perilous was the time in Salem town. So I made up my
mind that I must get you out, as you could not help yourself. I thought
of the Governor, Sir William Phips, believing that he was my only hope.
To see him, get a full and free pardon for you, was my only desire.”
I could feel her hand, that I held beneath my coat, press mine. I
answered the pressure, and drew Lucille near to me. She went on:
“So, knowing there was little time to lose, I made a bargain with Master
Richard Johnson, who lived on the road back of me, to take me to Boston
in his big cart, as he was going there that day with some barrels of
cider. Not even stopping to tell you good bye, so full was I of my
project, I put on my best gown--’tis a sad sight now, though”--and
Lucille sighed and looked down at her dress, all wet and torn--“pinned a
ribbon in my hair, and was off to see His Excellency. We were two days
on the road, because the cart broke.
“Well, I found him at home, and, after some parley with his servant, who
said his master was busy with noble lords from London, I was admitted to
the presence of Sir William.
“I curtsied as best I knew, and looked about, half tempted to run out
again, for the room was filled with men. Oh, but they stared so at me;
verily, I thought none of them had scarce before seen a maid in her best
gown.”
Well I knew why they looked, I thought, for fairer face than Lucille’s
there was not in Boston, or Salem--aye, in all of London.
“But,” she continued, “I did manage to stammer out what I had come for,
and when His Excellency had gathered the import of my words, he became
kindly at once and came near to me, while he left the noble lords, if
such they were, to talk among themselves. I heard one of them say
‘Zounds! But would she not make some of our London beauties stare.’ So I
looked him full in the face, and replied:
“‘There be many others in Salem town, if it please you, sir,’ whereat
they all laughed, save His Excellency, and he smiled at me. Then,
Edward, I pleaded for your life.”
“What did you say, sweet?” I asked.
“I begged that I might not be sent away without a pardon,” went on
Lucille. “And, to show it was deserved, I told Sir William of the deeds
you had done. How strong you were to cast the great stone, and how they
said you were a witch because you had done that. Then I reminded him of
St. Johns and Pemaquid, for I had heard somewhat of what took place
there. I urged upon him that you were a good soldier, and a true one,
serving His Gracious Majesty most faithful.
“Then, when I could think of no more to say, I told His Excellency
that--that I loved you better than any one else in the whole world, and
that he must pardon you for me,” and Lucille leaned over and hid her
face on my shoulder.
“All that for me,” I whispered. “I was not worth it.”
“Oh, but you are,” said Lucille, looking up quickly, “or I should never
have been brave enough to do all I did.”
“What said His Excellency, when you pleaded so well for me?” I asked.
“Why,” continued Lucille, “he smiled, and wanted to know who it was I
had come to save. ‘Captain Edward Amherst,’ I replied, and then all the
men in the room, who had been talking about the custom-house, burst into
shouts of laughter.
“One of them said: ‘Not the traitor Sir George is after, is it, Your
Excellency?’ ‘The same,’ was the Governor’s answer.
“That angered me, to hear them call you a traitor, though I did not
realize who Sir George was then,” went on Lucille. “I stamped my foot,
forgetting that I was in the presence of the Governor, and cried out:
‘Captain Amherst is no traitor, but a true and honorable gentleman, and
a brave soldier, which is more than can be said of many.’ The men turned
aside at that, and Sir William led me to another room.
“There he told me he would grant a pardon from the charge of witchcraft,
which he did not believe in, but he added that there were graver matters
hanging over your head. I was so overjoyed at hearing him say he would
give the pardon that I only heard him murmur something about fearing it
would be of little service. He called his secretary to bring his quill,
ink-horn and sand box. When he had them he indited a full and free
pardon for Captain Amherst, from the charge of witchcraft, sealing it
with his own hand.
“He bowed me out of the chamber, while all the men stared so again that
my cheeks were burning. But I was out of the house at last, and so
anxious to get back to you and have you released from Salem gaol, that I
could scarce walk fast enough. As I was going down the steps I was
startled by seeing a man in front of me. I looked up in fright, and
there was one I least desired to meet--Sir George Keith.”
Lucille glanced at me.
“I should have told you about him before,” she continued, “only I wanted
to wait----”
“I know,” was my reply; “Nanette told me something of him, and I know
more, of my own experience.”
“He stood before me,” went on Lucille, “and, when I would have passed by
him, never giving heed to him, he bowed, and said if I would deign to
hear him he would deliver a message from you. I did not know that he was
your enemy, as well as mine, or I would not have listened to him. But I
was so anxious to do all I could for you that I never stopped to think
that Sir George Keith would scarce do his rival a courtesy. So I bade
him say on quickly, and told him I never would listen to him on my
account.
“Then he told me you had broken gaol early that morning, and were hiding
in the woods to avoid capture. He said you had besought him, as a
comrade in arms, to get him aid, and particularly to send word to me, so
I might come to you.
“‘There is no cause for Captain Amherst to hide,’ I said, ‘for I have a
pardon for him. He need fear no gaol.’ Sir George said it was not the
witchcraft that was hanging over you now, but a charge of treason. That
made me greatly frightened, and I suppose he saw it and knew he could
tell me any lie and have it believed. He said, if I would consent to let
him guide me to you, he could provide a way of escape for us both.
“I was afraid of him, but he spoke so gently, and was so courteous,
never even referring to the hateful past, that I consented. Oh, how
little I knew what was before me,” and Lucille shivered, not alone from
the night wind. I knew now why Sir George had left the court room so
suddenly the day of my trial. It was to get trace of Lucille.
“He said,” she continued, after a pause, “that it would not be safe for
us to go directly to your hiding place, as we might be followed. There
was a small boat, down at the wharf, he added, sailed by an honest man,
and, if I would but trust myself in it, we could move along the shore
until we had picked you up. Such, Sir George said, was the plan you had
devised.
“Though I wavered a bit, being friendless and alone in Boston town, in
the end I yielded, and suffered him to lead the way to the boat. It was
the Eagle, and Simon was the whole crew. When Sir George came to the end
of the wharf with me, he said to Simon:
“‘This is the lady you are to take to her lover.’
“‘Aye, aye, sir,’ answered Simon, and he touched his hat, and held the
steps steady for me to descend. Ah me, it was many a day ere I went up
those same steps again.
“At a signal from Sir George Simon cast off, and we were sailing
smoothly down the bay, while I was all impatience until I should see
you, as my heart misgave me. And I longed to show you the pardon I had,
that you might know why I had not remained near you in Salem. See, here
it is now.”
Lucille took from her bosom a paper, all crumpled and stained and wet
from the sea water. By the dim light of the fire I saw that it was the
pardon she had obtained. I kissed it, for it was my first love letter
from Lucille, verily a strange one. I would have kept it, but she said
she would hold it until we reached some safe place, as it might yet be
needed.
“We sailed on,” related Lucille, “until it grew dark, and then, in
fright, I called from the cabin to know when we would land and find you.
‘Presently,’ answered Sir George, and I waited, with small patience.
Simon lighted a lantern, so that its beams fell upon Sir George, as he
stood at the helm. ‘Is it not true, my lord?’ I called to him.
‘Presently,’ he said again, and he smiled. In that smile I saw the trick
he had played.
“I stood before him then, and, though I feared him, I demanded that he
instantly set me ashore. At that he only smiled once more, and called to
Simon to make sail.
“‘Put me ashore, my lord, as you are a gentleman and a soldier,’ I
pleaded. ‘I had rather be alone in the woods than here with you.’ ‘You
shall go ashore in good season,’ he said. I begged and pleaded with him,
until his smiles became frowns. Seeing that it was useless to beg him to
release me, I cried out that I would throw myself into the sea. I ran to
the rail, but Simon sprang after me and dragged me back. Sir George gave
the tiller over to him, and, standing before me, said:
“‘Lucille, I pray you to forgive me for what I have done, but I cannot
let you go, now that I have found you again. Captain Amherst has not
escaped; he does not wait for you, hiding in the woods. Ere this ’tis
likely that he is no longer alive. But I am alive, I am here, and,
Lucille, I love you. I have waited and searched for you many years,’ he
went on, ‘and now I will not let you go. As there is a God above us I
mean you no wrong. But I love you, oh, how I love you!’”
I must have shown the feeling in my heart as Lucille repeated the words
of Sir George.
“Heed not his words, Edward,” she said; “they were only words to me. He
said we would sail far away from New England, to the New Jersey Colony,
where he had friends. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you will have learned to care
for me. And, if you do not, we will go down into the depths of the sea
together, for, if I cannot have you in life I will have you in death.’
“Oh, how I was frightened, my love, but I thought of you, and how brave
you were, and that gave me courage. I told Sir George I would never love
him, in life nor death, and I said I would not even die with him, so
much did I hate him. I said I would appeal for help to the first person
I met when I reached shore. Whereat he laughed and said it would be many
days ere we touched land. Then he begged me to enter the cabin, which
had been fitted up with some degree of comfort, saying that he would not
intrude himself upon me. More to escape him than because I was weary, I
went down, and bolted the door.”
Then Lucille told me of the long voyage that followed. Sir George was
like a madman with one idea in his head. He never sailed near shore,
save when supplies were needed, and then Simon rowed to the beach in a
small boat. The two men were most gentle to her, and once, when Simon
had grumbled at taking the meals to her in the cabin, Sir George felled
him to the deck with a blow. After that the sailor had little to say.
Sir George and his man steered the craft by turns, and the master
stopped at no task, however mean, performing all, as did the man. To
such will love or its counterfeit go.
On they sailed, and never once did Lucille, by any chance, get near
enough a passing vessel, or within distance of shore, so as to make a
cry heard.
When it was necessary to approach a town harbor to anchor from a storm,
she was locked in the cabin. Thus she spent one month, longing night and
day to be free, until the roses faded from her cheeks, and the love
light from her eyes. Ever did Sir George protest his affection for her,
begging that she would but give him a little hope. But never, even by a
turn of the head, did she admit that she heard him, for, after the first
few days when she demanded that he set her free, she held her peace and
spoke no words to him.
This was the tale Lucille related to me, as we sat under the ledge of
rock by the waters I had saved her from. And, as the story grew, I
longed for the morrow, that I might fight for her honor and my own. I
put some driftwood on the fire, and it blazed up.
Of the storm, which blew the craft out to sea until the voyagers thought
it would never return, Lucille told. Then provisions ran low, and for
three days Sir George had nothing but a small crust of bread, and Simon
had as little, because they put all aside for her. And this she never
knew till after they had reached the vicinity of a town again, when by
the ravenous hunger of Sir George and his man, she saw they had been
near death.
It seemed strange to me that this man could endure so much for love,
could battle so to win it, and yet could not master himself. Of a truth,
he was one who might have been great, had not his life been turned in
the wrong direction.
The last storm which blew had started the seams of the Eagle, and this
had compelled Sir George to put in shore sooner than he intended, for he
was near to his journey’s end.
The remainder of the tale I knew, having seen the sinking of the Eagle.
“And now tell me of yourself, Edward,” commanded Lucille. “Tell me how
you escaped from Salem gaol, and how you happened to be here, so far
away, just as I was about to give myself up for lost. You must have had
a wearisome search for me.”
“I forget the weariness of it, now,” I whispered, “for I have found
you,” and I held her close to me.
“Mayhap, only to lose me again,” replied she, with a touch of sadness in
her voice.
“Not if there is still strength in my arm or temper in my sword,” I
answered, cheerfully, for I am not one easily downcast, when I have a
fight before me.
“Oh, the terrible morrow, I wish it would never come,” Lucille
whispered.
“Have no fear,” I assured her. Then I told her of myself. How I with
others had broken from Salem gaol after I had been near to death in the
great press. I told of my journey, though I did not relate all my
feelings when I knew she had sailed with Sir George, as I thought.
The night wore on. Our fire grew dim, and I bade Lucille sleep, for I
did not want her to be awake when I must go out to meet my enemy. But
she said she could not slumber, and thus we sat in each other’s arms
until a greater blackness gave warning that the dawn was at hand.
It was cold and gray and still, save for the noise of the waves. Then
the grayness became lighter in color.
The stars that had been bright grew dim. Slowly the morning light came,
a pale rosy flush in the eastern sky. Then the edge of the sun peeped up
from beneath the waves.
I looked at Lucille. She was fast asleep on my arm. I placed her gently
against the rock, my coat for a pillow. It was time to go now. I
wondered if I would return, or would it be Sir George, who would be
there when she awoke.
I leaned over and kissed her lightly on the half parted lips. Once,
twice, three times.
She stirred, and murmured my name.
“Good bye, Lucille,” I whispered. “Good bye, my dear love, good bye.”
Then I went out to meet my foe.