“Come, my masters, let us share,—”
HENRY IV.
Obedient to the commands of his chief, Lorenzo drafted a number of men
from the crew, and sent them on board the prize ship. The Black Schooner
was kept in the position ordered by the captain; the proper watches for
the night were set, and those on board the vessel retired to rest.
At the dawn of the next day, a peculiar sound of the fife summoned forth
the whole crew of the schooner. In the space of a few moments, above
three hundred men lined the long deck.
With the habit of continual discipline, they fell into order so quietly,
that the space afforded by the deck of that comparatively small vessel,
did not for a moment seem filled by the multitude which gathered on it.
The pirates stood accoutred in, what might be called, their holiday
dress. Their red woollen shirts and caps were worn with some care;
their sashes seemed more symmetrically folded round their waists, and
the weapons which were stuck in them, seemed adjusted with more than
ordinary attention; while their black beards, faces, and hands, presented
that clean, sun-burnt, half-sea, half-land appearance, which we easily
discover in the aspect of a sailor while on shore.
The appearance of the crew, as it gathered that morning, contrasted in a
striking manner with that which it wore before the attack.
Before the action, the pirates stood like men who were too much engrossed
with one idea—one passion—to be capable of any thought which was
unconnected with that. Their red caps were drawn carelessly over their
heads; their dress was that of men who could not afford a moment’s time
to its adjustment, while the wildest ferocity sat on every line of their
countenances. On that morning the absorption of mind had ceased; they
seemed returned from the engrossing contemplation of the sanguinary
and the terrible, to the softer feelings that lend to life those
charms, which, empty though they be, still are sufficient to enliven
its monotony, and sometimes even to smooth down its asperities. Their
habitual fierceness, too, had yielded to the contentment by which they
seemed animated, and their features were less rigid, and less ferocious.
The men had been assembled some time before the captain made his
appearance: the change which was observed in their aspect, could not be
read in his. He appeared the same, sternly collected, individual that he
always was.
As soon as he appeared on deck, the officers respectfully bowed. The
captain then seated himself on a deck-stool, which had been placed behind
a small table for him. The boys, who always attended him, then deposited
on the table several bags of money, and disappeared.
“My men,” he said, when he had been seated, “our booty in gold has been
small, but we shall, no doubt, find a sufficient recompense for our toil
in the purchase-money of the ship’s cargo, which it is my will to take to
St. Thomas’ to sell. Six thousand and five hundred dollars is the amount
of what we have got. This I shall divide among you, and forego my own
share until a day of better fortune. Let the wounded approach.”
Those who had been but slightly wounded in the last engagement, and
could bear the fatigue of walking, stepped forward. They received shares
larger than those of their comrades in proportion to the injuries which
they had sustained. Those who had lost a hand, an arm, a leg, or a foot,
received four times the amount of booty; those who had lost an eye, a
finger, or a toe, received twice the amount. When the wounded had duly
been recompensed, the captain then addressed his men.
“Comrades,” he said, “it was our misfortune to lose some of our brave
associates in the fight, let those who were the friends of the dead come
forward, as I call over their names, and receive their share:—Diego—who
is Diego’s friend?” One of the pirates stepped forward, and, raising his
right hand, declared that he was Diego’s friend. The share which should
have been that of the dead, was then delivered to his friend.
“Martin,” continued the chief, “who was Martin’s friend?” Another pirate
stepped forward, and, raising his right hand, in the same manner,
declared that he was Martin’s friend.
The captain went on in this manner, calling over the names of the lost
comrades, and requiring to know their friends, until he came to the last
of the men.
“Francis,” he cried, “Francis’s friend.” Two men simultaneously stepped
forward, and, raising their hands, each declared that he was Francis’s
friend. “How is this?” the captain asked, “it is not impossible to have
more than one friend, but you know, my men, that it is the custom, on
board this schooner, to have but one man to whom his friend may bequeath
his share?”
The men then looked at each other: and each looked round at his comrades,
as if appealing to them in testimony of his right to be considered the
friend of the dead Francis.
“He was my friend,” each said, and looked again at their comrades, in
corroboration of his claim; but the pirates uttered not a word in answer
to this silent appeal.
“My men,” said the captain, “this has never happened here before:
either Francis forgot his honor, when he charged both of you to be his
friends, when dead, or one of you forgets his, when he asserts that he is
Francis’s friend. Now, Francis is no more, and cannot answer for this;
the responsibility of this breach of honor, my men, rests, therefore,
upon you: one of you must lie.” The two men looked fierce when the chief
coolly pronounced this word. “You know the law—choose your weapons—at six
o’clock this evening you must fight: the survivor shall receive the share
of Francis.”
A low murmur of approbation rang along the line of the assembled sailors,
and the two pretenders to the favour of the departed pirate stepped
aside.
After the shares of the wounded had been duly allotted, and those of the
dead scrupulously delivered into the hands of their friends; or, if there
were no friends of the deceased, carefully set apart for the purpose of
having masses said for them, the lots of the other pirates were shared
out to them.
The officers of the schooner received theirs first, and those who might
be called the common seamen, theirs afterwards. When the distribution was
completed, the prisoners and strangers on board were ordered to appear.
First came the surviving sailors of the prize ship. Out of the complement
of thirty-five men, who had formed the crew of that vessel, five only
had escaped death in the engagement. These came forth, pale and haggard,
expecting, apparently, to hear every moment the dreadful command which,
in some horrible way, should put an end to their existence. The five
English sailors, with the exception of one, whose years might be more
mature, were in the prime of life, and wore that hue of health which
their calling imparts: howbeit the anxiety of the position in which they
were placed had had its temporary effect on them.
They approached the captain with an air of uneasiness, turning their hats
about in their brawny hands, while divers bumps might have been observed
to rise now and then, and disappear immediately on their weather beaten
cheeks: probably they were the various protrusions created by the quid,
while it went through the many revolutions in which it was then twisted.
“What were your wages, by the month, men?” inquired the captain, when the
English sailors stood before him, bending on them, at the same time, one
of his searching and stern looks.
The sailors looked at each other, then at the captain, and then at
each other again, and could not, apparently, be bold enough to reply,
lest the question might, eventually, prove to be some trap by which it
was intended to ensnare them into some confession or other that would
tend to aggravate their sufferings. The captain neither showed signs
of impatience nor renewed his question, but remained still, looking
stedfastly on the sailors, with the cool composure of one who does not
wonder that others should feel embarrassed in his presence; but, on the
contrary, expects a degree of confusion on the part of those who are
addressed by him. The oldest man of the five, however, at last spoke and
answered:
“Three pounds a month, your honor,” raising his hand, at the same time,
to the part of his head where the brim of his hat should have been, if
that necessary cerebral protection had happened to be in its proper
place at the time, and not in his hands.
“Have any of you received any advances on your wages?” again inquired the
captain.
“Half of a months’ wages have been paid at home, your honor,” answered
the old tar, of which answer, when he had duly delivered himself, he
looked anxiously round at his four companions respectively, and seemed to
inquire, “what will this lead to?”
The captain drew from a purse several pieces of gold, which, when he had
divided into several small sums, he gave to the sailors.
“There are your wages,” he said, as he tendered the money to them, “for
the five months that you have been on the voyage, we give, and do not
take from such as you.”
The sailors looked bewildered. They could scarcely believe their ears,
and they cast glances of amazement at each other. Even the appearance
of money, it would appear, could not re-assure them; they put out their
hands to receive the tendered wages like men who were afraid to receive
something that was given lest danger should be attached to it.
“We shall land you on the nearest head-land,” continued the captain, “in
the mean time, you may enjoy your liberty. If any of you wish to join
my men, you can do so. The rules of the ship are few: I require but one
thing—obedience. Death is the penalty of the least breach of discipline.”
Having said this, the captain waved his hand, and the English sailors
fell back behind the assembled crew.
The master fisherman and his men were next brought forward. They had by
this time become perfectly at home in the schooner. The master fisherman
found that the life, which he would be likely to lead on board would suit
his Spanish blood, and Spanish character, well. Down to that time, also,
he had been well treated.
It is true, the discipline of the schooner had appeared to him,
accustomed as he was to the free and independent life of one of his
calling, rather hard and unbearable; but the good companionship, and
the profits of a pirate’s life were sufficient, in his estimation, to
outweigh that inconvenience. As for Jack Jimmy, and his other man, they,
too, had familiarized themselves with their position: the latter seemed
to care but for little, in this world, beside the luxury of eating,
drinking, and sleeping. He found the schooner capable of furnishing
him with those three things, and was not, therefore inclined, like the
generality of mortals, to grumble about more, when he already enjoyed the
three elements of his happiness.
The former, Jack Jimmy, it is true, was of a less contented, and more
restless disposition; and the order and monotony of the schooner, to say
nothing of the continual fear in which he had at first been kept, by
the mystery of his novel position, tended to make him long for his own
cabin; or, at best, for any other situation but the one in which he was
then placed. He became, however, by degrees more satisfied, the longer he
remained in the schooner; for, he was not ill-treated in the first place,
and the tricks which the men played upon him, the voyage, and the other
things—except, perhaps, the fight—which had happened since his arrival on
board, contributed, in the second place, to afford that excitement which,
it would seem, his nature craved.
As the master fisherman appeared, the captain delivered to him a purse,
and said:
“That will compensate you for the time you have lost: you will be landed
soon, you, and your men.”
Jack Jimmy had followed his master, or rather had been thrust forward
with him, in a state of nervous trepidation. The movements of the little
negro were as brisk and as rapid as those of a monkey. His head turned
on his shoulders like a weather gauge in a storm, while his large white
eyes were stretched open to their utmost width. His head seemed to be
turned forwards, sideways, and backwards at the same time. One would
have said that while he looked before him, he was afraid he should be
struck backwards, or sideways; while he looked sideways, that he should
be struck either from before or behind; and while he looked backwards, he
was afraid that he should be struck from before or from the side.
He was going on thus, like an automaton in violent action, when the sound
of the captain’s voice fell upon his ear. He seemed, at that moment,
struck motionless. He fixed his eyes on him, lowered what supplied the
place of eyebrows, opened his mouth, threw his head and neck as far
forwards as he could, and remained rooted to the spot in deep examination
of the young man before him.
This did not last long; for, with his, usually rapid movements, he threw
himself at the foot of the captain, before he had quite finished the few
words which he had addressed to the master fisherman, clasped his knees
franticly in his arms, and yelled out,—“Garamighty! da ee—da ee—da me
young massa.”
Jack Jimmy sobbed aloud, as he the more tightly clasped the knees of the
captain. The latter looked down calmly and coolly on the little man,
seemed to recognize him, but said not a word to him.
Pained by the apparent forgetfulness of his young master, he raised his
head, and, looking imploringly up to the captain Jack Jimmy cried out,
piteously:
“You no know me—you no know me, massa—you no know Jack Jimmy—you no
’member Jack Jimmy in de mule-pen—you—”
“Yes, I do recollect you, Jack Jimmy,” interrupted the captain, “but you
must neither make such a noise here, nor continue where you are.” He
made a sign with his hand, and two men stepped forward and led away the
affectionate Jack Jimmy.
“Ah! my young massa,” continued the affectionate negro as he was taken
away, “ee bin da gie me cake—he bin da gie me grog—an when dey bin want
foo beat me ee bin da beg foo me.”
When Jack Jimmy had been led away behind the assembled crew, and had been
prevailed upon to become silent, which change did not take place in him
until he had been threatened to be again rocked in the sail, the priest
and the young lady were, in their turn, led forth. The former, although
it was perceptible that he anticipated the gloomiest results, still
had a resigned and serene air. He looked calmly on all that had taken
place that day, and, perhaps, there might be read in his eyes a certain
expression of surprise, that the pirates did not at once act with that
blood-thirsty ruffianism which he had been accustomed, from his earliest
schoolboy readings, to attach to men of that abandoned life.
The young lady was, naturally, much more affected by the circumstances of
her situation; kindness, however, had not been spared to reconcile her to
it as much as possible.
Lorenzo had been strictly enjoined to show all marks of attention to
her; and he seemed not to have required the positive command of his
chief to do so: for she had at her command the chivalrous devotedness,
which great beauty always draws from even the most stoical of men. She
was exceedingly beautiful; such a species of beauty that we meet only
in the tropics,—a beauty which we can compare to no known standard:
something that belongs entirely to the warm clime by which it is
produced; something that is more of the fanciful than of the real. She
was of a middle age, slender, and of a perfect figure; her features were
delicately and nicely chiselled; her complexion was of the clearest
white, tinged with the slightest olive; her dark brown hair hung over
a high and nicely moulded forehead, while her dark gazelle-like eyes
imparted to her face a character of tenderness and softness.
The officer had exhibited the greatest solicitude on behalf of the fair
captive from the moment she came on board the schooner; and now, when she
stood on deck, weak and nervous, he might have been observed, from time
to time, stealthily to give her as much assistance as the rules of the
vessel permitted, and to pay her, perhaps, more attention than even the
commands of his chief could have been intended to require of him.
When the priest and young lady stood before the captain, he spoke but
very few words to them.
“You will be landed,” he said, as he looked at the two persons, “with the
others, on the nearest cape.”
He waved his hand, and the captives were led away.
Lastly, the man who was found in the cabin of the captured ship, armed
with a musket, and who had called the captain his son, was then led
forward. Unlike the other prisoners, he was strictly guarded, and
seemed to be treated with a severity that was the very opposite of that
moderation which had been so generally and unexpectedly shown to the
other prisoners that were in the same situation with himself.
The captain cast a stern and penetrating look on him, as he was brought
before him, and said, in his stern indifferent manner:
“Prepare, to-morrow, for your trial; you know your crime.” As he said
this, he waved his hand.
The prisoner seemed tongue-tied for awhile, his countenance betrayed
the most despondent fear; he seemed to become conscious, at once, of
some great offence, under whose weighty recollection his whole faculties
appeared overwhelmed.
He stood before him whom he called his son, and seemed to entertain for
him more fear than any of the stranger prisoners who could claim no
relationship or parentage to move his pity or secure his forbearance.
He could not utter a word for the short moment that he stood before the
captain, but when the pirates, who guarded him, laid their hands roughly
upon him, to pull him away, the fear, the surprise, the consciousness
which, till then, had deprived him of speech, lost their power under the
influence of the terror that now seized him.
“But—what—what is my offence? how dare you? My own son, to—” here one of
the sailors, who guarded him, threw his sash over his head, and bound it
so tightly behind, that not even a murmur of the unfortunate prisoner
could be heard, as he was led away to the foremost part of the vessel.
The chief now rose and retired. The crew silently returned to their
own quarters, and the Black Schooner which, a moment ago, was full of
animation, was now left again quiet and apparently solitary, gracefully
riding over the sparkling waves under her jib and half-mainsail.