“Why, I will fight with him upon this theme,
Until my eye-lids no longer wag.”
HAMLET.
The captain had retired from the deck of the schooner but a short
time, when the sounds of the gong, which was the usual instrument for
announcing a day of pleasure to the sailors, echoed over the vessel. The
sounds were received with joy, and, in a short time, the deck of the
schooner again presented the scene of life, which it had done but a few
moments ago, but which had been momentarily succeeded by the contrasting
stillness of death.
On this occasion, however, the sailors were not standing in the stiff
restraint of discipline and duty, as then, but they delivered themselves
up to enjoyment with all that impetuosity of pleasure, which strict
constraint and proper separation of relaxation from labour necessarily
produce. No boisterous mirth, nevertheless, obtained among them now,
as on the other day. They were occupied in either speaking about the
prize-ship, and the prospect of their booty, or in speculating upon the
enjoyment which their share of the mornings’ division would procure them,
when they should be allowed a day’s sport in some friendly harbour. The
liquors, which they had taken on board of the ship, circulated freely
around, and the choice tobacco which had also fallen into their hands,
contributed largely to their gratification.
The English sailors, who had been induced to make themselves easy by
the forbearance with which they were treated, and had been invited by
the pirates to mix in the merriment, joined freely in the carousals of
the day. By that mysterious sympathy which instinctively exists between
people of the same country, and children of the same soil, they had been
drawn together around Jim Splice, and were now expressing their surprise
at what they had seen, and experienced on board the Black Schooner.
“Ay, ay, shipmates,” said Jim Splice, in answer to them, “you have come
from a far country, hav’nt you? ha, ha! you thought you were done for,
eh? when you saw our pikes, and our skull and bones; ha, ha! my hearties,
you did’nt know us: and, when you came on board, you expected to be made
to walk the plank, eh? We don’t look for men’s lives—what booty does that
give? we look for something better; and if you, or that stupid skipper
of yours was’nt foolish enough to fire upon us, why, we would have taken
your money and your ship, to be sure, but those comrades of yours, that
have now gone to their reckoning, would be here now, to take a glass of
grog with old Jim Splice. But, by G—d, that was a reg’lar rattler that
you gave the first boat—I never seed the like. It was foolish, though;
what could your skipper gain by that?”
“Why,” replied one of the sailors, “you see we had but one gun to fire
salutes with, and our skipper had it loaded with all kind of material,
and pointed it himself. He thought, you see, you would have cut away
after the first discharge, you see.”
“Then, by G—d,” replied Jim Splice, “he counted without his host, my
hearty; no one has ever seen the stern of this here Black Schooner,”
striking the deck on which he sat, with his hand, “as is commanded by
that ere captain you spoke to this morning; and you may take my word for
that, I know. That man that you saw this morning, I tell you, is the very
devil, when his blood is up; he fights like a tiger—a reg’lar tiger.”
“But, who is that old lubber that looked so miserable this morning—him
who was guarded?”
“We don’t know much of him,” answered one of the sailors, “but I have
heard our captain say that he was a rich old codger. I know he sent on
board as many hens and sheep as would keep us on fresh provisions all the
voyage if it had’nt so happened as we were taken. But why was he guarded
that way?”
“Hum—no one knows,” replied Splice, “I guess there is some
misunderstanding between him and our captain; if so, God help him! for
those who have misunderstandings with our fire-eater never get on well, I
know; old Jim Splice would’nt be in that lubber’s ducks for the richest
West Indiaman that ever carried sugar, I know.”
Here Jim Splice remained silent for a few moments, during which time he
seemed to be wrapt in serious reflection.
“By G—d,” he continued, “I was saying, yes—yes—I saw him once—ay, our
captain, punish a shipmate that had’nt obeyed orders, and I sha’nt forget
that, I know. Those that sail well with our captain are treated like his
children, but God help those who cross him in his tack, all young and
quiet as you see him!”
Splice became again silent, and looked absorbed, as if his memory was
returning to some bygone scene in his chequered life.
“But, my hearties,” he said, when he had been silent for a considerable
time, “will you go ashore, or remain with us? This is the schooner for
any man of spirit; by G—d! I should’nt leave this ere craft if they would
give me the finest palace to-morrow. Here we lead the lives of men—ay,
tough brave men—ay, no lubberly coxcomb to make us jump about, or talk to
us in oaths, by G—d, no. Every man here is a man; he has only to observe
discipline, that’s all, no mistake there, my boys; overboard with any
one who does’nt keep the rules—ay, this is the craft, my hearties. But
what is the matter there?” as he said this, he pointed towards the bows
of the vessel, where three men were standing, and seemed to be objects
of attraction to all the other pirates, for the eyes of the whole crew
were turned towards them. “Ah! I see,” observed Jim Splice, “it is my two
shipmates of this morning, that are going to fight it out. That’s a bad
business: we never see things of this sort on board this here craft; two
men never claim the share of a dead comrade.”
It was, as Splice had justly remarked, the two men, who had claimed
the portion of the departed Francis, under the pretence of being his
friends. The other person, who was standing by them, was the officer
of the watch, whose duty it was to see the order, which the captain had
given in the morning, carried into effect. As soon as it was six o’clock,
he had proceeded forwards, and reminded the parties that the time for
the duel had arrived. He found the two men, who were about to join in
deadly fight, drinking with their comrades, apparently thoughtless of
the bloody deed which they were now bound, by the order of the captain,
to execute. One of them, however, did not seem as gay as usual, although
he made strong efforts to conceal the thoughtfulness which now and then
shewed itself in his dull and uneasy manner. It might be imagined that
some serious thoughts of parent or child were forcing themselves on his
unwilling memory; or, perhaps, remorse for some deed that was horrible
even to his piratical conscience was at that moment haunting him.
When the officer had reminded the two men that the hour was come, they
proceeded with him to the bows of the schooner.
The officer placed himself by the combatants with the evident purpose of
being a witness, or, rather, the witness, to the deed.
The two men, who were to fight, proceeded in the mean time to prepare
for the combat. They undid each his sash, and folded it carefully round
his left arm, examined the edges of their poniards, and placed themselves
in attitude, with the left arm raised, as if supporting a shield. This
was done with the most astonishing coolness, not a word was spoken
between the antagonists, not a malignant or malicious glance escaped from
either the one or the other, but the features of the two men that faced
each other were locked in that grave fierceness which is too deep to be
expressed by changes of the countenance.
Having completed their preparations, the intended combatants stood for a
time inactive, each apparently expecting the assault of the other, and
displaying in their manly attitude the muscular fulness, bold glance, and
resolute eye, which we admire in the statues of the ancient gladiators
that art has bequeathed to our contemplation. They seemed by no means
eager to assail each other; they evinced not the impetuosity of men who
rush on each other in the out-burst of their rage: they seemed to be
about to do something which they were, indeed, obliged to perform, but
from which their natures revolted; their blood was too cold for the deed;
the small portion of a dead comrade was too little to fire their spirits
and spur them headlong on each other. Still they were obliged to fight.
When both had stood, however, in this manner for a long time, the one who
in the morning had first claimed to be Francis’s friend, suddenly rushed
on his antagonist, and raising his poniard on high made at his opponent.
By a sudden movement of the body the latter avoided the blow; as quick
as thought the other drew himself up in his former position, and before
his antagonist could regain the equilibrium which he had partly lost
by bending his body to avoid the blow, he aimed a deadly stab, and the
glistening poniard descended in sure destruction on the left breast
of the stooping antagonist; but a dexterous parry with the muffled
arm averted the blow, and the poniard passed harmlessly through the
scarf. The apathy or indifference which existed at the beginning had
now passed away, and the fight began to warm. The two fighters plunged
with desperation at each other, but both seemed equally expert in the
use of their weapons. With the agility and the pliability of serpents
they avoided each other’s blows by the rapid movements of their bodies,
while their feet scarcely moved from the place in which they were at
first planted. On—on they rushed at each other, but in vain: they were
well matched. The fight now became still more animated; anger, rage,
disappointment, could now be read in the grim faces of the combatants;
their nostrils distended wide with fatigue, the perspiration poured down
their dark faces, and their lips, curling high with rage and scorn,
exhibited their clenched teeth, white and glistening beneath the shadow
of their black mustachios.
With a dreadful thrust, one at last buried his poniard deep into the neck
of the other.
Exasperated by the cut, the wounded man made a desperate rush on his
antagonist, who bent his body a little to the side and gave way to the
assailant. Borne away by his own impetus, and already weakened by the
wound, he staggered forwards a little, and fell flat on his face. The
victor waited for a moment for his antagonist to rise, but the unhappy
man had received his death-blow, and remained prostrate on the deck.
The other, after this, did not seem to take the slightest notice of
his opponent’s fall, but proceeded with coolness to unfold his sash
from around his arm and to wipe his bloody poniard. The officer on duty
immediately went to the assistance of the fallen man, and summoning two
of the men of his watch, ordered him to be removed from the deck. The two
sailors bent over the wounded man to lift him, but they were sullenly
repelled. He was the pirate that had claimed the share last.
“Leave me,” he sullenly cried, “leave me, I say; let me die here.” The
sailors drew back.
“Come, comrade,” said the officer, “you cannot expect us to let you
remain here—remove him, my men.”
The sailors endeavoured again to lay hold of the man, but, with the
impulsive strength of death, he brandished his poniard about him and kept
them away.
“Let me die here, and be damned to me!” he exclaimed, “I was not
Francis’s friend, and I have deserved to be killed this way,” and he
churlishly dropped his head on the deck.
The sailors, who stood around the dying man, were surprised and shocked
by his confession, for no instance of such base falsehood had ever been
known before on board the Black Schooner. A strict sense of honor was
maintained among the pirates. This was not only enforced by the stringent
laws which existed, but was cheerfully cultivated by the men themselves,
from motives not only of obedience, but self-preservation, for they were
fully persuaded that the least breach of honesty among themselves, would
be the end of their individual security, and the dissolution of their
society.
Besides, to men of such dispositions, accustomed as they were to act
openly and to hazard their lives boldly, such acts of calculating
meanness were naturally disgusting.
It may be said that the very illegitimate pursuit in which they were
engaged was itself dishonesty, but it is to be recollected that they
considered piracy not in the shocking light in which better and more
delicate minds justly view it; but they looked upon it more like
adventures, in which men of spirit could engage with as much honor, as
in fighting under the banners of stranger kings, for the purpose of
conquering distant and unoffending peoples. They viewed, therefore,
this act of meanness, on the part of the fallen man, with disgust, and
the commiseration which was at first so spontaneously shown as to an
unfortunate party in a duel, was immediately withdrawn when the dying man
disclosed his crime.
The officer who witnessed the combat, upon hearing the confession,
proceeded immediately to Lorenzo and reported the circumstance. That
officer heard him with much concern: he knew the extreme penalty that was
attached to such an offence, and his heart was sickened at the thought
of an execution. He listened to the report of the officer until he had
finished, and remained silent for a time, apparently meditating either
intercession or some other means of avoiding the fatal punishment which
he well knew the crime of the man would entail. Every hope, however,
seemed to give way in succession, for, after he had remained silent for
some time, he said, shaking his head:
“I wish to Heaven that man had never come on board the schooner, or that
he should have died, at least, with his own secret. I shall communicate
these things to the captain: but I pity the poor fellow.”
Accordingly he left his cabin, and got access to that of the captain,
when he repeated the report of the officer on duty. The captain heard
him with the same grave and apparently apathetic coolness which
characterised him, and then repeated, in his deep sonorous voice, the
fatal sentence—“Let the punishment be executed upon him.”
While Lorenzo was communicating the latter part of the intelligence,
there might have been discovered a slight falter in his voice, and some
embarrassment in his manner. He seemed to tremble at the consequence
which such a short sentence would produce, while he himself was under the
sad obligation of pronouncing the words which would bring about the fatal
results that he seemed to dread so much. He, however, had managed to
inform the captain of the poor man’s crime, and he still hoped that the
circumstance of his being already at the point of death, from the wound
which he had received, would suspend the punishment which he but too well
knew would follow that which, in the Black Schooner, was accounted the
highest guilt.
Lorenzo, therefore, anxiously watched the countenance of his cold and
stern commander, in the hopes of being able to read in the expression
which his report would produce, something that would lead him to believe
that the unhappy culprit should be spared the horrors of an execution,
when the hand of death seemed to be already laid so heavily upon him.
But the features of the captain changed not: it is true, the minutest
scrutiny may have detected a transitory alteration in the eyes, but that
was more terrible than assuring. It lasted but for a moment, the face
wore its own cold severity when the fatal “let the punishment be executed
upon him” was pronounced.
Lorenzo silently rose, bowed, and retired. No man ever pretended to
advise the chief; he seemed one who held counsel but with himself, he
carried his discipline and his doctrine of expediency so far, that he
never permitted either the suggestions of his officers, nor heard the
prayers of mercy when once his commands were issued. Lorenzo knew that:
more tender than his pursuit should have made him, he felt deeply for
the wretched man who was doomed, that hour, to die for the satisfaction
of the rigid laws of the schooner.
When Lorenzo left the cabin of the captain, he went on deck, where he
gathered the men about him. These had continued in their places during
the duel and the scene which ensued, apparently unaffected and unmoved
by what was passing before them. During the most animated part of the
combat, they had become as silent as if they were dumb, while their eyes
were rivetted on the two who were fighting. But as soon as the duel
was over, they fell again into the strain of mirth and revelry, which
had been for a short time suspended, and the stabs and passes of the
late combatants became the subjects of an animated conversation and of
criticism.
But as soon as the wounded man had made known his crime, a general
indignation seemed to seize the pirates.
They talked low and sullenly, and appeared to expect every moment
something whose anticipation already had the effect of damping their
hilarity.
Lorenzo repeated to them, for the sake of form, that which they already
knew, and then repeated the sentence of the captain. The pirates spoke
not a word, but a deep silence reigned among them. The officer of the
watch was then requested to cast lots among his men for two who should
execute the sentence. The two on whom the lot fell, preceded by the
officer, shortly came up to the wounded man. They seemed very much
dissatisfied with the duty that had devolved upon them.
The officer bent over the wounded man and reminded him that he had
violated the most binding of their laws, and, at the same time, had
exposed the life of a comrade to his own poniard, when he knew all the
while that he had no right to contend for the portion which had been
bequeathed by one dead comrade to another. He repeated the usual sentence
passed in that case, and stated that the captain had also ordered its
execution, and told him that within a few moments he should no longer
live.
“Have you,” he asked, in conclusion, “any request to make?”
“No,” answered the wounded man, with the same sullenness as before.
The two men now raised the culprit on the bulwarks of the schooner. One
of them supported him there, while the other proceeded to attach to his
legs two cannon-balls, which were strongly tied up in pieces of old
canvass. The culprit watched these preparations with the most unmoved
indifference and most sullen cynicism. By this time he had lost a great
quantity of blood, and his face was horribly pale and haggard, and wore
under the shade of his malignant eyes an expression of deep malice,
accompanied with a spiteful feeling against all men on account of the
disappointment he had met, and the discomfiture which he had experienced
in the fight. He spoke not a word; not a tender feeling seemed to warm
his heart at that moment. The many years which he had, no doubt, passed
among those from whom he was on the point of being cast away for ever,
seemed not to recall to his gloomy recollection one single happy,
or convivial moment which he might fondly contemplate; nor did the
remembrance of some distant friend, of mother, or sister, or of wife,
appear to force itself upon the man, whose moments were now numbered;
but stolid, cold, and sullen, he lay on the bulwarks—on the brink of his
existence.
The chest and other effects belonging to him were now brought and placed
also on the rails. To them were also attached cannon-balls, and they were
supported in that position by one of the men who seemed to await the
orders of the officer.
They had not to wait long: the officer made a sign, and the wretched man,
with his effects, was precipitated into the deep. A few bubbles arose to
the surface, and the ocean rolled on over the executed pirate. Not an
eye followed the splash, not a pirate looked where the waters had settled
for ever over their victim, but the crew seemed to erase, at once, from
their recollection the existence of their late dishonest comrade. They
still sat at their cans, but the elasticity of the revelry was broken, to
those grim men themselves such a death was solemn: the recent execution
damped their spirits, and their pleasure was no longer like pleasure.
The men and the officer returned to the duties of their watch. The sun
sank in the horizon, night came, silence resumed its wonted reign, and
the Black Schooner rode in the stillness of the deep over the long lazy
billows of the Caribean Sea.