“I gained my freedom, and immediately
Ran hither to your grace whom I beseech
To give me ample satisfaction
For these deep shames and great indignities.”
COMEDY OF ERRORS.
When the cutter was cast off, the sails of the schooner were filled,
and she was again put on her course. Joy now seemed to beam on the
fierce faces of the sailors, and if they had not been restrained by the
discipline of the schooner, it was easy to perceive they would have
vociferated their satisfaction in long and loud cheers; but, bound by the
iron strength of her laws, they could only manifest the feelings which
then animated them by a greater alacrity—if possible—in going through
their duties.
The captain had retired, and the command was left in the hands of
Lorenzo. That officer stood by himself at the taffrail of the schooner,
engrossed by his thoughts, and anxiously watching the little cutter,
that was now labouring over the heavy seas, as she sailed gradually
away from the schooner, and was bearing from him, perhaps, for ever,
that being who first called forth in him the power of that tyrannical
sentiment to which Lorenzo, like other men of a less bold and hardy
spirit, was subjected.
“She is gone from me for ever,” thought the officer, “and has left me
scarcely a hope. Perhaps, yes—no, she will try to forget the pirate.”
Lorenzo strode gloomily away from the taffrail a victim to a multitude
of different sentiments, among which the feelings of love, and those
of pride in particular, fiercely contended for the ascendant. He could
not contemplate a slight. To himself he was ever honorable, beyond the
stigma which the world would cast upon him on account of his present
condition, and even his love could scarcely move him to forgive one that
he might imagine deemed him debased by the position which he occupied;
he turned away, therefore, from the direction in which the cutter lay,
and endeavoured to call forth different thoughts by the study of a chart
which was lying on the binnacle.
The Black Schooner was kept in the same course for two days.
On the third morning, the island of St. Thomas’ appeared. It lay far to
leeward, and stretched under the thin clouds, like the blue outline of
some great slate mountain. The schooner was again thrown in the wind.
The captain, who had exchanged his uniform for a suit of plain clothes,
now went on board the prize ship, and was attended by Jack Jimmy, who
had been permitted to take his place with the two boys who usually
waited on him. The greater part of the schooner’s sails were taken in,
and arrangements were made for keeping her to the wind, until the return
of the captain. The ship was now steered for St. Thomas’, and her large
sails filled with the morning breeze. She rapidly approached the little
island, which the policy and wisdom of the Danish government have made
the Tyre of the West Indies. The English ensign was hoisted, and the
ship entered the little narrow harbour which affords a scanty shelter to
the numerous vessels that traffic draws to the place. At that moment it
was crowded with hundreds of vessels, as different in their appearance
as the various parts the world from which they came. There might be
seen the heavy Dutch galiotte, with its crescent form and huge clumsy
proportions; the sprightly Frenchman, with its light fantastic spars and
long low hull; the Yankee clipper, with its tapering masts and snow-white
sails; the Mediterranean faluchas, the sharp schooners from Curaço, and
the neighbouring Spanish coasts; all these seemed drawn together for
the purpose of commerce, and numerous sailors were to be seen on board
their respective ships, busily occupied in taking in or discharging
the widely varying cargoes. A few other suspicious low-hulled crafts,
were also to be seen in the offing, riding uneasy on short cables, and
apparently ready for sea at a moment’s requirement. The appearance of
those vessels at once disclosed the business in which they were occupied.
They were slavers, or otherwise engaged in some nefarious traffic, in
which extraordinarily great fleetness alone could secure them profit, or
protect them from certain destruction. At some distance from the town a
majestic British ship of war was also riding at anchor.
The prize ship was boldly steered into the anchorage, and was shortly
boarded by the officers of customs, who demanded, in the usual manner, to
see the ship’s papers. The officers were easily satisfied, for the easy
and encouraging policy, which the Danes have been wise enough to adopt,
for the purpose of drawing trade to their little island, did not require
many forms in the clearance of the ships which might enter its port. To
the apparent irregularities in the credentials it was easily answered,
that the captain was the owner of the ship and cargo, that he had
originally intended to take the latter to an English market, but he had
changed his mind, and was desirous of selling it in order to undertake a
voyage to some other part of the world.
The captain, after this formality had been completed, went ashore.
On landing, he was immediately accosted by the numerous merchants and
others who may be always seen loitering, partly for pleasure and partly
for business, in small coteries, about the principal landing places of
the West India islands. The quality of his goods, as well as their prices
were eagerly inquired into, but no one seemed inclined to purchase. He
wandered carelessly about the beach with the wide panama hat, with which
he had disguised himself, drawn far over his head, expecting every moment
an offer for his cargo; for it is in this manner, and in such places,
that the cargoes of ships are frequently sold in the tropics. But no
one made an offer; and, tired of sauntering about uselessly, he entered
a neighbouring coffee house, and seated himself at the table of the
principal room.
It was not long before he was followed in by a young merchant who had
detached himself from one of the little groups above mentioned and had
dogged him for a long time.
“I shall give you fifty dollars a hogshead for your sugar, and take
all,” he said, as he accosted and bowed to the captain, at the same time
presenting his cigar case.
“No,” the captain briefly replied, returning the salute, while, at the
same time, he accepted the usual West Indian courtesy, and took a cigar
from the proffered case.
The merchant sat down at the table too, and requested the waiter, who
brought the disguised captain a glass of sangaree, to serve him with the
same. He then took out a cigar and began to smoke negligently, as if his
mind was as little occupied by thoughts of business as that of a child.
They sat together for a considerable time without exchanging a word—a
circumstance of rare occurrence in the talkative tropics, where men
endeavour to find in conversation the relaxation which the places of
amusement of other countries afford. But the disguised captain was one
whose looks did not encourage access, nor was he one whom we would
address by mere casualty or for the sake of a moment’s pastime. Without
being repulsive in appearance he was from a general manner that could
not be easily understood, but which was at once felt, sufficiently
uninviting as not to encourage any one to address him unless he himself
was the first to speak. The merchant therefore did not feel quite
assured and was by no means tempted to open a conversation with him. The
disguised captain on his part was from natural disposition and taste, not
inclined to exchange more words with the merchant or any other person in
the island, than were absolutely necessary to the accomplishment of the
object which brought him to St. Thomas—namely, the sale of the ship’s
cargo.
But, if looks are in a generality of instances justly accounted
deceptive, they can always be considered so with perhaps much more
truth in the merchant, whose business it is to assume the air of
cold indifference, and to pretend to care but very little about the
transaction in question, while perhaps his palm already itches over
the bargain which he keenly meditates, and while he is perhaps already
feasting in imagination on the princely returns which he anticipates from
it.
“Come, I shall give you fifty-five,” the merchant said, after a number of
whiffs.
“No,” the captain replied, in the same dry tone as before, looking
straight before him, indifferently smoking his cigar.
The pursuits of his life time were so different from those of the
generality of men, that besides the stern cynicism in which he had
tutored himself, and the habit of contemplation that he had cultivated,
he would not have been able to take interest in any intercourse with
them. Perhaps, also there was not a little of pride intermixed with his
silence. Accustomed to measure the stars, and to associate his thoughts
with the sublimity of the heavenly regions, and raised to a proper
estimation of himself by the given opinion of the many universities in
which he had studied, and which had declared him a man of extraordinary
talent, he almost scorned the intercourse of one who could speak to him
only about the state of the market, the amount of money that certain
individuals happened to possess, and the other things connected with the
occupation of buying and selling.
Besides, he had long ceased to hold intercourse with living men—except,
indeed, when it was necessary either to command them, to feed them,
or to give them drink. He had found that too much evil was mixed up
with the little good that he could derive from their society, and not
considering that the mere endurance of the former was an object that
was so worthy in itself as to command the exercise of his fortitude,
he thought it prudent to refrain both from listening to the expressed
thoughts of others and intruding his upon them. Books therefore, he made
his companions—books, that could not deceive, could not betray, could
not be mean, could not be penurious, could not make to suffer, could not
disgust; but which contained the best of dead men’s thoughts without much
of their vileness.
It was not strange therefore that the two parties sat together silent.
Notwithstanding, however, the existence of this feeling on the part of
the captain, his prudence suggested the necessity of saying something in
order to enact with exactness the character of merchant-captain which he
had for the time assumed.
“You seem to have much traffic in this island,” he said to the young
merchant, in compliance with this suggestion of his reason.
“A great deal,” replied the young merchant, “we do business with all
parts of the world. Never been here before? Not traded in these seas much
I suppose? You do not seem to have been much exposed to the sun.”
The captain made no answer to the last observation.
“We have lately suffered much,” continued the merchant after a pause, “in
our trade here from a rascally pirate that scours these seas. One vessel
out of three is sure to fall into his hands. By the bye, you who are a
stranger in this part of the world, have great reason to thank your stars
that you have escaped him.”
“No doubt,” the captain coolly observed and drew a whiff of his cigar.
The merchant, also, drew two or three whiffs, and continued—
“It appears the captain of these pirates is a very remarkable fellow;
he seems to care but little about the lives of those who fall into his
hands, but contents himself with robbing them in a very gentlemanly
and polite manner. Those that pass through his clutches, and put in
here, tell such tales of him, that one would almost fancy they had been
spell-bound during the time they were his captives.”
“Indeed!” interjected the captain.
“Yes: and the fellow is so remarkably skillful that he baffles all
attempts to capture him, and always contrives to escape. They say he
deals with the devil; that he knows his vessel, and his vessel knows him,
for she does whatever he chooses. Sometimes she is seen in the rig of a
schooner, at others in that of a brigantine, or brig, or barque, or—God
knows what else.”
“How remarkable!” observed the captain.
“By Jove! that is not all,” still continued the merchant, “he is bold
enough to take his prizes into any harbour that may happen to be the
nearest at the time—whatever it be.”
“And has he never been discovered?” inquired the captain, as coolly as
before.
“Bless me, no! If he does not actually deal with the devil, by Jove!
the old boy always seems to help him, for he always manages to sell his
booty, and get away before it is known that he had been there.”
“A dangerous man, surely,” again remarked the captain, “I must account
myself fortunate, I perceive, that I have managed to bring my sugar
safely into port.”
“By jingo! yes——But, a-propos, those sugars, I shall give you sixty
dollars,” the merchant said.
The captain seemed to muse awhile and said—
“I shall take sixty, on condition that the money be paid this very
moment, and also in gold.”
“Agreed,” cried the merchant, quickly: “wait here for me a short time; I
shall bring you the money,” and he went out of the room, with the air of
one who was congratulating himself on having achieved an extraordinary
feat.
In the course of half an hour the merchant returned, and was followed by
a servant, who seemed to be bending and groaning under a heavy bag of
money which he was carrying.
“There,” said the merchant, taking the bag from the servant, and laying
it down on the table, “there are three thousands six hundred dollars in
dubloons, verify them.”
The captain spread the coins on the table, and began to count them.
“It is quite correct—the sugar is yours,” he said, when he had done so,
and began to replace the dubloons.... The heavy footsteps of men were
now heard on the stairs. They grew more and more distinct, and now they
resounded within the extensive room.
“There is your man,” exclaimed an individual, and the captain, on looking
round, beheld his father, who was standing in front of a file of marines,
under the command of a British officer, who was accompanied by an
officer in the Danish civil uniform, that probably represented the local
government in sanctioning the forcible capture of a British subject, by
British authorities, on Danish ground.
The face of the young captain evinced neither astonishment, nor anger,
nor scorn, as he stood looking with indifferent calmness on the warlike
intruders.
“That is he—the pirate: seize him! seize him!” cried Willmington, almost
mad with excitement.
The officer remained undecided, and gave no orders. He seemed surprised,
and inquired, after the lapse of a few moments—
“Is this the pirate?” and pointed towards the captain. “I fancy you are
in some error: this gentleman does not appear to have ever left the land;
besides, he seems too young to be what you say he is: you surely must
have made a mistake.”
Nor was it strange that the officer should thus have felt surprised
at the appearance of the captain; for he had expected to find some
villainous, yellow-blooded sinister-looking cut-throat, deformed, hacked
with wounds, and disfigured with gibbet marks. With this picture of a
pirate still on his mind, he had pointed out to him a young man who
seemed more calculated to pass his life in quiet contemplation and easy
enjoyment, than to take part in the arduous and wearing pursuits of the
world, much less to hold the position of a robber on the high seas.
Besides, notwithstanding the hardy life which he was obliged to lead,
the young man still so sedulously cultivated the refined habits in which
he had been bred, and had so carefully kept himself below deck, that he
neither presented the rough cast of men of rough usage, nor lost, under
a tropical sun, the natural paleness of his complexion.
“It is no mistake at all,” exclaimed Willmington, “I know him well; I
cannot be deceived. It is he who had me thrown overboard. Yes, he had me
thrown overboard in the sea—to be drowned—to be drowned; but providence
has now interfered to punish the perpetrator of the outrage committed
upon me. And, and,” he added, “you will now suffer for it,” addressing
the captain, while he took the precaution of clinging as closely as
possible to the officer. For it would appear that even in the presence of
the file of marines the recollection of the empty cask made him nervous.
“Nay, nay, good father,” the captain said, with cauterising sarcasm, “the
crime of throwing his kind and loving father overboard, would better suit
the jargon that fills the mouths of such virtuous gentlemen as you.” ...
A pause ensued.
“His father,”—“Are you then this old gentleman’s son?” inquired the
officer.
“He can tell you,” answered the captain. “But I await your orders sir;
lead me wherever it may be your instructions to do so.”
The officer seemed more undecided than ever. He looked for an instant at
James Willmington, who remained silent, and bent his eyes to the ground
as they met those of the ingenious gallant young soldier.
“This is a strange and extraordinary business,” he observed, “I am not
aware that my commission obliges me to meddle with such apparently
disagreeable affairs. However, young gentleman, for such you seem, and I
can scarcely believe that you are what this old gentleman represents you
to be, I have orders from my commanding officer, and sanction from the
local authorities, to arrest you, provided you are the pirate who scours
these seas?”
“It is he—it is he;—I am certain of it: he took our ship; he had me
thrown overboard,” vociferated James Willmington, scarcely affording the
young officer time to complete his sentence, “I tell you, seize him,
seize him!”
Disgusted with this uproarious outbreak, and somewhat stung by
Willmington’s imperative manner, the officer turned round to him and
said, cuttingly—
“Perhaps, sir, you would have me take a rope and hang him at once: you
must recollect, sir that I am not bound to regulate my conduct by any
peculiar activity which may characterise your feeling against this
person.”
This language came the more readily from the young officer, inasmuch as
he felt a prejudice in favor of the captain.
Free, frank, generous, and noble, as those of the order to which he
belonged generally are, he could not but feel a certain interest in his
prisoner, and he began to speculate on the extraordinary circumstance
that a man, such as he seemed to be, should have found himself in a
position of so equivocal a nature, as the one in which he was then
placed. It appeared strange to him that one who seemed well educated,
and who at the same time possessed such gracefulness of demeanour,
and elegance of expression, could have freely chosen to herd with the
wretched outcasts that usually crown their other numerous crimes with the
horrible outrages of piracy: and should thus expose himself, not only
to the danger of the horrid death with which such a crime was punished,
but to run the risk of entailing upon himself the ignominy which the
world, with one accord, unanimously casts upon the pirate. He justly
imagined, that to drive an individual, such as he seemed to be, to such
a life, there required very great causes, or, at any rate, unusual ones,
which may have acted in a more than ordinary manner on a naturally too
sensitive mind; and as great afflictions always call forth sympathy from
the generous, the imagined misfortunes of the prisoner turned, in an
instant, the heart of the officer in his favor. This was the impulsive
judgment of the young man.
The noble and fresh-hearted, young officer, that feared not the
prejudiced frown of any man, could afford, independently, to take the man
as he found him.
“You will go with me,” said he to the captain, “I trust you will see the
absolute uselessness of any attempt to escape,” and he significantly
pointed to his men. “I shall not put you under restraint if you promise
to walk with us.”
“If you will take the word of a pirate,” said the captain, bowing, “I
promise to accompany you. If otherwise, I am willing to allow myself to
be put under any constraint that you may think proper. I trust, however,
that I am incapable of showing myself insensible to the indulgence of any
gentleman, and least of all, to a British officer.”
“That is sufficient,” quickly replied the officer.
The party now left the room, and soon reached the boat that was waiting
at the beach. They embarked: and, in a short time, arrived alongside the
huge man of war, whose sides looked gloomy with the frowning guns as they
peeped through the port-holes. As soon as the party gained the deck, the
captain was immediately conducted before the commander of the vessel.
He was one of those venerable looking old gentlemen, who are now and then
to be casually seen in the walks—of the world, and who when once seen,
forcibly draw from us respect and honor,—with locks whose colour had long
been worn away by the wind and washed away by the brine, and with one
of those faces which tell by their rosey hue and frank openness, in the
evening of existence, of a life so spent in duty and honour that not one
single repentant wrinkle dared ruffle the brow where loyalty and truth
had always sat. He was sitting in an elegant state cabin when the officer
brought the prisoner before him. He raised his eyes from off the book
which he was then reading, and began to examine him. He said nothing, but
could not conceal the surprise which he seemed to feel at the appearance
of the individual whom he was examining.
“You seem young to be engaged in such a lawless pursuit, prisoner,” he
said after a minute or two.
The captain bowed haughtily.
“You are aware,” continued the commander, “that you are accused of a very
heinous crime—that of piracy.”
The captain bowed again in the same manner.
“You know that is an offence which is universally reprobated by all
nations, and it is one which in its moral character is the blackest of
crimes. It is my duty, therefore, to keep you on board this ship until
I can put you in the hands of the authorities, whose business it is to
deal with these matters. I shall sail for Trinidad in a few days, and you
will remain in custody until my arrival in that island, where you will be
delivered up to the civil tribunals.”
The captain calmly bowed again.
“In the meantime,” continued the commander, addressing the father and
accuser, “you will be good enough to repeat, in the presence of the
prisoner, the accusation which you made in his absence.”
James Willmington, after a pause, then began, his voice trembling with
excitement, and ill-concealed hatred.
“As I said before my lord, I, and two other persons, were passengers on
board the ship ‘Letitia,’ which was bound for Bristol. We were two days’
sail from Trinidad, when we were boarded by pirates, of whom this man, as
we afterwards found, was the chief. After a brave resistance made by our
crew, the ship was captured, and I and the others were taken on board the
vessel of the pirates. The other captives were treated with much lenity,
but I was kept in close confinement, and eventually, by the orders of
this man, was even tied to an empty cask, and set adrift on the ocean, to
meet there a lingering death, far more horrible than any sudden violence
could have inflicted. To prolong my miseries, a few dried biscuits were
tied to my cask. A whole day and night I was in this condition floating
on the wild waves, and was worn out, and well nigh exhausted with
suffering, when Providence came to my rescue. A sloop came sailing by,
and with difficulty I made my cries to be heard. I was taken on board,
and life, which was fast departing, was brought back by the kindness of
the master and crew.
“I had overheard the pirates speak about St. Thomas’ as the place whither
they intended to sail for the disposal of the ship’s cargo. I at once
resolved to anticipate them if possible, to have the author of my cruel
sufferings arrested, and to bring him to condign punishment. For this
purpose I prevailed upon the master of the sloop, by offering him a large
sum of money, to put in here, where fortunately we arrived before the
pirates, and I had, by this happy accident, the opportunity of watching
their arrival. This is the man who is the chief of the pirates, and who
ordered me to be thrown overboard under circumstances of such refined
cruelty.”
After Willmington had spoken, the commander asked the prisoner if the
accusation was true.
“True in all things,” said the latter, “in all things, so far as they
have been revealed. I admit everything that has been said, but my
accuser,” and here he fixed his piercing eyes on his father, “but my
accuser has informed you only of the punishment; he has not told you why,
when I treated my other captives with such lenity, I practised what he
calls cruelties on himself. Perhaps, my lord,” while his lip could be
seen to curl with scorn, “perhaps he will tell you that I was only the
executioner who inflicted the punishment which one of the most heinous
crimes deserved.”
“What do you mean?” inquired the commander.
“Simply,” replied the captain, “that this man is my father. He abandoned
me at an age when I was too young to offend, and afterwards refused me
bread when I was being famished. In vindication of the violated laws of
nature, I, in my turn, abandoned him when he required my aid, and I cast
him away from my vessel, when he required its use.”
“Then you are this gentleman’s son? and there are, therefore, family
affairs connected with this business?” inquired the commander, with
evident surprise, marked on his open and noble face; and, turning to
Willmington, he inquired, also, whether he was really his father.
There was no answer.
“Young man,” said the commander, “it was wrong, on your part, to
treat your parent in this manner. If what you say is correct, he has
treated you unnaturally, but there is One above us to punish such
sins, and it is not yours to arrogate the right of taking vengeance,
even when you consider yourself injured—recollect,” he said solemnly,
“recollect—‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’”
“You speak, my lord,” replied the captain, “as I should expect you to do;
but you are scarcely a judge in this matter: you have not had to endure
what I had. I can read in you, my lord,—pardon the personality—something
which tells me that, if you had found yourself in my place, you would
have acted in the same manner.”
In the meantime, a young officer had silently descended the
companion-steps, and, hearing the voice of the last speaker, he came
quickly forward and gazed in his face, seeming to recognize him.
“Appadocca,” he exclaimed, and eagerly grasped the hand of the captain,
“what brings you here? Why you are not the pirate, surely?—it cannot be!”
“Yes, I am the pirate,” the captain calmly replied, while he pressed the
hand that had grasped his.
“Good heavens! you deceive me—you—you—”
“Mr. Charles,” sounded the voice of the commander, “recollect, sir, you
are in the presence of your commanding officer, and that you are speaking
to a person who is under arrest.”
The young officer retired a few steps, conscious that, although he was
the commander’s son, he was still subject to the rules of discipline.
Deep anxiety for the prisoner, however, was marked on his features, as
his eyes wandered impatiently from the captain, whom we shall now call
by his proper name, Appadocca—to his father, and from his father to
Appadocca again.
The prisoner was now ordered away, and instructions were given to keep
him in close custody. The officer in command, the sentinels, and the
prisoner proceeded on deck. The young officer was about to follow, when
he was requested by his father to stay.
“Do you know this man, Charles?” inquired the commander, when they were
alone.
“If I know him, sir? every man who has studied in any university these
seven years back, knows Emmanuel Appadocca. I studied mathematics with
him in Paris, sir; and, if you remember, you will find I frequently
spoke to you about him.”
“Yes: I think, now, I recollect something of the name. But this seems a
strange end for such a man as you always represented him to be.”
“Yes; this does seem a very strange end,” replied the young officer, “and
I cannot but imagine that there is some error in all this.”
“That old planter,” observed the commander, “seems, however, to be very
positive in his statements; and, in addition to this, appears determined
to prosecute him to the utmost.”
“It is to be hoped, sir,” replied Mr. Charles, “that Appadocca will be
able to establish his innocence.”
“It is to be hoped, Charles—it is to be hoped,” said the commander, and
he took up his book.