We had now been several months at sea, and, although our stores had been
more than once replenished from the prizes we had taken, our provisions
began to grow scarce. The skipper accordingly announced his intention of
going into port. We bore up, therefore, for Charleston, that being the
most convenient harbor.
My emotions on approaching the place where Beatrice resided, I shall not
attempt to describe. A full year had passed since we had parted, and in
all that time I had heard of her but once. Might she not now be married
to another? The proverbial fickleness of her sex; the known opposition
of her family to my suit; her uncertainty whether I still continued to
care for her, or whether even I was yet alive; and a thousand other
reasons why she might be unfaithful to me, rose up before me to torture
me with doubts. But most of all, I reflected on our different situations
in society. She was rich, courted, allied to rank—I was poor, unknown,
and a rebel officer. Many a night as I lay in my solitary hammock, or
trod my silent watch on deck, the fear that I might find Beatrice the
wife of another, filled my soul with agony. And yet could I doubt her
faith?
At length we entered Charleston harbor, and with a gentle breeze floated
up towards the town. It was a moonless night, but the sky above was
spangled with a thousand stars, and the low outline of the city before
us glittered with myriads of lamps. The wind just ruffled the glassy
surface of the bay, fanning us, as it swept by, with a delicious
coolness. Here and there, on either shore, a light from a solitary house
flickered through the darkness, while occasionally a sheet of summer
lightning would play along the western firmament, where a low belt of
clouds skirted the horizon, and hung like a veil above the city.
Everything reminded me of the night when I had sailed up this same
harbor with Beatrice. What had I not witnessed since then! The
shipwreck, the battle, the hurricane, fire and sword, danger in every
shape, almost death itself—I had endured them all. During that period
where had been Beatrice? A few hours would determine.
With a beating heart, the next morning I sought the residence of
Beatrice’s uncle. How my brain swam and my knees tottered when I came in
sight of the mansion which contained the form of her whom I loved! I had
understood that the family, except one or two of the ladies of it, was
out of town, and I burned with impatience to ascertain whether Beatrice
was among the absentees. Yet my heart failed me when I came in sight of
the residence of her uncle. I recollected the terms on which I had
parted with Mr. Rochester, and I scarcely thought myself allowable in
intruding on his hospitality in any shape. But, then, how else could I
obtain an interview with Beatrice? Again and again I approached the
door, and again and again I changed my mind and retired; but at length
remembering that my conduct was attracting attention, and unable longer
to endure my suspense, I advanced boldly to the portal, and knocked at
the hall door. It was answered by a strange porter. With a fluttering
heart I inquired for Miss Derwent. I felt relieved from a load of fear
when informed that she was in town, and hastily thrusting my card into
the man’s hand, I followed him eagerly into the drawing-room. He
disappeared, and I was alone.
Who can forget his emotions, when, after a long separation from the
object of his love, he finds himself under the same roof with his
mistress, awaiting her appearance? How he pictures to himself the joy
with which the announcement of his arrival, especially if unexpected,
will be received! He fancies every look that will be exchanged and every
word that will be said at the moment of meeting. As the moments elapse,
he imagines, however short the time may be, that the appearance of his
mistress is unavoidably delayed, and a hundred fears arise, vague,
unfounded, and but half believed, that perhaps her affection has grown
lukewarm. Each successive instant of suspense increases his doubts until
they amount almost to agony; and as a light footfall—oh! how well
remembered!—breaks upon his ear, he almost dreads to meet her whom but
an hour before he would have given worlds to behold. So was it now with
myself. As minute after minute elapsed, and still Beatrice did not
appear, my fears amounted almost to madness; and when at length I heard
her light tread approaching, my heart began to beat so violently that I
thought I should have fainted. Anxious to resolve my doubts, by
observing her demeanor before I should be seen myself, I sprang into the
recess of a window. As I did so, the door opened and Beatrice entered
hurriedly, looking, if possible, more beautiful than ever. Her cheek was
flushed, her step was quick and eager, and her eyes shone with a joy
that could not be affected. She advanced several steps into the room,
when, perceiving no one, she gazed inquiringly around, with a look, I
thought, of disappointment. I moved from the recess. She turned quickly
around at the noise, blushed over brow, neck and bosom, and, with a
faint cry of joy, sprang forward, and was locked the next instant in my
arms.
“Beatrice—my own, my beautiful!”
“Harry—_dear_ Harry!” were our mutual exclamations, and then, locked in
each other’s embrace, for a moment we forgot in our rapture to speak.
At length we awoke from this trance of delight, and found leisure for
rational conversation. Sitting side by side on the sofa, with our hands
locked together, and our eyes looking as it were into each other’s
souls, we recounted our mutual histories since our separation. With mine
the reader is already acquainted. That of Beatrice was naturally less
chequered, but yet it was not without interest.
I have said that an alliance had been projected between Beatrice and her
cousin, and that Mr. Rochester had placed his whole soul on the
consummation of this project. The consciousness of my interest in the
heart of Beatrice had induced their conduct towards myself, under the
hope that if once separated from her, I would be eventually forgotten by
Miss Derwent. Time, however, proved how false had been this hope.
Instead of prospering in his suit from my absence, every day only seemed
to make the success of her cousin more problematical. In vain her uncle
persuaded; in vain he expostulated; in vain he lavished all his scorn on
me as a beggar and a rebel—Beatrice continued unmoved; now defending me
from every imputation, and now with tears giving up the contest,
although unconvinced. The letter she received from me, by acquainting
her with my projected cruise, prepared her for the long silence on my
part which had ensued; and although reports, no doubt originating with
her persecutors, were circulated respecting my arrival in port, and the
disreputable life I was said to lead, she remained faithful to me amid
it all. Oh! what is like woman’s love? Amid sorrow and joy; in sunshine
or storm; whether distant or near; in every varied circumstance of life,
it is the solace of our existence, the green spot amid the arid deserts
of the world. Nothing can change it—nothing can dim its brightness.
Even injury fails to break down the love of woman. You may neglect, you
may abuse her, if you will; but still, with a devotion not of this
earth, she clings to you, cheering you in distress, smiling on you in
joy, and amply repaid if she only win in return one kind word, one look
of approval. Thank God! that, fallen as we are, there is left to us that
link of our diviner nature—the pure, deep, unchanging love of woman.
With what joy did I hear that Beatrice was still mine, wholly mine, and
how ardently did I press her to my bosom, invoking her again and again
to repeat the blessed words which assured me of her love! Hours passed
away as if they had been minutes. And when at length I rose to depart,
and, imprinting another kiss on her but half averted lips, took my leave
with a promise to return again the ensuing morning, my astonishment
passed all bounds to learn that noon had long since passed, and that the
evening was almost at hand.
During the short time that we remained in port, I was daily with
Beatrice, and when we parted she pledged herself to be mine at the end
of another year, come what might. My heart, I will admit, reproached me
afterwards for winning this promise from her, and inducing her to give
up wealth and luxury for the bare comforts an officer’s pay could
afford; and yet her love was such a priceless gem, and she looked up to
me with such unreserved devotedness, that I could not regret a vow which
ensured me the right to protect her from the cold tempests of the world.
Besides, we were both young and full of hope, and I trusted some
fortunate event might occur which would yet allow us to be united with
the concurrence of her friends.
“Uncle is suspected and watched by the colonial authorities,” said
Beatrice, as we parted, “and I fear me that he is linked in with some of
those who have designs against the state. I tremble to think what might
be his fate if detected in any conspiracy to restore the king’s
authority.”
“Fear not, dearest,” I replied, “I will interest Col. Moultrie in his
favor, and besides, your uncle must see the danger of any such attempt
at present.”
“And yet I have fearful forebodings.”
“Cheer up, sweet one, he has nothing to dread. But now I must go. God
bless you, Beatrice!” and I kissed her fervently.
She murmured something half inaudibly, returned my parting embrace with
a sigh, and, while a tear stood in her eye, waved a final adieu with her
kerchief. In an hour the schooner had sailed.
We had been at sea but a few days, having run down the Bahamas in that
time, when we spoke a French merchantman, and obtained from him the
intelligence that an English ship, with a valuable cargo and a large
amount of specie, was then lying at the port of ——, in one of the
smaller islands. She was well armed, however, and carried the crew of a
letter of marque. But the skipper instantly determined on attempting her
capture. Accordingly, we bore up for the island within an hour after we
had spoken the merchantman, and having a favorable breeze to second our
wishes, we made the low headlands of the place of our destination just
as the sun sank behind them into the western ocean. Not wishing to be
detected, we hauled off until evening, spending the intervening time in
preparing for the adventure.
The night was fortunately dark. There was no moon, and a thick veil of
vapors overhead effectually shrouded the stars from sight. The seaboard
was lined with dusky clouds; the ocean heaved in gentle undulations; and
a light breeze murmured by, with a low soft music in its tone, like the
whisper of a young girl to her lover. As the twilight deepened, the
shadowy outlines of the distant land became more and more indistinct,
until at length they were merged in the obscurity of the whole western
firmament. No sound was heard over the vast expanse as we resumed our
course, and silently stretched up towards the island.
It was nearly midnight when we reached the mouth of the harbor. All
within was still. The town lay along the edge of the water,
distinguishable by its long line of flickering lamps; while a dark mass
on the left of the harbor betrayed the position of the battery guarding
the port. One or two small coasting vessels were moored at the quay,
and, a few cables’ length out in the harbor, rode at anchor the
merchantman. He was in part protected by the guns of the fort; but other
means of defence had not been forgotten, for his nettings were triced
up, and he swung at his anchor as if springs were on his cables. A
solitary lantern hung at his mast-head, throwing a faint radiance around
the otherwise shadowy ship. Not a sound arose from his decks.
Occasionally a low murmur would float down from the far-off town, or the
cry of a sentry at the fort would rise solemnly on the still night air;
but except these faint sounds, at long intervals apart, a deep, unbroken
silence buried the whole landscape in repose.
“Pipe away the boats’ crews,” said the skipper, when, everything having
been planned, we had steered our craft under the shadow of the huge
cape, and now lay to in our quiet nook, hidden from observation.
The boatswain issued his summons almost in a whisper, and the men
answered with unusual promptness. In a few minutes the boats were
manned, and we were waiting with muffled oars for the signal. We
lingered only a moment to receive the last orders of the captain, when,
with a whispered “give way,” the gallant fellows bent to the oars, and
we shot from the schooner’s side. In a few moments she was lost in the
gloom. I watched her through the gathering night, as spar after spar
faded into the obscurity, until at length nothing could be seen of her
exquisite proportions but a dark and shapeless mass of shadow; and at
length, when I turned my eyes in her direction again, after having had
my attention for a moment called away, even the slight outline of her
form had disappeared, and nothing but the gloomy seaboard met my eye.
The night was now so dark that we could scarcely see a fathom before us;
but, guided by an old salt who had been brought up on the island, and
knew the harbor as accurately as a scholar knows his horn book, we
boldly kept on our course. As we swept around the headland, we perceived
that the town, so lately alive with lights, was now buried in a profound
darkness. The solitary lantern, however, still burned at the fore-peak
of the Englishman, like a star hanging alone in the firmament, to guide
us on our way. Every eye was fixed on it as we rapidly but noiselessly
swept up towards the merchantman. The fort was buried in gloom. The
other vessels in the harbor lay hidden in the palpable obscurity ahead.
No sound was heard, no object was seen, as we moved on in our noiseless
course. At length the huge hull of the merchantman began to be
indistinctly visible upon our starboard bow, and, lying on our oars for
a moment, we held a short, eager consultation on our future course. It
was soon, however, terminated. As yet we had remained undiscovered, and
as the slightest accident might betray us, not a moment was to be lost
if we would surprise the foe. It had been arranged that I should dash
into the larboard side of the Englishman, while the two other boats
should attack him simultaneously on his starboard bow and quarter; and
accordingly, as my companions sheered off, I gave a whispered order to
my men to pull their best, and the next instant we were shooting with
the rapidity of an arrow right on to the foe.
The instant preceding the attack is always a thrilling one. You know not
but that in a few minutes you may be in eternity, and as yet you are not
carried away with that reckless enthusiasm which, in the heat of the
contest, makes you insensible to every thing but the struggle. On the
present occasion I felt as I had never felt before. The odds against us
were fearful, for the ship was admirably defended, and we had every
reason to believe that her crew outnumbered our own. As I looked around
on my men, I saw more than one hardy veteran cast an uneasy glance at
the foe. But it was no time now to pause. We had scarcely pulled a dozen
strokes, and were yet some distance from the ship, when the sentry from
her quarter cried out, “Boat ahoy!” and then perceiving that we still
advanced, he fired his piece and gave the alarm. I saw the moment for
action had come. Disguise was now useless. Instantaneously I forgot the
feelings which had just been passing through my mind, and, like a
war-horse starting at a trumpet, I sprang up in the stern sheets, and
waving my sword aloft, shouted,
“Give way, my lads—give way, and lay us aboard the rascals—with a
will, boys—pull!”
As if fired with an enthusiasm which nothing might resist, my gallant
fellows sprang to their oars with renewed vigor at my words, until the
oaken blades almost snapped beneath their brawny arms; and we were
already within a few fathoms of the ship’s quarter when a volley from
the merchantman hit the stroke-oarsman in front of me, and he fell dead
across the thwart. The boat staggered in her course. I could hear our
companions surging but a short distance behind, and I burned to be the
first to mount the enemy’s deck.
“On—on!” I shouted; “pull for your lives, my lads—pull, pull!”
A thundering cheer burst from the brave veterans, as they bent with even
redoubled power to their task, and with a few gigantic strokes sent us
shooting upon the quarters of the foe. Waving my sword above my head, I
sprang at once up the ship’s side, calling on my crew to follow me. They
needed not the invocation. The boat had scarcely touched the vessel
before every man, cutlass in hand, was clambering over the side of the
foe; and in an instant, with one simultaneous spring, old and young,
officer and men, we tumbled in upon the enemy. And like men they met us.
It was no child’s play—that conflict! Fearfully outnumbering us,
apprised of and ready for our onset, fighting on their own decks too,
and knowing that succor was at hand from the fort even in case of
defeat, the crew of the Englishman met our attack with an unbroken
front, giving back blow for blow and shout for shout. Short, wild and
terrific was the conflict. Conscious of the vicinity of the other boats,
the enemy wished to overcome us before we could be succored; while we
struggled as desperately to maintain our footing until aid should
arrive. But our efforts were in vain. Pressing on to us in dense,
overpowering numbers, and hemming us in on every quarter but that by
which we had boarded the ship, they seemed determined to drive us into
the ocean pell-mell, or slaughter us outright. No quarter was asked or
given. Man after man fell around me in the vain attempt to maintain our
footing. Already I had received two cutlass wounds myself. Our ranks
were fearfully thinned. Yet still I cheered on my men, determined rather
to die at bay than surrender or retreat. But all seemed in vain. Several
men had already fallen before my arm, and the deck was slippery with the
blood of friend and foe; yet the enemy did not appear to lessen in
numbers. As fast as one man fell, another filled his place. Despair took
possession of us. I saw nothing before us but a glorious death, and I
determined that it should be one long after to be talked of by my
countrymen. All this, however, had passed almost in a minute. Suddenly I
heard a cheer on the starboard bow of the enemy, and as it rose clear
and shrill over all the din of the conflict, I recognised the Fireflies
clambering over the ship’s side in that direction.
“Huzza! the day’s our own!” I shouted, in the revulsion of feeling.
“Come on, my lads, and let us hew the scoundrels to the chine!” and,
with another wild huzza, I dashed like a madman upon the cutlasses of
the foe. My men followed me with the fury of a whirlwind. Wild,
terrible, overpowering was that charge; fierce, desperate and relentless
was the resistance. The scene that ensued eternity will not eradicate
from my memory. Hand to hand and foot to foot we fought, each man
striving with his opponent, conscious that life or death depended on the
issue: while swords clashed, pistols exploded, shouts rent the air, and
blood flowed on every hand as if it had been water. Now the foe yielded,
and now we retired in turn. Swaying to and fro, striking around
pell-mell, thrusting, parrying, hewing, wrestling in the death-grip, or
hurling the fallen from our path, now clearing our way by main force,
and now breaking the enemy’s front by a deceptive retreat, we succeeded
at length in driving the foe back in a broken mass on their assailants
from the bow. Then they rallied, and, with the fury of tigers at bay,
returned to the charge. If ever men fought like demons, they did. As
they grew more and more desperate, they fairly howled with rage. Their
curses were terrific. God help me from ever witnessing such a sight
again! I saw that it only needed another vigorous charge to complete
their defeat, and rallying my little band around me once more, though
every man of them was wounded, we dashed on to the foe, determined to
cut our way through to our friends, or drive the enemy down the
hatchway.
“Once more, my boys, once more—huzza for liberty!—on!”
“Come on, ye rebel knaves!” growled the leader of the British, and
striking at me with his cutlass, to challenge me to single combat, he
roared, “Take that, ye hell-hound.” One of my men sprang to my aid.
“Back—back!” I shouted, “leave him to me.”
“Ay, God’s curse be on you—” but his words were lost in the clash of
the conflict. For a moment I thought he was more than my match, but his
very rage overreached itself, and failing to guard himself sufficiently,
he exposed his person, and the next instant my sword passed through his
body. He fell backwards without a groan. His men saw him fall, and a
score of weapons were pointed at me.
“Down with him—hew him to the ground,” roared the British.
“Hurrah for Parker!—beat back the villains!” thundered my own men, and
the contest, which had paused during the combat between the fallen chief
and myself, now raged with redoubled frenzy, the whole fury of the enemy
being directed against myself. I remember shouts, curses, and groans,
the clash of cutlasses and the roar of fire-arms, and then comes a faint
memory of a sharp pain in my side, succeeded by a reeling in my brain,
and a sensation of staggering, as if about to fall. After that all is
blank.
When I recovered my senses, I was lying on the quarter deck, while the
cool night breeze swept deliciously over my fevered brow, and my ears
were soothed with the gentle ripple of the waters as the ship moved on
her course. A solitary star, struggling through a rent in the clouds
overhead, shone calmly down on me. I turned uneasily around.
“How are you, Parker?” said the voice of the lieutenant, approaching me.
“We are nearing the schooner rapidly, when you’ll have your wound
attended to—I bandaged it as well as I could.”
“Thank you,” I said, faintly. “But have you really brought off the
prize?”
“Ay, ay,” said he, laughing, “we got off, although they hailed cannon
balls around us like sugar-plums at a carnival in Rome. Never before did
I run such a gauntlet. But the sleepy fellows did not get properly awake
until we had made sail—had they opened their fire at once, they might
have sent us to Davy Jones’ locker in a trice.”
“And the enemy’s crew?”
“All snug below hatches, every mother’s son of them. They fought like
devils, and came within an ace of beating us. But, faith, yonder is the
old schooner. Ship, ahoy!”
We were soon aboard. My wound proved a serious, though not a dangerous
one, and for several weeks I was confined to my hammock.
* * * * *