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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXI. September, 1847. No. 3.
Contents
Fiction, Literature and Articles
The Slaver (conclusion)
The Ring
The Islets of the Gulf (continued)
Stock-Jobbing in New York
Lolah Lalande. A Package from My Old Writing-Desk
Review of New Books
Poetry
To a Century Plant
Elva
Jacob’s Dream
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
* * * * *
[Illustration: John Lucas A. L. Dick
VICTORIA, PRINCESS ROYAL.
Engraved for Graham’s Magazine]
* * * * *
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
Vol. XXXI. PHILADELPHIA, SEPTEMBER, 1847. No. 3.
* * * * *
THE SLAVER.
A TALE OF OUR OWN TIMES.
BY A SON OF THE LATE DR. JOHN D. GODMAN.
(_Concluded from page 71._)
CHAPTER X.
_Gon._ Now would I give a thousand furlongs
Of sea, for an acre of barren ground,
Long heath, brown furze, any thing. The
Wills above be done! But I would fain die a
Dry death.
Tempest.
De Vere had not intended to marry quite so soon as he did, but being
unexpectedly recalled home by an order from the admiralty, and wishing
to take his beautiful Clara with him, he had with very little difficulty
persuaded her to hasten their bridal day, and then accompany him to
England.
Don Manuel was at first very loth to let his daughter leave him. Had it
been Francisca, he would not have consented; her soft and gentle
disposition had entwined itself completely around the old man’s heart.
But there was more of pride mingled with his affection for Clara; and
she so enthusiastically expressed her desire to visit the English
metropolis, and to travel over the heaving waves of the broad
Atlantic—for she had never been to sea—that the old Don gave way to
her entreaties; and with many kisses and promises of soon seeing them
again, but apparently without much distress, she took leave of her
father and sister on the deck of the Scorpion, where they had
accompanied her to take a last farewell. Telling De Vere to watch well
the charge he had entrusted to him, with sorrow and tears Don Manuel and
Francisca got into their boat.
As soon as the boat was clear of the brig, which was only waiting for
them to make sail, and whose sails were all loose, but held in their
places by the men who had unloosed them, were let fall together, and
walking away with all the halyards at once, the Scorpion was under all
sail, and standing out of the harbor before Don Manuel’s boat reached
the shore.
Francisca and her father both felt very much the loss of Clara and De
Vere’s company; but knowing it was useless to make vain lamentations,
they returned home.
The thoughts of the many things she would see, and the images of the
proud beauties of the English court, whom she would soon be with, and
she hoped outshine, so occupied the mind of Clara, that she had parted
from her father and sister without much regret. But as she stood on the
quarter-deck, and saw the objects on shore gradually grow smaller and
smaller—first the trees, then the light-house, and eventually the blue
shores of the now distant island itself disappear from her sight, as if
they had all sunk to the depths of the ocean, and looking around,
observed nothing but an expanse of clouds and water, upon which the brig
was but a speck—a sudden and complete sense of her bereavement
oppressed her, and she burst into tears; for though she knew her husband
was near, there is something so inexpressibly melancholy in leaving for
the first time the home of your childhood, and the land of your
nativity, that, for awhile, she could not avoid giving way to her grief.
But De Vere soothed her, by tales of the sea, the distant and new
country she was about to visit, and by promising it would be but a short
time ere she should return. Hardly had she regained her composure when
she was disagreeably affected in another way. Father Neptune, not
allowing even the most beautiful and fair to travel over his domains
without paying tribute; and sick, nauseated, with her head swimming and
aching as if it would split, she was led to her state-room, thinking she
would give all she possessed in the world to be once more in the house
she had so lately left.
When she recovered, and again came on deck, it was a warm, bright
morning. The brig had just left the Gulf Stream. There was a fresh
breeze, but the sea, unruffled by it, was heaving in long, rolling
waves. Shoals of porpoises and black-fish were tumbling about in their
uncouth gambols—interesting, because new, to Clara, but to the sailors
more than uninteresting, as they prognosticated an approaching storm.
The fragile and graceful nautilus, also, was seen expanding its tiny
sail; numerous sea-birds were flying about, or for a moment resting on
the water; and the Scorpion, as she moved rapidly along, seemed “a thing
of life.”
Clara, forgetting her sickness, was delighted, and amused her husband by
the incessant questions she put to him about every thing she saw. All
day she remained on deck, and until a late hour in the evening; then
with a lingering look at the bright stars, and the wide expanse of water
that, alive with phosphorescent matter, seemed on fire, she reluctantly
went below; but soon was dreaming of the glorious sublimity and beauty
of all she had seen, nearly all the night, as the day had thus passed
pleasantly by, when, toward morning, she was awakened by hoarse noises
on deck, overhead, and found the ship rolling and pitching violently.
Her husband she saw had left the cabin; and, alarmed, she hastily
dressed, and started after him, to see what had happened; but she got no
further than the top of the companion-way. Terrified, she clung to the
railing, and with her body on the steps, and her head just above the
level of the deck, with dilated pupils she gazed upon the awful change
that had come over the face of the fickle deep in a few short hours.
Instead of the long, unbroken, rolling waves she had left, she now found
the surface of the ocean a mass of foam; huge, giant billows, as if in
sport, chased each other with fearful rapidity, lifting the brig, now
apparently as if they would carry her up into the low, dark,
leaden-looking clouds, that seemed not much higher than her masts, and
then, as they ran from under her, would leave her to sink between two
hills of living water, as if to the bottomless pit, until another would
pick up the brig, as a child’s plaything, and hurling her on, away she
would go again, up, up, for awhile, only to sink into another yawning
valley, pitching, rolling, struggling, creaking, she held her way; and
Clara’s natural pride and self possession in a short time enabled her to
look calmly around, and even to admire, the fearful scene.
The brig, she saw, was under nothing but her top-sails, close reefed;
and a small storm stay-sail; and her husband coming to her, said that a
heavy wind had come out from the northward and westward about twelve
o’clock, and had been increasing ever since, and was still rising, and
that though he was now able to hold his course, he did not think he
could much longer, and insisted upon Clara’s going below. Well it was
that she did; for scarcely had she left the deck, when a blast, stronger
and fiercer than any they had felt, struck the Scorpion, and bore her
almost on her beam-ends. Struggling, she nearly righted herself, but
again the ruthless wind compelled her to bow to its power, and a
tremendous wave striking her at the same time, she was laid over
completely.
Captain De Vere had been expecting such a catastrophe; and as soon as he
found his vessel was on her beam-ends, and could not again right
herself, gave the order to “Cut away the masts!”
Never is the cool and intrepid bravery that forms the basis of a
seaman’s character shown to such great advantage as in situations of the
utmost emergency. And to have seen the self-collectedness with which the
sailors of the Scorpion, axe in hand, crept along the brig’s weather
bulwark, with the strong and angry billows momentarily threatening to
carry them off to the coral depths beneath, as they swept over them, one
would have thought the men were all unconscious of fear—and such was
the truth; for mariners are danger’s children, begotten by courage.
Though fearless, they were fully aware of the risks they were running;
with certain, but quick and rapid strokes, their sharp hatchets struck
the thick-tarred lanyards, which, stretched to their utmost tension by
the weight of the masts, quickly parted, and the tall spars losing their
support, snapped short off, and toppled over into the boiling sea.
As soon as the masts fell the brig righted; and much to the joy of all
on board, was once more on an even keel.
“Lively, men! lively, lads!” was now the order; and quickly cutting away
the lee-lanyards, the brig was free from the wreck of her floating
spars, and putting her before the wind, away the Scorpion flew,
sailless, mastless, faster than she had ever sailed before, when, in the
pride of all her lofty canvas, she had chased some flying enemy—on, on,
they sped!
Never until now had the haughty spirit of Clara been thoroughly humbled,
or had she a correct idea of man’s entire nothingness, when compared
with nature in its might and majesty. But humbled she was, when she came
on deck that day and saw the tall and gallant brig, that had obeyed
every motion of the helmsman’s hand, a bare, naked hull, unmanageable,
and driven whither the wind listed over the angry waves, which followed
fast after, and as they rose under the stern, their vast white combs
would curl over the very tafferel, as if about to break on deck; and as
the vessel lifted, and was for a moment out of danger, they would send
the spray in showers over her, as if they were shedding tears of anger
that the poor vessel had, for an instant, escaped that destruction to
which it seemed she was inevitably hurrying. At last, one mighty wave,
more powerful than the rest, reared its tremendous bulk far over the
devoted brig’s stern, and breaking in a torrent of resistless force,
swept over her deck. De Vere saw the impending danger just soon enough
to throw one arm around his wife’s waist, and casting himself and her
flat on deck, seize with the other a ring-bolt, and save themselves from
death.
When the water ran off, and he looked around, but ten of his crew were
left on the Scorpion’s deck; the rest, some one hundred and forty souls,
had been swept, unannealed, into eternity, the waves their
winding-sheet, the howling blast, and the roaring billows, hymning their
dirge. Poor men! how many of your fellows, with brave souls, kind
hearts, loving wives and children, meet the same sad fate.
Gathering together on the quarter-deck those who had been spared, the
hardy, weatherbeaten tars, the proud, conceited officer, the vain,
worldly-minded lady, humbly joined in offering to the throne of Almighty
Grace, grateful thanks for their preservation; and praying to the Ruler
of all things for the rest of their departed messmates, earnestly
besought him to keep them safe in the hollow of his hand, and lead them
out of their present danger.
The second day came round; the wind was unabated; and the brig was
rushing, hurrying on to her unknown destination—most probably the
bottom of the ocean.
The third day came; as time will ever on in its ceaseless course, alike
indifferent to human joy or sorrow. No change had yet taken place for
the better; slowly, tediously, tiresomely, the hours of that third day
crept by. No employment had they but watching the brig, as she dashed
along, apparently racing with the wild billows that ever followed, ever
kept alongside. Sun there was none to enliven them; the same dark,
leaden hue pervaded the sky; and even the sunlight of hope, that best,
most cheerful of all lights, was just glimmering, and on the very eve of
expiring forever. With grim and despairing countenances, silently they
sat, fearing each moment that the vessel, strained in every timber by
the violent and incessant heaving and rolling to which she was
subjected, would go to pieces.
What a sight that deck and crew would have been to the purse-proud, the
ambitious, the money-craving, grasping ones on shore; would it not have
exhibited the utter worthlessness of it all? and the necessity we all
have, poor mortals that we are, subject to die at any moment, for the
grace, the pity, and the care of God.
Again, another day arrived, the fourth since the brig had been
dismasted; but a change had taken place; the wind had died away, and the
heavens had opened their thousand windows, and the dark clouds were
pouring down a deluge of rain on the poor brig, as she rolled, pitched,
tossed, heaved about at the mercy of the waves, which still ran
frightfully high. To add to horrors already overpowering, De Vere
discovered that his worst fears had been realized. The brig, strained
until her seams were opened, was leaking. Sounding the well, she was
found to have four feet of water in her hold. He did not mention it to
his unfortunate companions, hoping that it would not increase. In an
hour he again tried the water; it had increased six inches, thus
reducing to a certainty their deaths in the course of two days at the
furthest, unless they were relieved; for every boat had been stove or
carried overboard by the waves, and the crew was too weak to do any good
at the pumps.
With a sad heart, and solemn voice, he imparted the startling fact to
the group on the quarter-deck; for, gathering confidence from each
other’s society, they still continued huddled together astern,
regardless of the fast falling rain—in great misfortunes so soon do we
grow callous to smaller ones.
De Vere’s intelligence extinguished the last spark of hope in the
breasts of the men; and reckless in their despair, they were for at once
breaking into the spirit-room, and having one more bacchanalian riot;
let death, when he came, find them insensible to his terrors.
Their captain ordered them back; but what was earthly authority to them,
on the brink of eternity? He then expostulated, but it was of no avail;
they were determined to die drunk, and told De Vere to get away from in
front of the companion-way, where he was standing, to prevent their
descent, or they would throw him overboard, and send him to Davy Jones a
little before them. They were about to rush on him, as he stood unmoved,
when Clara, roused by the danger of her husband, sprung between them. In
a tone of command, and with an authoritative air, she said,—
“Back! back!—are ye men, made after the image of the living God! And
would ye hurry into his awful presence like beasts—drunk! insensible!
and stained with murder! Or are ye such cowards that ye are afraid to
die in your senses! Shame! shame upon ye! to have less firmness than I,
a woman! But, no,” and she altered her tones to those of mildness, “I
know ye are neither beasts nor cowards; but brave men, hurried away by
an evil thought, who will join with me in asking forgiveness for it;”
and sinking down on the deck, the sailors involuntarily followed her
example; and when they arose, after her ardent supplication, they had
given up all thought of their mad design.
Scarcely had they regained their feet, when, as if in very answer to
their prayer, a sail was seen; just a speck, ’tis true, but enough to
assure them a vessel was in sight. Great was their joy; and then all was
anxiety, for fear the distant ship might not come near. Now, for a
moment, they lost sight of her, and their hearts were like lead in their
bosoms; but again they made her out—she was nearer, and watched
intently. On she came, until they made her out to be a large top-sail
schooner.
Nearer she came, but gave no evidence of having seen the wreck. The
sufferers tried to hail, and though together they all raised their
voices to the utmost pitch, the roaring, dashing billows drowned all
sound ere it had gone twenty fathom. But they had been observed by the
crew of the schooner, who, rounding-to, proceeded to get out a boat.
After some labor she succeeded; for it was a work of toil and danger to
launch a boat on that rough ocean. The boat was lowered with her gallant
crew in her, who, unhooking the davit-tackles as she touched the water,
were afloat, and the small boat looked like an egg-shell as she rose and
fell with the angry waves. Powerfully her crew tugged at the oars, and,
watched by all eyes, she approached the hull.
Go alongside she could not; but getting under the brig’s stern, they
hove a rope to the boat, and it being fastened in her bow, De Vere took
Clara in one arm, and with his other hand and feet climbed down, and
placing his wife in the boat turned to ascend again to the brig; she
clung to him, and begged him to stay, but he would not. “The last man
that leaves the Scorpion must be I, my love,” he said, and returning as
he came, he was again on the tafferel of the wreck. Clara would have
followed him, but she could not.
One by one five more of the Scorpion’s crew descended into the
schooner’s boat, which, unable to carry more at once, put off with these
to the schooner.
Well the oarsmen bent to their task, and in a time that seemed nearly
impossible, they had again returned. After all else had left the wreck,
De Vere abandoned his lost brig, and was pulled to the schooner.
Long and eager was the embrace that passed between him and his wife,
when they met in safety on the deck of the schooner. After thanking the
boat’s crew, who had so nobly exerted themselves, and promising them
large rewards, he turned to make acknowledgments to the captain of the
vessel for his prompt assistance.
Walking further aft to where the captain was standing with his arms
folded, he was surprised to find in him Charles Willis, the slaver. De
Vere’s feelings underwent a sudden revulsion. “Have I,” he thought,
“escaped a watery-grave, only to fall, with my wife, into the power of
my most inveterate enemy—a man without principle, honor, or law, and
whom I once brought nearly to the gallows? Would to heaven the salt
waters had closed over us!”
Willis remarked the change that came over De Vere’s countenance, and
correctly defining the cause, extended his hand toward him, and said,—
“Keep your mind perfectly easy, Captain De Vere, and believe that you
will be treated with all honor and kindness; and that I am too proud to
take advantage even of those who have always proved themselves
causelessly my enemies, when they are in distress and suffering; and
also give me credit for having sufficient humanity to make me thankful
for this opportunity of saving the lives of twelve fellow-mortals.”
De Vere, mortified at the injustice he had done the slaver captain in
his thoughts, warmly grasped his hand, and thanked him; saying he felt
as secure as if he were on shore.
Willis gave up his own cabin to Clara and De Vere, and slung his hammock
on the berth-deck. Every thing was done to make the Scorpion’s men
comfortable; and their fears were soon relieved, for they, as their
commander, had felt a good many misgivings about their future fate, when
they first learned they were on board of the Maraposa, the vessel they
had used so roughly.
As soon as De Vere had attended to the comfort of Clara, Willis asked
him how he had met with such a misfortune to his vessel, and whither he
was bound? De Vere detailed all the circumstances, and asked Willis how
it happened that he was so far to the northward of his usual cruising
ground. Willis said that it was by no good-will of his own, but that
some of De Vere’s friends—a sloop-of-war and a brig—had chased him so
hard, as he was going from Cuba to the coast, that he had been compelled
to hold to the northward to get rid of them; and that he was on his way
back to Africa when he first saw the wreck of the brig, but he would be
happy to carry De Vere and his wife back to Havana.
This was the very thing De Vere and Clara most anxiously desired, though
neither were willing to request it of Willis; but when he thus
generously offered it, they thankfully accepted his proposal. The
schooner’s course was altered a little more to the westward, and the
Maraposa was once more heading for Havana.
They were thirty days on the passage; during which time both De Vere and
Clara had an opportunity of impartially judging Willis, and were so much
prepossessed in his favor, that De Vere wondered how he could have ever
entertained such an opinion as he formerly had of him; and in their
conversations together, the English captain and his wife both expressed
a great desire to prevail upon Willis to leave his present profession.
But how to influence him they knew not, for though he was most affable
and communicative on all other topics, whenever he was asked about his
present pursuit, he would only say that circumstances, over which he had
no control, had first compelled him to enter, and still retained him in
it; and then he would turn the conversation, so that delicacy forbade
his passengers saying any thing more to him.
It was a bright clear day when they arrived in sight of the Havana
light-house; a gentle breeze was blowing, and the water was nearly
smooth. Clara was on deck with her husband, and was in raptures at the
sight of her native isle, and the thoughts of soon seeing her father and
sister again, and comparing in her mind the beauty and apparent security
of the present scene with the late fearful ones she had passed through,
as the rich voice of Willis sounded close to her.
“Your late dangers, fair lady, I hope, have not so much impaired your
nerves, that you would be afraid to trust yourself in a small boat on
this quiet water for a short time?”
“Oh, no, Captain Willis! I assure you, I am now quite a sailor, and
would think nothing of it!”
“I am very glad to hear it, lady, and trust you will not think I am
inhospitable if I soon put your courage to the test. Had you been
fearful, I should have run into the harbor; but as you are not, it will
be much to my convenience to go only to the entrance of the port, and
send you in in a boat.”
De Vere, who had been standing near enough to overhear the conversation,
now stepped up, and said he sincerely hoped, indeed he asked it as a
personal favor, that Captain Willis would go into Havana, to enable him
to show his gratitude, and repay him for his vessel’s loss of time in
bringing them there.
Clara, too, joined her husband in urging Willis to go into the harbor,
and come to her father’s house with them; saying Don Manuel would hardly
forgive Francisca for not bringing him before, and now that he was a
second time the preserver of the family, she was sure her father would
never forgive her.
Willis had now approached the shore as close as he wished, and laying
the schooner to, he ordered his men to get out the launch, and informed
De Vere and his lady that he was now prepared to carry them ashore.
Their arrangements were soon made; and they, with the remnant of the
Scorpion’s crew, all bidding Willis an affectionate farewell, and
expressing their many thanks, got into the boat, and, steered by Mateo,
pulled for the harbor.
Until the boat was out of sight Willis stood on deck looking after her;
and when she disappeared from his sight, he imagined her having
accomplished the rest of her way, and the joy of Francisca at so
unexpectedly seeing her sister, and learning that she had been rescued
by him; and knowing that Clara and De Vere could not but speak favorably
of him, was also much consolation. And then he thought of the strange
fate that had thus twice compelled him, after starting for the last
time, as he thought, to the coast, to return to Havana, against his
intentions, and obliged him now, for the third time, to head for Africa,
when he was so anxious to quit the trade. He knew that the gratitude and
liberality of De Vere and Don Manuel, had he gone into Havana this time,
would have given him money enough to have enabled him to leave the
slave-trade; but at this his pride revolted; he wished to be independent
by his own exertions, and without their aid; and walking the deck, these
and such thoughts, occupied him until the return of his launch. As soon
as the boat came alongside, without asking any questions of her crew, he
ordered her to be got on board again with all speed. This was soon done,
and filling away, heading to the eastward, the Maraposa was once more
standing for the coast.
Mateo, as soon as the launch was secured, joined his captain, who was
still walking the quarter-deck, and reported having landed his
passengers safely, though, said he,
“If I had not known it was your express wish they should go safe, I
would much rather have thrown them all overboard to quarrel with the
sharks.”
Willis, engaged by his own thoughts, made his mate no reply, and Mateo
continued.
“If it is not taking too great a liberty, captain, I wish you would tell
me why, when you had that cursed English captain and his men, who have
given us so much trouble, and put us all in limbo, and would have hung
you if you had not made sail out of their hands, when you had them in
your power, why you did not cut all their throats, so that we might
never be worried again by them, instead of treating them as if they had
been your brothers, or messmates, at the least?”
“Why, Mateo,” replied the captain, “if I tell you, you will hardly
understand. It was not because I loved them, but it is a much greater
and sweeter revenge to do your enemy a great good, when you have it in
your power, than to kill him. And, besides, you would not have me take
advantage of a man when he could not help himself.”
“Well, captain, I know you are very different from me, and, indeed, from
all the skippers I have ever known; but I would rather take satisfaction
with my knife, then I can see it, and feel it. This other way of yours I
can’t understand, but I am much obliged to you for telling me; and the
next time I fall athwart the English captain’s hause, now he is from
under your protection, I will give him a few inches of my knife, in part
payment of the fine and imprisonment he caused me.”
Willis, not feeling like entering into an argument, observed to his mate
that the wind had come round more, and told him he had better ease off
the sheets, and set the square-sail and studding-sails. Mateo proceeded
to attend to these duties, and left him, as he wished to be, alone.