THE SHORES OF VIRGINIA
I rested quietly in my berth for a long time, staring blankly up at
the dark deck above, unable to sleep, and endeavoring to figure out
the true meaning of all these occurrences. It began to rain, torrents
sweeping the planks overhead, while vivid flashes of lightning
illumined the open hatch, before it could be hastily closed, revealing
the squalidness of the interior in which we were quartered. Then
someone, growling and stumbling through the darkness, lit a slush
lantern, dangling from a blackened beam, its faint flicker barely
discernible. The hole became foul and sickening, men tossing and
groaning in their uneasy sleep, or prowling about seeking some measure
of comfort. There was no severe wind accompanying the storm, and the
flurry of rain soon swept by, leaving an ugly swell behind, but
enabling the guard to again uplift the hatches.
Immersed as I was in thought, all this left but small impress on me. I
felt that I could understand the interest exhibited by Dorothy
Fairfax, and, greatly as I already admired her, I was not egotist
enough to even imagine that her effort to serve me had basis in any
personal attraction. My connection with Bucclough, coupled with her
uncle's report of my conviction, had very naturally aroused the girl's
sympathy in my behalf. She felt a desire to lighten my sorrows as
much as possible, and, under the existing circumstances, had found it
comparatively easy to persuade the good-natured planter to acquiesce
in her suggestion. In all probability he really had need of my
services, and was therefore glad enough of this opportunity to secure
them. This part of the affair I could dismiss without giving anyone
undue credit, although I deeply appreciated the kindness of heart
which had led her to interpose, and which later led her to tell me so
quickly what had occurred. Her purpose, however, was fairly clear.
But what about Lieutenant Sanchez? Why was this unknown Spaniard
already so openly my enemy? There was no doubting his position, and
there surely must be some reason for it outside of anything which had
occurred on board the _Romping Betsy_. His words had given me some
inkling of the cause--a past quarrel with the Duke of Bucclough, in
England, in which he must have been worsted, and which had left in his
mind a lurking desire for revenge. He dreamed of striking his enemy
through me, because of relationship, a cowardly blow. Yet this, by
itself alone, was scarcely a reason why he should have thus sought me
out for a victim. No sane man would deliberately visit the sins of my
brother on me. Nor had this been deliberate; it was the mere outburst
of sudden passion, arising through my intercourse with the young
woman. Otherwise it might never have occurred to him. So there was
seemingly but one answer--Sanchez used this merely as an excuse for
the concealment of his real object. What could that object be? Could
it be Dorothy Fairfax? I was a long while in actually convincing
myself of this probability, and yet no other satisfactory explanation
offered itself. She had exhibited an interest in me from the very
first, and he had endeavored to win her attention elsewhere. Even that
day when we first came aboard in chains, he had plainly evinced this
desire, and, since then, the girl had never appeared on deck, without
his immediately seeking her company. I felt finally that I had the
clue--jealousy, the mad, unreasoning jealousy of his race. He fiercely
resented her slightest interest in anyone--even a prisoner--as against
his own attractions. He was incapable of appreciating friendly
sympathy, and already held me a dangerous rival. Then, possibly, it
had not been a mere idle desire to visit the Colonies, which had
originally led to his prompt acceptance of Roger Fairfax's invitation
to make one of their party; the real attraction was the charms of
Dorothy--her girlish beauty, coupled, no doubt, with her father's
wealth. The fellow was in love, impetuously in love, resenting blindly
the slightest advance of any other.
The thought rather pleased me, largely because of its absurdity. It
was, in my case at least, so utterly false, and unjustifiable. To the
ordinary mind, indeed, any such connection would be practically
unthinkable. Even had I been wild enough to dream of such a thing, the
gulf existing between myself and Dorothy Fairfax was far too deep and
wide ever to be spanned. I had before me twenty years of servitude,
and an unknown future; nor could I even conceive the possibility of
any such thought ever entering her mind. The very opposite was what
gave her courage to serve me. I had no false conception as to this;
no vagrant thought that her interest in me was any more than a
passing fancy, born of sympathy, and a desire to aid. Nevertheless, as
she had thus already served me, I now owed her service in return, and
here was the first call. If conditions made it possible it was my
plain duty to place myself between these two. I felt no hatred toward
the man, no desire to do him a personal injury; but I did dislike and
distrust him. This feeling was instinctive, and without the slightest
reference to his seeking intimacy with the girl. From the first moment
I had looked upon his face there had been antagonism between us, a
feeling of enmity. Whether this arose from his appearance, or actions,
I could not determine--but the fellow was not my kind.
In the intensity of my feelings I must have unconsciously spoken
aloud, for a shaggy head suddenly popped out from the berth beneath
where I lay, and an interested voice asked solicitously:
"Hy, thar; whut's up, mate? Sick agin?"
"No," I answered, grinning rather guiltily, "just thinking, and
letting loose a bit. Did I disturb you?"
"Well, I reckon I wa'n't exactly asleep," he acknowledged, without
withdrawing his head. "Ye wus mutterin' 'way thar an' not disturbin'
me none, till ye got ter talkin' 'bout sum feller called Sanchez. Then
I sorter got a bit interested. I know'd thet cuss onct," and he spat,
as though to thus better express his feelings. "The damned ornary
pirate."
I laughed, my whole mental mood changed by this remark.
"It is not very likely we have the same party in mind, Haley. You see
Sanchez is a decidedly common name among Spaniards. I've known two or
three of that name myself. You were not referring to anyone on board,
were you?"
"I sure hope not," he scratched his head, staring up at me through the
dim light, wakefulness encouraging him to talk. "They tell me ye are a
sea-farin' man. Well, I wus a Deal fisher, but hev made a half dozen
deep-sea v'y'ges. Thet's how I hed the damn luck ter meet up with this
Sanchez I was a speakin' 'bout. He's the only one ever I know'd. I met
up with him off the isle o' Cuba. Likely 'nough ye know the devil I
mean?"
The question served to center my memory suddenly on a dim remembrance
of the past.
"No, unless you refer to 'Black Sanchez.' I 've heard of him; were you
ever in his hands?"
"Wus I!" he laughed grimly. "I hed eight months of it, mate, and a
greater demon never sailed. The things I saw done ye 'd never believe
no human bein' could do. If ever thar wus two people in one skin, sir,
it's thet Black Sanchez. When he's playin' off fer good he's as soft
an' sweet as a dandy in Picadilly, an' when he's real he's like a
devil in hell."
"Was you a prisoner--or did you sail under him?"
"Both, fer the matter o' thet. He give me the choice ter serve, er
walk the plank. I wus eighteen, an' hed an ol' mother at Deal."
"I see; but later you got away?"
"Ay, I did thet," chuckling over the recollection. "But I hed ter wait
eight months fer the luck. Hev ye ever been sea-farin' down in them
waters, off the West Indies?"
"No."
"Well, they're all studded over with little islands--cays, they call
'em down thare; an' it's in among them thet the buccaneers hide away,
an' sorter rest up after a cruise. Thar's a lot o' 'em too; whole
villages hid away on some o' them cays, with women an' children--every
color ye ever saw. Sanchez he made his headquarters on a cay called
Porto Grande. He hed three ships, an' maybe a hundred an' fifty men
'bout the time I got away. The last I saw o' him wus at sea. He'd
overhauled an English ship, an' sunk her; an' then the next mornin' we
took a Dutch bark in ballast. She wus such a trig sailor Sanchez
decided to keep her afloat, an' sent a prize crew aboard ter sail her
inter Porto Grande. I wus one o' the fellers picked fer thet job, an'
we wus told off under a nigger mate, named LaGrasse--he wus a French
nigger from Martinique, and a big devil--an' our orders wus ter meet
Sanchez three days later. His vessel wus a three-masted schooner, the
fastest thing ever I saw afloat, called the _Vengeance_, an' by that
time she wus chock up with loot. Still at that she could sail 'bout
three feet to our one. Afore night come we wus out o' sight astern.
Thar wus eight o' us in the crew, beside the nigger, an' we had twelve
Dutchmen under hatches below. I sorter looked 'round, an' sized up
four o' that crew ter be good honest sailormen, who'd been shanghied
same as I wus. So, long about midnight, I 'd got ter talk with all
these fellers, an' when LaGrasse went down below ter take a snooze in
the cabin, we hoisted them Dutchmen on deck, flung a couple o'
hell-hounds overboard, an' just naturally took control. The mate wus
a dead nigger afore he ever knew whut wus up. When daylight come we
wus streakin' it eastward by compass, an' every damn sail set. Thet
wus the easiest part of it. Them Dutchmen could n't talk nuthin' but
their own lingo; an' thar wa'n't a navigator aboard, fer Sanchez hed
kept all the offercers with him, an' the end wus about a week later,
when we piled up against an island off the African coast, an' only one
boat load of us got ashore. Thet's whut I know about Sanchez."
"I had a shipmate once," I observed, interested in his story, "who
claimed to have seen the fellow; he described him as being a very
large man, with intensely black hawklike eyes, and a heavy black beard
almost hiding his face."
Haley laughed.
"Maybe he looked like that when he saw him, but he ain't no bigger man
than I am; he won't weigh as much by fifteen pound. Fact is he mighty
seldom looks the same, fer thet's part o' his game. Them whiskers is
false, an' so is the saller look to his face. I 've seen him in all
sorts o' disguises. It's only his eyes he can't hide, an' thar's been
times when I thought they wus the ugliest eyes ever I saw. He's sure
an ornary devil, an' when he gits mad, I'd rather be afront of a
tiger. Besides fightin's his trade, an' no weaklin' ain't goin' ter
control the sort o' chaps he's got ter handle. Most of 'em would
murder him in a minute if they dared. Oh, he's bad all right, but yer
wouldn't exactly think so, just ter look at him, I've run up agin a
lot o' different men in my time, thet I 'd naturally sheer off from a
blame sight quicker than I would from him."
"You mean that when he is not in disguise he does not appear
dangerous. What then does he really look like?"
Haley spat again onto the deck, and scratched his shock of hair as
though thus to stimulate his memory.
"Oh, a sorter swash-bucklin' Spanish don--the kind whut likes ter
dress up, an' play the dandy. He's got a pink an' white complexion,
the Castilian kind yer know, an' wears a little moustache, waxed up at
the ends. He's about two inches taller than I am, with no extra flesh,
but with a hell of a grip in his hands. As I said afore, if it wa'n't
fer his eyes nobody'd ever look at him twice. All his devilishness
shows thar, an' I've seen 'em laugh like he didn't have a care on
earth."
"How old a man is he?"
"How old is the devil? I heard he wus about forty-five; I reckon he
must be thet, but he don't look older than thirty. He ain't the kind
yer can guess at."
We talked together for quite a while longer, our conversation
gradually drifting to the recounting of various sea adventures, and my
thoughts did not again recur to Sanchez until after I rested back once
more in my berth, endeavoring to fall asleep. Haley must have dropped
off immediately, for I could distinguish his heavy breathing among the
others; but my mind continued to wander, until it conjured up once
again this West India pirate. His name, and the story of his exploits,
had been familiar to me ever since I first went to sea. While only one
among many operating in those haunted waters, his resourcefulness,
daring and cruelty had won him an infamous reputation, a name of
horror. In those days, when the curse of piracy made the sea a
terror, no ordinary man could ever have succeeded in attaining such
supremacy in crime. No doubt much that had been reported was either
false, or exaggerated, yet there flashed across my memory numberless
tales of rapine, outrage and cold-blooded cruelty in which this demon
of the sea had figured, causing me to shudder at the recollection. To
my mind he had long been a fiend incarnate, his name a horror on the
lips. Black Sanchez--and Haley pictured him as a dandified, ordinary
appearing individual, with white and red complexion, a small
moustache, and flashing dark eyes--a mere Spanish gallant, without
special distinction. Why, that description, strangely enough, fitted
almost exactly this fellow on board, this other Sanchez. I leaned over
the edge of my bunk, and looked down on Haley, half resolved to ask if
he had ever noticed this lieutenant, but the man was already sound
asleep. The suspicion which had crept into my mind was so absurd, so
unspeakably silly and impossible, that I laughed at myself, and
dismissed the crazy thought. What, that fellow Black Sanchez! Bah, no!
He had been at sea, of course; there was no denying that fact, for he
knew ships, and spoke the lingo of blue water; but the very idea that
that blood-stained buccaneer, whose hated name was on the lips of
every sea-faring man of Britain, would ever dare openly to visit
England, and then sail under his own name on board an English vessel
for Virginia, was too preposterous for consideration. Why, it would be
sheer madness. The knowledge that such a possibility ever had flashed
into my mind became amusing, and chuckling over it, I finally fell
asleep.
It was noon, the sky overcast, the wind blowing strong from the
southeast, when the Virginia coast was first sighted from our
mast-head. An hour later it became plainly visible from the deck
below, and the prisoners were routed out from their quarters, and the
shackles, removed from limbs when we first arrived on board, were
again riveted in place, binding them together in fours, preparatory to
landing. I, with one or two others, already disposed of, and in
control of masters, were spared this indignity, and permitted to move
about as we pleased within the narrow deck space reserved for our use.
The last meal was served in the open, the men squatting on the deck
planks, endeavoring to jest among themselves, and assuming a
cheerfulness they were very far from feeling. The long hardships of
the voyage had left indelible marks on the majority, and they were by
now a woe-begone, miserable lot, who had largely abandoned themselves
to despair.
The Monmouth campaign had been brief, but no less disastrous to the
men engaged in it. Those who survived the one battle, wounded and
fugitive, had been hunted down remorselessly like so many wild beasts.
Escape from the pursuit of soldiers was almost impossible, and they
had been brutally beaten and bruised by infuriated captors; and then,
uncared for, nor shown the slightest mercy, had been thrust into
loathsome gaols to helplessly await trial, and a certain conviction.
No pen could adequately describe the suffering and horror of those
months of waiting, while the unfortunate victims lived in crowded,
dirty cells, subjected to every conceivable indignity and insult from
brutal guards, half starved, and breathing foul, fetid air--the breath
of sickness, the stench of unclean wounds. Dragged forth at last, one
by one, into a court organized for condemnation, presided over by a
foul-mouthed brute, whose every word was insult, denied all
opportunity for defense, they had later been shackled together as
felons, and driven aboard ship like so many head of cattle. Herded
below deck, tossed about for weeks on a stormy sea, uncared for, and
half starved, scarcely realizing their destination, or knowing their
fate, seeing their dead dragged out from their midst with each dawn,
and flung carelessly overboard, cursed at and struck by their guards,
they now dragged their aching bodies about in half dead despair, the
chains clanking to every movement of the limbs, their dull, lackluster
eyes scarcely discerning the darkening line of coast toward which the
_Romping Betsy_ steered.
With what depth of pity I looked at them, my glance gladly straying
from their downcast faces toward the group of passengers gathered
eagerly along the poop rail to welcome joyfully the approach of land.
These were all animation, excitement, talking eagerly to each other,
and pointing out familiar headlands as they emerged through the thin
mists. Their thoughts were all centered on home, or the promises of
this new land they were approaching, and so deeply interested that
scarcely an eye turned toward those miserable wretches grouped on the
forward deck, being borne into slavery and disgrace. It was a contrast
between hope and despair. As these passengers moved restlessly back
and forth, from rail to rail, I easily recognized among them every
face grown familiar to me during the course of the voyage, excepting
the two I most eagerly sought; and became convinced that neither Roger
Fairfax nor his niece had yet come upon deck. Sanchez was there,
however, standing alone and silent, seldom lifting his eyes to the
changing view ahead, but apparently buried in his own thoughts. Once
our glances accidentally met, and I could but observe the sudden
change in the man's expression--a change sinister and full of threat.
Whatever the original cause might be, his personal feeling toward me
was undoubtedly bitter and unforgiving, and he possessed no wish to
disguise it. The new life in the new world had already brought me both
friend and enemy before I had as yet touched foot on land.