“How would you be,
If He, who is the top of judgment, should
But judge you as you are? O, think on that;
And mercy then will breathe between your lips,
Like men new made.”
MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
After Appadocca had jumped overboard, the large ship passed the bocas
safely, entered upon the still waters of the gulf, and within a few hours
afterwards her large Anchor was cast off the harbour of Port-of-Spain.
As the vessel approached nearer to her port of destruction, Charles
Hamilton had become more and more anxious, and uneasy about the fated
doom which he saw every moment hanging lower and lower over his friend.
He reasonably argued that, with such a willing witness as James
Willmington, and with such a stoical disposition as his friend had formed
to himself, there would not be the slightest chance of Appadocca’s
acquittal when he should be tried. For Willmington, it was to be
supposed, would not attenuate the least feature of the case, nor would
Appadocca descend from his high notions of philosophy to conceal or deny
the charges that would be brought against him.
In this state of mind, Charles Hamilton considered a long time, and
endeavoured to think of some means of still saving his friend. It was,
however, a difficult and perplexing matter, for the only available
measures that he could adopt, were doggedly repudiated by Appadocca
himself.
“Confound his obstinacy,” the young officer muttered, when he thought of
his friend’s infatuation; “he might have been saved long ago if it were
not for that.”
Among a number of expedients and plans, Hamilton at last adopted the
one of having an interview with James Willmington, of endeavouring to
soften down his persecuting feeling, and of establishing, if not terms
of kindness and affection, at least those neutrality and indifference
between him and Appadocca.
It was in this disposition, that long before the sun had risen on the
morning after the man-of-war had come to an anchor, Charles Hamilton
requested a servant to ask James Willmington to be good enough to attend
him in his cabin. Willmington, whose excitement had kept him awake the
whole night, shortly appeared.
“Be good enough to sit down, sir,” said Hamilton.
Willmington sat down.
“I have taken the liberty, sir, of asking you to my cabin, to speak to
you on a subject that I am aware must be very delicate; but my great
anxiety for my friend, and the just apprehension that I entertain with
regard to his life itself, have led me to put aside whatever reluctance I
should otherwise feel, and to speak to you on that head.”
Willmington looked stolidly and vaguely at Hamilton, and said not a word.
“You are aware, sir,” continued Hamilton, “that Appadocca runs, at this
moment, the risk of his life.”
“I am aware, sir,” replied Willmington, briefly.
“Well, sir, shutting my eyes to all family quarrels—”
“There are no quarrels in my family that I know of, sir,” interrupted
Willmington.
“Perhaps you will hear me out,” remarked Hamilton.
Willmington exhibited the rudiments of a bow.
“Shutting my eyes to all private quarrels between you, I say, I cannot
but consider it a misfortune that a young man, like Appadocca, should be
brought to a disgraceful death on a scaffold at such an early age. You
will be the only prosecutor in this case, and, to a certain extent, you
hold his life in your hands; will you suspend—suspend your animosity, and
give Appadocca a chance of escape?”
“I do not understand you, sir,” said Willmington.
“I do not think there is much obscurity about what I said,” remarked
Hamilton, in his turn.
“Do you mean, sir, to ask me to connive at a felony, and to permit a
criminal to escape?”
“Call it what you choose, sir; I ask you to save Appadocca from an
ignoble and untimely death,” answered Hamilton.
“Then, sir, I must tell you at once, I cannot. The law must take its
course. Beside, sir, I feel called upon by public justice and morality,
to bring to punishment the individual in whose favour you are making
these representions.”
“Hum,” groaned Hamilton—“you forget one great point,” he said after a
short pause.
“What is that, sir?” inquired Willmington.
“That by bringing Appadocca to the scaffold, you will disgrace your own
blood,” answered Hamilton.
“I do not care much for that, sir,” answered Willmington.
“But you might show some consideration, at least, to your own son,” said
Hamilton.
“He did not show any to me,” sullenly replied Willmington.
“That is no reason why you should not: and you must recollect, he
justified his harshness to you precisely on the same grounds as you now
do yours. Besides, he may again, one day, justify any vengeance that he
may be inclined to wreak upon you by your conduct to day.”
“There will not be much chance left of his doing so, I warrant you,”
replied Willmington, with a sardonic smile.
“There is many a slip between the cup and the lip,” said Hamilton.
A pause ensued.
“Beside,” continued Willmington, re-opening the dialogue—“besides, he is
my son only of a sort.”
“What do you mean,” inquired Hamilton.
“That his mother was not Mrs. Willmington,” answered Willmington.
“Do you mean to say, then, that you do not consider you owe any duty to
your children that may not have been born in wedlock?” inquired Hamilton.
“Scarcely,” answered Willmington.
“You consider, therefore, that where the word of a priest has not been
pronounced on your union, you are absolved from your honor, and from
natural obligations?” inquired Hamilton.
“I do,” answered Willmington.
The lips of the young officer curled up with scorn, as he stood up and
said, with ill-concealed disgust:
“Leave my cabin, sir; leave my cabin. By G—d you are not made worse than
you are. If I were Appadocca, I should have hanged you outright, and not
sent you with a philosophical scheme to float on a cask and to be picked
up.
“Hark you, sir,” continued Hamilton, in a suffocating temper, “if you
have a son that resembles you more than Appadocca does, born of Mrs.
Willmington, understood—send him to me, sir, and, by his own appointment,
I shall give him satisfaction for ordering you out of my cabin.”
Willmington turned to leave, but met face to face a servant that came
rushing it.
“Your honour, your honour,” the man cried with much excitement, “the
pirate prisoner has drowned himself.”
“What?” exclaimed Hamilton, and fell back into his chair.
“The pirate prisoner, your honour, has jumped overboard. When the
steward went into his cabin this morning, he was not to be found: on
examination, the skylight was discovered to be open.”
The officer leaned his forehead on his hand.
“There, sir,” he said, “your vengeance is satisfied: public justice and
morality are vindicated.”
“Scarcely,” muttered Willmington between his teeth, and left the cabin.
Charles Hamilton was deeply affected by the supposed suicide of his
friend; recollections of bygone days crowded on his mind. He recalled
vividly to himself the happy hours which he and his friend Appadocca
had spent together in the lightheartedness and warm fellowship which
only students can feel, when strong and mutual sympathy links them, and
carries them together through study and through recreation: he pictured
to his mind, the ardent and aspiring youth, such as his friend then
was, with a mind that was stored with learning, and a heart that was
overflowing with abundant benevolence, and then contrasted him with
the cold soured, cynical man, whose mind was now entirely engrossed
with schemes of death and revenge, and whose heart now beat but in
cold indifference, or throbbed with a more active feeling, only when
retribution and punishment quickened its action. He then thought of the
career which hope would have foretold on the one picture—a career, that
like the stars themselves which Appadocca measured, was to be ever bright
and brilliant, that might have shed its light on humanity, and might,
perhaps, have signalized an epoch of philosophy and certain truth: and
he thought, on the other hand, of the actual reality of a life spent in
the degrading society of the reputed scum of mankind, with its energies
and powers exercised and lost in devising methods for robbing others, and
closed at last in immorality and crime.
Such thoughts weighed heavily on Charles Hamilton, and when he proceeded
on deck, his step might be observed to be less light, and his eye less
quick than they were wont to be.
As for James Willmington he walked on one side of the deck restlessly,
and bit his nails.
“The fellow,” he interjected to himself, “to go and drown himself when
I expected to have made him feel the consequences of his insolence, in
having me put on a cask and set adrift. The villain! to go and drown
himself, when the gallows and the hangman’s hand ought to have sent him
to his account. Never mind, he is out of the world, and one way is as
good as another, there is no fear now of being judged again in the name
of nature.”
Willmington smiled satanically.
“He is gone, and that is one blessing, at least, and he will, no doubt,
meet those in the other world who will be better able to answer his
philosophy than I.”
And a diabolical smile played on the lips of that heartless and selfish
man.
“Have that man landed at once, Charles?” said the commander dryly, who
was attentively watching Willmington, from the quarter-deck.
His attention had been at first attracted by the restless and impatient
movements of Willmington. He had remarked the workings of his lips, and
had noticed the bitter sneer that settled upon them at the end. The
dislike which he had always entertained for that man, was worked up to
its height by this exhibition.
“He could not have been uttering a prayer for his son,” he justly
thought; “prayers do not end so. No—no—he must be truly a vile
individual. Death ought to suspend, at least, the enmity of the bitterest
foes. It is a strange father that can curse the memory of his own son,
however great a reprobate he may have been. Have that gentleman landed
immediately, Charles,” he again said to his son.
In a few moments, James Willmington was made acquainted with this order,
and was told that a boat was ready to take him ashore.
“Thank God, thank God!” he cried, almost aloud, and quickly ascended the
steps of the quarter-deck, to take leave of the commander.
“My lord, I have to bid you, good morning,” said he, as he approached the
commander.
“Good morning,—good morning,” quickly replied the person addressed,
apparently desiring to have as little as possible to say to the
individual, who was taking his leave.
“I am much obliged to you,” continued Willmington, “for the protection
and assistance, and—”
“Not at all, sir,” dryly rejoined the commander, “I have only discharged
the duty which I owe to all His Majesty’s subjects on these seas.”
“Yes, my lord,” pursued Willmington, “and I trust my lord, when you land,
you will condescend to remember your former guest.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the commander, as dryly, as before.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“A very good morning, sir.”
The boat, soon bore Willmington away from the ship.
“If the world possessed many more like that man,” said the commander
to his son, while he pointed to Willmington, who was now on his little
voyage toward the shore, “it would indeed be worse than a den of thieves.”
“I am afraid there are many more of this sort, sir, than you imagine,”
replied Charles, “and that the world is not even as good as a den of
thieves, for they say, those individuals recognize a certain code of
honor.”
“Things were not so in my time,” replied the commander; “when I was
young, Charles, we feared God, honored the king, and dealt justly and
honorably by all men.”
“The times, then, are changed, sir,” said Charles, “and the greatest
misfortune is, that such characters as that Willmington, unluckily for
humanity, make as many Appadoccas.”
“True,” observed the commander, “it is a misfortune. I always thought I
perceived much to be admired in that unfortunate Appadocca. I am rather
glad, I must say, that he has drowned himself rather than permit himself
to be dealt with by the executioner.”
On landing, Willmington hurried up the magnificent walk of almond-trees,
which lead from King’s-wharf, into Port-of-Spain. He pursued his way
through the city, and scarcely recognised the many wondering friends and
acquaintances, who proceeded forward to congratulate him on his return,
for they had heard of the accident which had befallen the ship in which
he had taken passage; and also of the manner in which he, in particular,
was treated.
When he had arrived at the beautiful Savannah which lies at the
Northern-end of the city, he diverged into a footpath that led to the
beautiful villas with which Saint Ann’s-road is ornamented. He quickly
walked up the road a little way, and immediately stopped at the gate of a
magnificent and romantic suburban house that stood in solitary grandeur,
amidst the beautiful trees that belted it.
He rang at the gate-bell, and was immediately admitted by the servant,
who started back, and almost went into hysterics at seeing his master
back again.
“Gad bless me, massa, da you, or you ’pirit?” inquired that official,
as he opened the gate and let his master in, who, without noticing the
wonderment of the man, rushed into the house.
“Ah! is it you, Mr. Willmington?” said his wife, with fear, surprise, and
joy, all confusedly pictured on her face.
“Heavens be praised, and thanked,” and she embraced him affectionately.
“Tell me, tell me all about the accident that befell you,” she asked.
“Not to-day, dear,” answered Willmington; “not to-day, dear. Only thank
Providence that I am again safe. I shall relate everything when I am more
composed.”