——“Who’s there?
Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead?”
ROMEO AND JULIET.
Appadocca stood for a while, and watched his men, who, in military order,
were marching down the dark and solitary road. When even their footsteps
could no longer be heard; he cast one more look on the desolated villa,
that still shone resplendently under the many lights which burnt within,
and that now presented the appearance of a place, in which the pleasures
of a marriage feast, may have been broken in upon, by some unexpected and
chilling calamity.
What ever reflections he may have made, while he gazed at the house
before him, were short and transitory and perhaps unpleasant, for he
suddenly turned away his head, and bent his steps rapidly towards the
beautiful Savannah, that opened before the splendid house of James
Willmington.
Having immediately approached the Savannah, Appadocca climbed over the
iron rails that enclose it, and got within.
The night was one of a peculiar sort. It was dark, but the air was soft
and dry, and the numberless stars that shone, seemed to twinkle more, and
more, and more brightly, and by their brilliant light, the imaginative,
may have seen, or fancied to have seen, to a vast depth into the bluish
ethereal fluid, in which they were suspended. Appadocca directed his
steps immediately across the Savannah. He walked on pensively and
moodily, without even raising his head for a moment, to gaze on the stars
above; or, to listen to the faint and peculiar insect-sounds, that might
now be heard, amidst the general calm and lull of nature.
When he had arrived at the western end of the Savannah, he again climbed
over the railing, and found himself in the road which runs parallel in
that direction, with the Saint Ann’s road, on the opposite side. He then
diverged towards the left, and continued down the road, until he had
arrived to a certain street, which ran to the right.
Appadocca walked along this street, and was obliged to stop from time to
time, in order to drive away the numbers of dogs that followed, and that
kept up an unceasing noise at his heels.
The street opened on the extensive cemetery, that lies to the west-ward
of Port-of-Spain, and that looks picturesque and beautiful by day, under
the grove of magnificent trees, that shelter it; but which, by night,
looks as dark and as gloomy, as the thoughts themselves which it calls up.
Appadocca stood for a moment, and looked over the wall; no one, nothing
was to be seen, save a few white and spotted goats, that silently cropped
the grass at a distance, or frisked capriciously over the tombstones.
He scaled the wall, and held his way straight down the road, which lies
concealed beneath the thickly knotted branches of the trees that overhang
it, and that unseen, leads into the innermost parts of that long and
lasting home of thousands.
Having reached the utmost end of this road, he turned towards the left,
into one of the many cross-formed paths, that bisect the cemetery. He
walked carefully along, and examined attentively every tomb that he
passed, until he had arrived at a simple grave, that with a plain cross
at its head, lay sheltered beneath the rich spreading foliage, of a thick
cluster of bamboos. Here Appadocca stood, and remained motionless and
entranced, at the foot of that unornamented tomb; his arms were folded
over his breast, and he was in the attitude of one whose thoughts were
veiled in an absorbing and holy feeling.
In a moment he approached nearer and nearer; then seated himself down at
the head of the grave, and remained there, his brow resting on his hand,
as if his spirit was in communion with that of the body which the grave
contained.
Time fled, still the pirate captain remained in the same position. The
deeds of a whole life-time, one would have said, were returning in rapid
succession on his memory. The pursuits, the pleasures and pains, the
endearments and enjoyments of childhood, of boyhood, of youth, of all,
seemed to fly back like administering angels, or like fiends of hell upon
his mind; for his recollections were freshened, his sensibilities were
awakened by his mother’s grave:—his mother’s grave, which he approached
now a different man from what he was, when he bade the farewell which
proved the last on earth to that mother. He had left her with the halo
of those virtues, which she had taught more by example than by precepts,
still surrounding his head, with his spirits fresh and expanding,
with his heart good and at ease, with his intellect aspiring higher
and higher; now he revisited her in the cold tomb, with a callous
indifference either to virtue or to vice, with a heart that was poisoned
to the centre, with spirits lacerated and torn to shreds and tatters. How
to wreak retribution now engrossed his whole intellect—retribution on the
man whom that mother had once too fondly loved, and whose placid nature
had, no doubt, long long forgiven. How could he be certain that her
spirit now looked down upon him with pleasure, the spirit of her whose
life was a speaking lesson of patient endurance.
Such might be the feelings and thoughts of Emmanuel Appadocca, whose
manhood could not restrain the tears that trickled down his cheeks, and
flowed, as it were, in mockery over the hilt of the sword that lay across
his knees, and moistened the mound before him.
The fleeting hours glided by, Appadocca was in the same position. The
brilliant stars shone beautifully above him, the fire-flies played about
the tombstones, the tall dark trees rustled, and the pliant bamboos
creaked melancholily before the gentle night breeze.
“I may not look upon you again: still, let me—let me perform, perhaps,
the last office that I may be permitted,” said Appadocca, as if speaking
to some one by his side, and began to pluck the weeds that grew over the
grave.
Time passed quickly. His labour was completed. Appadocca took one last
and earnest gaze at the grave, then muffled his cloak leisurely around
him, and turned moodily away.
He followed the same path that led to the grave, and came out on the
wide gravelly walk. His footsteps echoed in the silence of the hour, and
he proceeded with his eyes fixed upon the ground. From time to time,
however, he raised them to look at the morning star. He had now done so,
when he beheld before him a tall female form, that was clad in black,
standing under the branches of a rose-apple tree, which edged the road.
“Heavens!” muttered Appadocca, “is there, then, such a thing as a spirit?”
He stood for a moment.
“Oh, human mind,” he cried, “how weak thou art in all thy greatness! how
imperfectly thou canst cut away the indifferent portions of thyself.
Behold, whither imagination now hurries thee. Can there be such a thing
as a spirit?”
Appadocca began again to walk. The form began to advance towards him.
They met.
“Appadocca,” it cried, and grasped the hand of the pirate captain.
“Feliciana! impossible: my ears play upon me,” said Appadocca.
“No, no: it is—it is Feliciana; Feliciana, who has tracked you from
her father’s humble house, and who will still follow you as long as
life continues under the labours she will undertake for you, and the
privations she may have to endure on your account.”
“At this place, and at this dismal hour!” remarked Appadocca.
“Better this place with all its horrors than the palace in which I could
not find you,” answered Feliciana.
“Strange devotedness,” muttered Appadocca.
“But how came you to know that I was here,” asked Appadocca.
“A sorceress told me you would be,” answered Feliciana. “I entered this
cemetery. Heavens, how I trembled! and trod its solitary walk, and
examined each whitened monument until—until—I—saw you—at—at—a grave.
Return, return, with me, let me pray with you, let me join my prayers
with yours.”
On saying this, Feliciana proceed down the walk, and led the unresisting
captain after her.
Arrived at the simple grave, she threw herself on her knees, and began to
pray. Appadocca stood by, now resting on his sword.
“Oh grant,” said the lady, in conclusion to her prayer; and she repeated
the part aloud, “grant that his heart may be turned from the unholy
pursuit which now throws his soul into the hands of demons, and let the
spirit of his mother inspire him with the thoughts that she possessed.”
This loud conclusion sounded solemnly in the silence of the night. The
sternness of Appadocca’s character could scarcely resist it.
“Come and join me; say you renounce the life you now lead,” said
Feliciana.
Appadocca made no answer.
“Come, come—for your mother’s sake, come,” said Feliciana.
“Pray you, senora. I will not pray, and I cannot renounce.”
“I entreat you: imagine you behold the mother that you have loved so
much, making the same petition to you. Could you refuse her?”
“Senora, speak no more on this theme, I say I cannot renounce; my vow is
made.”
“Heaven looks not upon unholy vows; not on vows of vengeance,” said
Feliciana, “renounce your life and forget that oath.”
“Senora, the morning star is sinking; my followers must be growing
impatient. I must go;” and Appadocca moved a step.
Feliciana sprang from her knees and grasped him by the hand; “do not go
from this spot the same man as you came to it. Wash yourself by prayer
from the blood which you may have shed, and ask—ask her spirit to forgive
you, if you offended it.”
Appadocca drew his hand quickly across his brow. “Feliciana, your are
ungenerous, unkind: my—feelings—require—no—further laceration. Life and
my miseries have already made me too, too well acquainted with anguish.
Spare me, spare me the thought of an offended mother—the only—the
only—the only—friend that I had in this bitter, bitter, world.”
“Say—say not so,” quickly rejoined Feliciana, still more melted by
the grief of one who appeared always so indifferent. “You have still,
still a friend. Oh fly, fly with me to some wilderness; there enjoy
your thoughts, your silence, your feelings. I shall be your slave, your
dog, that will gather the inkling of the wish from your very eyes. My
_fallucha_ is by the shore; Appadocca will you go?”
A pause ensued.
“No, no, Feliciana,” said Appadocca; “I shall not: lean not, good, good
girl, upon a broken reed. To me all things, save one idea, are stale and
indifferent. My life is gloomy, dark, and troublesome: my existence is
already a heavy, heavy oppression. My soul, like the cumbrous tower, fell
but once, it can never rise again. Your presence would create a new grief
in me, for I could not see you love one whose blood was chilled.”
“I require no love—I require no love,” quickly rejoined Feliciana, “I
shall be your slave.”
“That, I shall not endure; my idol is woman. I ought to worship, not she.”
“Still you will let me follow you?” eagerly inquired Feliciana.
“No, no, my career may still lie through blood,” answered Appadocca.
“Speak no more of blood,” cried Feliciana, “forswear your vengeance.”
“Never,” answered Appadocca sternly.
“Say, why doom yourself for ever,” Feliciana was going to inquire—when—
“That the world may profit by my conduct,” answered Appadocca.
“But the world will not know, will not attend to what you do.”
“I care not, I care not,” answered Appadocca, “my word is passed and I
shall fulfil it. I am resolved, the sacrifice must be made.”
“But see, the morning star is sinking fast. I must away.”
“But do not——”
“Come, come, let me lead you hence,” so saying Appadocca grasped the arm
of the faint Feliciana, and hurried out of the cemetery.
They walked down the street that runs from north to south on the western
side of Port-of-Spain, and soon reached the principal landing-place,
where the crew of the Black Schooner were impatiently waiting for their
captain.
“Feliciana, I bid you a long, long adieu,” said Appadocca, as they
stopped under one of the almond trees that form the shady walk we have
already mentioned.
“Do not say so,” said Feliciana indistinctly, as she leaned against the
tree, “oh do not say so.”
There was no answer, not a word.
“Feliciana let me ask you—to—to—place this near your heart, and whenever
you gaze upon it, let one thought return—to—to—the—the sick man of your
father’s house.” So saying, Appadocca drew his sword and cut off a lock
of his flowing hair, and presented it to the lady.
“Look—look—there,” she cried faintly, as she received the token.
Appadocca turned round and beheld a crowd of people who, with torches and
lanterns, were following a company of soldiers that were marching quickly
down the walk.
“Flee,” cried Feliciana.
“One more request,” said Appadocca. “Forget not, Feliciana, the place
where you first saw me to-night. If foul and rank weeds grow upon it,
pluck them as you pass by. Farewell, farewell.”
Appadocca walked down the wharf and was received by his men.
“Shove off,” he cried, as he threw himself on the stern sheets of the
boat, and folded his cloak around him.
The soldiers arrived at the wharf just in time to see the boat disappear
in the gray light of the morning.
They fired—the air resounded with their repeated volleys.