“I ’gin to be aweary of the sun,
And wish the estate o’ the world were now undone.”
MACBETH.
“Lorenzo,” said Appadocca to his officer who had returned to the wreck,
“that was a good and faithful vessel.”
“Ay, your excellency,” replied Lorenzo, sorrowfully, “she was.”
“All things must end, Lorenzo,” continued Appadocca.
“True, your excellency,” answered Lorenzo.
“If so, Lorenzo, the honours and greatness of men are scarcely to be
longed after. The pursuits that engross us during an entire lifetime, and
lead us too frequently, to sacrifice health, happiness, and sometimes
even drag us into crime, must all—all end in this—in nothing.”
“True, your excellency,” answered Lorenzo.
“You know not, Lorenzo, how different the world appears to me now, from
what it did when I was a happy student of eighteen. It was then tinged
with golden hues, and shone in whatever light I viewed it. Greatness:
oh, greatness, seemed so captivating to me! My nights were devoted to
its attainment, my days the same. Now, the world is charmless, scarcely
tolerable, and my beautiful dreams have all passed away like the crystal
dew before the sucking sun.”
“There is still hope, your excellency,” remarked Lorenzo.
“What among all things seems the most deserving of preservation,
Lorenzo,” continued Appadocca, “is our honour, our consciousness of
acting right. How many a mind that is curbed down by misfortune and
sorrow, finds its own little relief in the simple idea, that it has acted
up to the dictates of its honor.”
Lorenzo made no reply, he saw that his chief was deeply affected.
“Lorenzo,” resumed Appadocca, after a pause, “there is destiny—there is
destiny—there is a synchronism of events and a simultaneousness of the
actings of nature’s general laws that constitute destiny; against which
no men from the absence of any power to read the future can provide.
Thus, in the whirlwind, that raises in mid-air the light feather, there
is to be seen the hand of destiny, for there is the synchronism of the
feather’s being separated from the bird with the acting of the law of
nature that produces the wind. It would have been as impossible to the
bird, granting that its reasoning powers were less limited, to have
provided against the falling of its feather and the eventual taking of it
up by storm, as it was impossible to foresee the whirlwind that overcame
the schooner which was made to pass through every danger.”
“Too true, your excellency,” answered Lorenzo.
“So that it follows,” continued Appadocca, “that since men are subject
to the former of this destiny, their most strenuous efforts must always
prove impotent in restraining its action, and that they are liable every
moment, whether they are good, or whether they are bad, to be subjected
to misfortune and calamity. And this corroborates what I have already
said, that the only thing which we are bound to consider in life, is our
honor, which alone is, or ought to be, the source of satisfaction or
misery to us.”
Lorenzo assented to the philosophy of Appadocca.
“If ever I should be suddenly overtaken by the hand of this destiny
recollect, beneath the solitary fig-tree that grows on the Island of
Sombrero, you will find a treasure. Devote half to the erection of a
college for abandoned children, and with the rest provide for my men who
have served me truly. Do not forget that peculiar old servant,” he said
in a low tone, and pointed to Jack Jimmy.
“Your excellency is growing melancholy,” observed Lorenzo, with some
anxiety.
“No, no,” replied Appadocca. “Still, who knows how soon destiny may end
his days.”
“For you, Lorenzo, you have acted towards me in a manner that I have duly
appreciated,” continued Appadocca, while he grasped his officer’s hand,
“here is my sword, wear it, and may the time soon arrive when you may use
it in the cause to which you are pledged, farewell!”
With a spring Appadocca jumped from the rock and threw himself headlong
into the thundering waves below.
His movement was so sudden that Lorenzo, and Jack Jimmy, who sprang to
their feet at once, were too late to hold him back and save him.
The little negro silently returned to the spot where he had sat since he
had come on shore, and hid his face in his hands. Not a word—not a sob
escaped him. His grief was too deep and strong for tears.
Morning dawned on the devastated scene of the late hurricane.
Like a strong man who is recovering from illness, nature presented a
smiling, though languid look. The billows still ran high, but unlashed
now by the wind, they rolled heavily against the rocks.
High and dry lay the bodies of the dead, their pallid faces still locked
in the grim passions which had attended the departure of life.
The dawn had scarcely come, when Jack Jimmy might have been seen moving
totteringly along the ruffled beach, with a dead body on his shoulders.
Away into a solitary recess of the picturesque little bay, he bore his
burden. He lay it down, and then slowly began to scoop a hole.
Solemnly he worked—his arms rose and fell like his heart—heavily.
But who comes to interrupt the sacred work! Lorenzo! It was Lorenzo. He
had followed Jack Jimmy to the spot. The officer began to dig, too.
“Tap, massa—tap,” said Jack Jimmy, solemnly grasping his arm—“let me one
do it.”
The hole was dug:—Jack Jimmy adjusted the uniform and hair of the corpse,
composed its features, and laid it carefully in it.
His arms again rose and fell as heavily as before:—the grave was closed,
and made even with the ground. Jack Jimmy knelt at its foot, raised his
eyes to heaven—his lips rapidly moved, and a heavy tear fell on the
simple grave of the pirate captain.
It was about this time that a little _fallucha_ came labouring over the
still perturbed waves under four powerful sweeps. At its stern sat the
captain and a lady.
Attracted by the signs of the shipwrecked pirates, she drew towards the
shore.
The tale of the wreck was soon told. The lady raised her hands and held
her forehead as if it were about to split asunder. She landed, and walked
along the strand and studied each dead man’s face that she passed by. She
arrived at the spot where Jack Jimmy was completing the grave, and was
adjusting each tiny pebble in its proper place.
Her heart sank within her. Quickly she approached the one who was toiling
in so sad a mood.
“Whose grave is this?” the lady quickly asked.
“My young massa’s,” Jack Jimmy slowly answered, without raising his eye
from his work.
“What was his name?” again asked the lady.
“Emmanuel Appadocca,” again answered Jack Jimmy, as slowly as before.
“Emmanuel Appadocca!”
The lady raised her hands to her burning brows, and pressed her eyes. She
remained for a few moments in this position. Then her arms fell languidly
by her sides, an expression of vagueness spread itself over her face, she
looked absently around, a ringing laugh broke forth from her lips, her
jaws then hung mopingly. Feliciana fell mad over Appadocca’s grave.