OLD DONALD’S CONFESSION.
While the unfortunate sloop-of-war lay jammed in between two jagged
sunken rocks of the terrible reef, with rocks ahead of her, and rocks
astern and rocks on every hand; and while her boats were busy in getting
the men of her crew safely to the shore, the smuggler brig was at anchor
in King’s Cove, as effectually hidden from the prying eyes of her
enemies as though she had been at the bottom of the sea.
Never mind about the wild plaudits of the outlaws as they gathered
around their youthful pilot and preserver. But for him they would have
been either prisoners or dead--every man of them; and they knew it.
Percy could not prevent them from being grateful, nor could he entirely
hush their loud and boisterous acclaims; the most he could do was to
persuade them to cut it as short as possible and, soon as he could find
opportunity, to get away into the cabin with Donald Rodney.
Next to his father, old Donald had been the one man of the old crew whom
Percy had loved and esteemed. He could not remember the time when he had
not loved “Uncle Rodney” as he had called him in his boyhood.
The first crew organized by Hugh Maitland had acknowledged Donald Rodney
as second in command, and from that time he had followed the career then
commenced.
And the youth still retained his love for the dear old friend of his
boyhood: and, further, he had accepted a great many favors from the old
man’s hand.
Thus loving, and thus respecting, the veteran, our hero had determined
to hold with him a serious conversation. He was bound, if possible, to
know the present character of the brig; together with something more of
the character of the man who now commanded her.
Rodney, as soon as his young friend had taken a seat, produced a bottle,
and two glasses.
“Only one bottle, my dear boy; for I know its the wine you’ll like. Just
taste it, and say if you ever tasted finer.”
Percy filled a glass and sipped a little of it, and the old man had not
exaggerated. He had certainly never tasted a finer wine, and he said so.
He drank the contents of his glass slowly, and then leaned back in his
chair.
He saw very plainly that the old man was nervous and uneasy--that he
would rather have been almost anywhere else than in that cabin with the
son of his old commander looking him in the eye. But the youth intended
to deal gently with him, though squarely.
“Donald, I have called you down here because I have a few questions to
ask--questions which I hope and trust you will answer. But, first, let
me give you my solemn promise that anything you may say to me--any
information you may give me--shall be held sacred and secret in my own
bosom. I will never use information from your lips to the injury of any
living being. Surely that ought to lead you to trust me.”
“Heave ahead, Percy!” the smuggler replied, frankly. Presently he added
with a smile, but not a happy one, “I can imagine pretty nearly what ye
want, and I tell ye, fair and honest, if ye lay too close I shall sheer
off.”
“All right, old friend. Take your own course. In the first place, will
you tell me what your present cargo consists of? Remember, I have this
day saved it--saved not only the cargo and brig, but every man on board.
Where would you be at this moment, Rodney, but for me?”
“Either shot, or in irons on board a king’s ship,” answered the old man
promptly.
“When I boarded the brig this morning,” pursued Percy, “her main-hatch
was off.”
“Yes, I’d ordered it off, thinkin’ we might have to throw overboard some
of the cargo; and some of it would have gone if the captain’s men hadn’t
stuck out so against it.”
“You mean the new men, who came in with Tryon?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Rodney, as I cast my eyes down into the hold I caught sight of
two or three boxes, iron-bound, bearing the name and marks we sometimes
see on boxes of merchandise brought over by American vessels. What are
they doing in the Staghound’s hold? What are they? Will you tell me?”
The old man was terribly perplexed. His two hard, brown hands were
clasped on his knees, and his head was bent.
“Donald, can’t you look me in the face, as of old?”
Upon that the poor man broke down. He could contain himself no longer.
“No, Percy! I can’t!”
“Poor old Donald! What is it? How much have you--suffered them to lead
you into doing?”
“Percy! I swear to you--I swear, on my Bible oath, that I’ve never
lifted a hand to help in any of their mean, dirty work! The most I’ve
done has been to let others do it, and wink at it. And yet, if we’d been
taken to day by the king’s ship I should have been strung up with the
rest of ’em! I tell you truly, dear boy, I never thought how dreadful it
would be till it was all over.
“Oh! when we were honest smugglers, only bringing over the goods
honestly bought in France, or Holland, or Germany, payin’ hard gold for
everything we took, and simply runnin’ it in without stoppin’ to ask the
king’s permission, and sellin’ it to them as would buy--why, then, my
boy, I could look an honest man in the face anywhere. Then, Percy, some
o’ the first men in the land were our friends. Bless ye, boy, your
father had friends everywhere. There was scarcely a lord or a lady
anywhere along the coast that didn’t bid him welcome. Ah! it’s different
now.”
“In short, Donald, the Staghound has become a pirate?”
“Ye-e-es! You’ve hit it. I won’t try to deny it.”
“And Ralph Tryon is responsible for it?”
“Take care, Percy! Don’t ask too much about him!”
“You can answer that. Is not he the chief power in this business? Was it
not through his influence that the wicked trade was entered upon?”
“Through his and the rest of the gang.”
“But he was the chief?”
“Yes, I s’pose he was.”
“Now, Donald, how far has this thing gone? Have you taken human life?”
“For the love of heaven!” groaned the suffering old man, with his
clasped hands extended, “don’t ask me any more. Let the one thing I’m
goin’ to tell ye of my own free will satisfy ye. And, mind this, ye’ll
keep what I now say a secret. Will ye promise that?”
The youth promised, and the other went on, speaking in low, whispered
tones, and ever and anon casting a quick, furtive glance around.
“There’s two-and-twenty of us--all the old crew but eight--have sworn to
one another by a solemn oath that we’ll leave the brig after this.
There’s a good deal of property aboard--honestly got--that belongs to
us, and we want it; but, as soon as we get the business squared, we will
clear out. And, really, I doubt if we are wanted. At all events, I aint.
They don’t trust me.”
“Good! good! And you will let me give you a bit of advice. Get clear of
the brig as soon as you can. Your doings have made a noise in London,
and very soon a strong effort will be made to find the offending
vessel.”
Donald assured his young friend that he and his mates would get clear as
soon as they possibly could; and upon this a silence fell, which lasted
while they both took another sip of wine, and a few seconds beyond.
Percy broke it.
“Donald, I come now to a question which I am very anxious you should
answer, and, before asking it, I will renew the pledge of secrecy which
I gave you before. Will you tell me what you know of Ralph Tryon?
Who--What--! Can a simple question startle you like that? Has the man
such power over old Donald Rodney that he dare not speak?”
“No! no! Percy, you don’t understand. We’re all bound by a terrible
oath--one of the most terrible ye can imagine--that we won’t speak in
answer to any such question as you have asked. I’d rather lose a hand
than answer ye!”
“For how long a time have you been bound by that oath, Rodney?”
“For a long, long time. But don’t ask me. I mustn’t answer to anything
of the kind.”
“Well, look ye, old friend--my old ‘uncle,’ who loved me once, and
who--”
“Loves you more than ever before,” broke in the old man, feelingly.
“I believe you, Donald; and I hope you will feel like answering my next
question. Tell me, haven’t I known, or haven’t I seen Ralph Tryon in
another character--a character widely different from that in which he
now appears?”
Rodney had started with the old fright as the youth began to speak, but
a moment later he had taken on a new look--one of quick, keen inquiry.
“Percy,” he said in a hoarse whisper, scarcely audible, at the same time
laying his hand on his companion’s knee. “What have ye got in your mind?
Where d’ye think ye’ve seen him?”
“There is the trouble, Donald. For the life of me I cannot tell, and yet
I am as sure of it as I am that you now sit before me. Will you help
me?”
Every line and lineament of the old man’s face was wrought upon by an
agony of physical torture. After a little pause he started to his feet
and laid a hand on the youth’s head, and his voice when he spoke was
full of earnest, prayerful supplication.
“Percy! Percy! If you love me, don’t ask me any more! It’s more than my
life is worth to answer you as you wish to be answered. I can’t! I
can’t! Oh! you will give over, won’t you? You won’t torture me any more?
Ask me anything else in the world--anything--and I’ll answer, if I know
how; but not that--Oh! not that!”
“All right; I won’t press you further, Donald. I am only sorry that the
wretch has gained such power over you; but I am glad you have resolved
to break the chain.”
“Yes, yes, dear boy, I’ll break that, be sure; but, you’ll remember, my
oath will last while I live. You will never ask me that question again,
will you?”
Percy gave the promise, and thus failed his last chance, his last solid
hope of solving the mystery that had so perplexed him and that was
perplexing him still; aye, and that must continue to perplex him until
he could discover that which was so strangely, yet so effectually,
hidden from him.
“By the way,” he said, after they had both arisen and were ready for
returning to the deck--the thought had at that moment occurred to
him--“there is one thing you can tell me. I have often wondered that
Captain Tryon never offered nor asked to remain beneath the roof of our
cottage through a night. Why is this? Where does he spend his time when
on shore?”
The old man scratched his head, and then gave his trousers a hoist; then
he scratched his head again. Finally, with a burst, he answered:
“’Pon my word, Percy, I can’t tell you. One thing I will say--yes, two
of ’em--and them’s the only two I’ll speak, if ’twas to save my life!
First, then, the captain, when he is ashore, spends a part of his time
in another place, where he’s got friends. It isn’t anywhere about these
parts. Second, I haven’t the least bit of doubt that he’s got a secret
hidin’ place somewhere near the Cove, or, anyhow, not a great ways off;
but, as I’m a livin’ man, I don’t know where it is. I aint one of them
that he trusts with that kind of a secret.”
“A hiding-place near--”
“Hush! Be careful, for heaven’s sake! Don’t say any more. Let that be
the last.”
“So be it, Donald, and for what you have told me I thank you.”
“Say!--Percy!” catching the young man by the arm as he was about to lift
his foot to the first step of the ladder, “you won’t lisp a word to your
mother of what I’ve told ye--not a word!”
“Have no fear, Donald. I will speak of it to nobody, and never as having
come from you.”
“Bless ye for that, my boy.”
And then they went on deck, where they found the men of the crew
variously employed. Half of them had gone on shore, while the remainder
were at work putting matters to rights.
Old Donald’s first care after his pilot had left him was to attend to
the replacing of the lost topgallant-mast, for which they had plenty of
spar timber aboard.
A dozen or more of the crew gathered around our hero as he stood on the
quarterdeck, all eager to take him by the hand and speak a parting word.
He read in their faces the feeling that they might never see him again.
The information Donald had given him enabled him to do this. And his
words of good will and blessing in response appeared to be accepted by
them as though they were aware of his knowledge. They probably thought
their old mate had told him of their plans for the future. He gave them,
each and all, a hearty grasp of the hand and a soul-sent God’s blessing,
and so he left them.
Old Donald went with him to the shore; and the last friendly look
exchanged between them was through brimming tears.
Percy was saved the trouble of telling to his mother the story of his
adventure on board the brig. He found two of the old crew at the cottage
before him--two men who had been true to his father, and who, he had no
doubt, were of the number banded together for the purpose of seeking new
employment.
But they would make no remark in relation thereto in the widow’s
hearing. The smugglers all knew that she was friendly to their chief;
and they believed she would support and defend him against the rest
together.
They wondered at it, as her son had wondered. What she could have found
in the man to respect or esteem they--the true men of the old
crew--could not imagine. It was a puzzle in every way.
There were times when it appeared to our hero that his mother was warmly
attached to Tryon, that she served and obeyed him because of her liking
for the man. There were other times, however, when it appeared as though
she was afraid of the man, that she held him in fear, if not in absolute
terror.
Yes, it was a puzzle, a puzzle to Percy Maitland of the most perplexing
and even painful character. And he thought of it now more painfully than
ever before, now that the revelation or confession of old Rodney had
opened up the full blackness of the villain’s character. He had always
believed Ralph Tryon to be a villain and now he knew it, knew him to be
guilty of one of the gravest crimes known to the law of man. Did his
mother know this? How could she help knowing it? She must have known it
from the first.
Aye--as he reflected--as he called to mind certain scenes of the past,
he remembered words spoken between the two--between his mother and Ralph
Tryon--which had reference to this very business.
Once, very nearly a year before, when he had come suddenly and
unexpectedly upon them while they were in close conversation, he had
heard these words from Tryon’s lips: “Ho! ’twould be a quick hanging,
and no mercy, if he were once caught!”
And there had been other things as significant as that. Yes; his mother
had been knowing to the man’s true character from the first. And that
had been--how long? He had forgotten to ask Donald the question, but he
could judge nearly.
It had been little more than a year ago. At the time he had overheard
that remark about a quick hanging the work of piracy had just been
entered upon. It had been only a little while previous to that time that
he, Tryon, had been given full and undisputed command.
But where was the use? The conversation in the brig’s cabin had aroused
his feelings to a high pitch of excitement, and it took a considerable
time to quiet them; but he did it at length. He turned his thoughts to a
pleasanter theme.
It was near noon when he arrived at the cottage, and he had found his
mother at work setting out a repast for her two visitors. He went up to
his chamber and made a radical change in his garb, appearing, when it
was complete, very nearly as we found him on the previous day, save that
in place of the high-topped boots he had put on a pair of light, but
firm-soled, walking shoes, such as would be easy and safe in climbing
the craggy eminence he had in view.
The meal had been prepared on his return to the room below, and a plate
had been set for him, so he took his place at the board and made a
hearty meal with the two seamen.
They were his friends, and while they ate together more than one glance
passed between them signifying that they were in possession of a common
secret; and once they came so near to letting it out by an unguarded
remark that Margery was startled.
“What is that?” she asked, turning quickly upon the man who had
spoken--an old seaman and a good one--named Stephen Harley. “What did
you say, Stephen? That you wouldn’t sail in the brig again?”
“Bless your dear soul! no,” the poor fellow replied, trembling like an
aspen. And a happy thought struck him in his moment of need. “I was
sayin’ to Master Percy--God bless him!--’at we shouldn’t none of us been
likely to’ve sailed in the dear old brig again--never again--if that
king’s ship had overhauled us. And she’d ’a’ done it, ma’am, if it
hadn’t been for your boy here. My soul! I wish you could ’ave seen her
on the rocks. Hi! I wonder ’f they’ve got any more ships that want to
dance over Dead Man’s Reef.”
The woman took the answer seriously, never suspecting a hidden meaning.
The men, both of them, knew her too well, knew too surely where her
sympathies lay, to speak in her hearing of their plans for the future.
Had she but suspected an intent on the part of any of the crew to
forsake their chief, she would be sure to give him warning.
Percy finished his meal, and having bidden his two friends an
affectionate adieu, he left the cottage, feeling freer and lighter of
heart when he was clear of it. It was his home--had been his home since
his birth, and his mother presided at the hearthstone, yet he could not
love it.
Since his father’s death its atmosphere had not been congenial to him.
There were times when this feeling was so strong within him that it
seemed impossible that he could remain there longer; but his promise to
his dying father held him.
Not, however, beyond his majority. Now that he had reached the age of
one-and-twenty, he was free to go where he pleased. What should hold him
after that? Ah! he was on his way to the attraction at that very moment.
The bond that held him was not at the cottage.
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