With heedless steps from thy more classic urn;
But sadly tread the village grave-yard round,
’Midst tombs defac’d, and many a mouldering mound,
And pause and ponder where, embower’d in green,
Thy marble crowns the fair surrounding scene—
Where gentle gales their flowery fragrance strew,
And morn and eve thy lowly turf bedew—
Where the fresh sward and trembling tree-leaves wave,
While night-winds sing their dirges round thy grave—
And slow-wing’d warblers on their airy way,
Breathe their sad wails o’er Murder’s beauteous prey.
Fair maid belov’d! whose vows were kept in heav’n,
By angels welcom’d ere pronounc’d forgiven—
’Tis not alone that thou didst early die,
That rain thee tears from every manly eye—
Not that thy love’s unanswer’d wish was pure,
Does the touch’d heart remember and deplore;
But that thy form a savage hand should doom,
In bridal robes to share a nuptial tomb—
Just as hope held life’s blissful prize in view,
That death should prove it mockery and untrue,
And make thee share, who sought the plighted brave,
A lover’s anguish and a martyr’s grave!
But vain for thee may roll the tuneful line,
Since praises breath’d from every tongue are thine—
In vain may song its mournful strain bestow,
Since grief to feel is but thy fate to know—
In vain may sorrow her sad dirge impart,
For Pity’s throb is thine from every heart—
In vain thy tale these thoughtful numbers chime,
Since trac’d in blood upon the scroll of time.
Cease then the song, and drop the tear instead,
O’er the still slumbers of the lovely dead—
Heave from the breast the unaffected sigh,
Where spreads her name, and where her ashes lie.
For when from art the world shall cease to know,
Afflicted Beauty’s all-surviving woe—
When poet’s verse and sculptor’s shaft decay,
Time o’er the wreck the story shall display,
And simple truth, with tragic power relate
The love that perish’d from the wrongs of fate,
While Pity melts, and listening Fear turns pale,
With each stern horror of the harrowing tale.
* * * * *
HARRY CAVENDISH.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUIZING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC.
ETC.
THE PIRATE.
It was a tropical night. The moon had gone down, but the stars shone
clear and lustrous, with a brilliancy unknown to more temperate climes,
painting a myriad of silvery lines along the smooth swell of the
sleeping ocean. A light breeze was murmuring across the waters, now and
then rippling the waves in the starlight, and flapping the reef-points
occasionally against the sails. A heavy dew was falling, bringing with
it, from the island that lay far up to windward, a thousand spicy odors
mingled into one delicious perfume. On the extreme verge of the horizon
hung a misty veil, shrouding the sea-board in obscurity. Up to windward
the same delicate gauze-like vapor was perceptible, and the position of
the island which we had made at twilight, was only to be told from the
denser masses of mist, that had gathered in one particular spot on the
horizon in that quarter.
It was the morning watch and I was standing, wrapped up in my monkey
jacket, looking out dreamingly on the ripples that played under our side
in the starlight, when the bluff voice of the boatswain addressed me, at
the same time that the old fellow wrung an enormous piece of tobacco
from a still larger mass that he held in his brawny hand.
“A still night, Mr. Cavendish,” began Hinton—“it looks as if the old
salt-lake was dreaming, and had drawn around her that fog as a sort of
curtain to keep herself quiet, as I’ve heard King George and other big
folks do when they go to sleep. For my part I’ve no notion of such sort
of sleeping, for I’d stifle to death if I had to be wrapt in every night
like the Egyptian mummies that I’ve seen up the straits. Give me a
hammock for sleeping comfortable like in—I never slept out of one since
I went to sea but once, and then I’d as lief have slept head downwards,
for I didn’t get a wink all night.”
“You mean to say that you tried to sleep,” said I smiling.
“Exactly—I’m no scollard, and none the worse for that I think. Them as
is born to live by head work ought to be sent to ’cademies and colleges
and such high places,—but them as have to get a living by their hands
had better leave book-larnin’ alone, for—take my word for it—it only
ends in making them rascals; and there’s other ways of killing a dog
without choking him to death with bread and butter. Them’s my
sentiments, and so when I’ve got to speak, instead of skulking about the
business in search of big words, like the cook in the galley, I come out
at once in the plain style my fathers taught me. The devil fly away with
them that can’t speak without shaking in their shoes lest they make a
mistake. What’s not to be expected of them can’t be, and big words don’t
make an honest man much less a good boatswain—the proof of the pudding
is in the chewing,” and the old fellow paused and looked in my face for
a reply. He had scarcely done so when he started, looked around and
turned as pale as ashes. A low melancholy strain, seeming to pervade the
air, and coming now from above and now from some other quarter, could be
distinctly heard rising solemnly across the night. The phenomenon
baffled even myself, but on Hinton it had an extraordinary effect.
Sailors are at all times superstitious, and the bluff boatswain
possessed a large share of this faculty. These singular sounds,
therefore, appealed to one of the strongest feelings in his bosom. He
looked at me doubtingly, turned around on tip-toe, and listened
attentively a moment in every direction. His scrutiny did not satisfy
him, but rather increased his wonder. There could be no doubt that the
sounds existed in reality, for although they died away for a moment now
and then, they would almost instantly be heard again, apparently coming
from a different quarter of the horizon. The burden of the strain could
not indeed be distinguished, but I fancied I could recognize human
voices in it, although I was forced to confess that I had never heard
from mortal lips such exquisite melody, for as the strain rose and fell
across the night, now swelling out clear and full as if sung almost at
our ears, and then melting away in the distance until it died off like
the faintest breathing of a wind-harp, I was tempted almost to attribute
the music to angelic visitants. The old boatswain seemed to assign the
sounds to the same cause, for drawing nearer to my side, he ran his eye
cautiously and as if in awe, up to the mast-head; and then looked with a
blank and puzzled gaze, in which, perhaps, some supernatural fear might
be detected, into my face.
My own astonishment, however, was but momentary. Hastily scanning the
horizon, I had noticed that the mist in the direction of the island had
been, during the fifteen minutes that I had been idly looking over the
ship’s side, slowly creeping up towards us, although in every other
direction, except down in the extreme distance, the sky was as clear as
before. At first moreover my imagination had yielded to the impression
that, as the strain died away on the night, it came out again from a
different quarter of the horizon; but when, divesting myself of the
momentary influence of my fancy, I began to analyze the causes of this
phenomenon I became satisfied that the sounds in reality arose out of
the bank of clouds, to windward, and the illusion had been produced by
the rising and falling of the strain upon the night. When therefore, the
old boatswain turned to me with his baffled look, I had made up my mind
as to the real causes of that which puzzled the veteran seaman.
“There is a craft up yonder in that fog,” I said, pointing to windward,
“and there are women on board, for the voices we hear are too sweet for
those of men.”
I said this with a calm smile, which at once dissipated the fear of my
companion, for after thinking a moment in silence, the puzzled
expression of his face gradually cleared away, and he replied with a low
laugh, which I thought, notwithstanding, a little forced.
“You are right—and that’s a reason for book-larnin I never thought of
before. Here have I sailed for a matter of forty years or so, and yet I
couldn’t exactly come at the cause of them same sounds, when you, who
havn’t been ten years on the water,—though you’re a smart sailor, I
must say, for your years—can tell at once all about it, just because
you’ve had a riggilar eddication. Book-larnin ain’t to be despised arter
all,” he continued shaking his head, “even for a boatswain, and, by the
blessing of God, I’ll borrow the good book of the parson, to-morrow, and
go at it myself; for when I was a youngster I could spell, I calculate,
at the rate of a ten knot breeze. But mayhap,” he continued, his
thoughts suddenly changing, “that craft up yonder may turn out a fat
prize—we could soon overhaul her if the wind would only breeze up a
little.”
The wind, however, had now fallen to a dead calm and the sails hung idly
from the masts, while the ship rolled with a scarce perceptible motion
upon the quiet sea. A current was setting in however, to the island, and
we were thus gradually borne nearer to the unseen craft. This soon
became evident from the greater distinctness of the sounds, and at
length I thought I could distinguish a few of the words sung, which
seemed to be those of a Spanish air. As the night advanced the music
ceased; but the silence did not long continue. Suddenly a shriek was
heard rising fearfully on the air, followed by a strange mixture of
noises, as if oaths, groans and entreaties, and even sounds of mortal
strife were all mingled in one fearful discord. The shriek was now
repeated, with even more fearful vehemence; and then came the report of
a pistol across the darkness. Our hearts beat with strange feelings.
What nefarious deeds were being done on board the unseen craft? Hitherto
the captain, who had strolled on deck to enjoy the music, had said that
he should await the dawn, or at least the appearance of a breeze, before
overhauling the stranger, but now he came to the determination of
ordering out the boats, and learning the cause of those fearful
outcries.
“Some hellish work, I fear,” he said, “is going on yonder; perhaps a
piratical boat has boarded the craft, for the villains infest these
islands. Board her at every risk, and then no mercy to the fiends if
they are really at their work.”
The boats were hastily lowered, manned and shoved off from the side of
the ship. The second lieutenant commanded one of the boats, and to me
was deputed the charge of the other. We proceeded rapidly and as
noiselessly as possible, into the bank of clouds and soon lost sight of
The Arrow, although long after her hull and spars had disappeared in the
obscurity, her top-light was to be seen like a red baneful star,
floating in the firmament. Our guide meanwhile, was the sounds of strife
on board the invisible craft, but as we proceeded, the uproar died away,
and for a few moments a profound silence reigned. Then came a few sullen
plunges in the water which we were at no loss to understand. The men
sprung to their oars with renewed vigor at the sounds. A perfect
stillness reigned once more, but we knew, from the distinctness with
which we had heard the plunges, that we were close on to the craft.
Steering in the direction therefore, from which the sounds had come, we
glided along the smooth surface of the sea with almost incredible
velocity. Not a word was spoken, but the oarsmen strained their sinews
to the utmost, while the officers gazed intently into the gloom ahead.
Each moment seemed an age. Scarcely a dozen more strokes of the oar had
been given, however, when the outlines of a brig shot up, as if by
magic, out of the mist ahead, and almost instantaneously a voice from
the stranger hailed us in the Spanish tongue.
“Keep her to it my lads—pull with a will,” I said, as the boat
commanded by the lieutenant dashed on without heeding the hail.
“Boats ahoy!” shouted another voice from the brig, and this time the
words were in English, “lay on your oars or we’ll fire into you,” and at
the same time a score of heads was faintly seen crowding the bulwarks of
the vessel.
“Dash into her my brave lads!” exclaimed the lieutenant, standing up in
the stern-sheets and waving his sword aloft, “another pull and we are up
to them.”
The men cheered in reply, and, with a jerk that made the ash blades bend
like willow wands, we shot up to the sides of the brig. But not
unopposed; for almost before the lieutenant had ceased speaking, the
dark villains crowding the sides of the brig poured in a rattling fire
on us that would have checked men in the pursuit of a less holy object.
But the character of the assassins who had taken the brig had now become
apparent, and every man of our crew, remembering that agonizing shriek,
thirsted to avenge the sufferer. The volley of the pirates was not,
however, as deadly as it might have been had they not been taken
partially by surprise; and been in consequence, without that preparation
to meet us which they otherwise would have shown. Their discharge
however—God knows!—was deadly enough. The stroke oarsman, but a few
feet in advance of me, fell dead across the thwart. But the other boat,
being in advance, suffered far more, for I saw several of the men
stagger in their places,—while the lieutenant, springing up like a
deer, tumbled headlong into the stern-sheets. He had been shot through
the heart. The impetus, however, which the last gigantic stroke of the
men had given to the boats sent them onwards to the brig, and we struck
her side almost instantaneously with the fall of my superior.
“Vengeance,” I shouted, “vengeance my lads! follow me,” and springing
into the forechains of the brig, I leaped from thence upon her deck, and
found myself, the next moment almost unsupported amidst a circle of
desperate foes. But it was only for a moment that I was left without
aid. I had scarcely exchanged the first parry with a brawny desperado
who met me at the bulwark, when my gallant fellows came pouring in after
me, inflamed to double fury by the loss we had suffered, and betokening
by their stern determined looks that the approaching conflict was to be
one of extermination or death. The pirates, seemingly aware of their
situation, glared on us with the fury of wild-beasts, and sprang with
curses and yells to repel the boarders. This left me, for the instant,
almost alone with my stalwart opponent, and had my cause been less
righteous, or my skill at my weapon not a proverb, I should have
trembled for my life. Barely indeed have I seen a finer looking or more
muscular man than my opponent on that fatal night. He was a tall sinewy
Spaniard, of the pure olive complexion, with a dark, glittering, fearful
eye, and a huge black mustache such as I never saw on a man before or
since. His head was bare, with the exception of a red scarf which was
bound around it in the form of a turban, the ends of which depended on
the left side, as I have sometimes seen them fancifully arranged by the
creole girls of the islands. His shirt collar was thrown open,
displaying a broad and brawny chest that would have served as a model
for that of an athlete. His arms were bared to above the elbow, and in
his hand he held a common cutlass; but a brace of huge silver mounted
pistols, and a dagger with a splendidly ornamented hilt were thrust into
the scarf he wore around his waist. I forgot to mention that a small
cross, the jewels of which sparkled even in the comparative darkness,
depended by a rich gold chain from his neck.
I am able to give this description of him, because when we found
ourselves left almost alone, we paused a moment, as men engaged in a
deadly single combat will often do, before commencing our strife. I
suspected at once that I was opposed to the leader of the pirates, and
he seemed to feel that I held the same office among the assailants, for
he gazed at me a moment, with a kind of proud satisfaction, which,
however, settled down, as his eye took in my comparatively slight
proportions, to an expression of sneering scorn. Our pause, although
sufficiently long for me to observe all this, endured but for an
instant, for the momentary admiration of my foe faded before that
sneering expression, and making a blow at him with my cutlass, which he
dexterously repelled, we were soon engaged in mortal combat. At first my
opponent underrated my powers, but a wound, which I gave him in the arm,
seemed to convince him that victory would cost him an effort, and he
became more wary. For several moments the conflict was only a rapid
exchange of passes, during which our blades rattled and flashed
incessantly; for neither of us could obtain the slightest advantage over
the other. How the combatants progressed during this interval I neither
knew nor cared to ascertain, for so intensely was I engrossed in my duel
with the pirate-leader that I heard nothing but the ringing of our
blades, and saw only the glittering eye of my opponent. Those only who
have been engaged in a deadly strife can understand the feelings of one
in such a situation. Every faculty is engrossed in the struggle—the
very heart seems to stand still, awaiting the end. The hand
involuntarily follows the impulse of the mind, and the eye never loses
sight of that of its destined victim. The combat had continued for
several minutes, when I saw that the pirate was beginning to grow
chafed, for the calm, collected expression of his eye gave place
gradually to one of fury, and his lunges were made with inconceivable
rapidity, and with a daring amounting to rashness. It took all my skill
to protect myself, and I was forced at length to give ground. The eye of
the pirate glared at his success like that of a wild beast already sure
of its prey, and, becoming even more venturesome, he pressed forward and
made a pass at me which I avoided with difficulty, and then only
partially, for the keen blade, although averted from my heart, glanced
sideways, and penetrating my arm inflicted a fearful wound. But at the
time I was insensible of the injury. I felt the wound no more than if a
pin had pierced me. Every thought and feeling was engrossed by the now
defenceless front of my antagonist, for, as he lunged forward with his
blade, he lost his defence and his bosom lay unguarded before me. Quick
as lightning I shortened my blade and prepared to plunge it into the
heart of the pirate. He saw his error and made an attempt to grasp a
pistol with his left hand, to ward off the blow with his sword arm. But
it was in vain. With one desperate effort I drove my blade inwards—it
cut through and through his half opposed defence—and with a dull heavy
sound went to his very heart. His eyes glared an instant more wildly
than ever—his lips opened, but the faint cry was stifled ere it was
half uttered—a quick, shuddering, convulsive movement passed over his
face and through his frame, and, as I drew out the glittering blade, now
red with the life blood of one who, a moment before, had been in full
existence, the pirate fell back dead upon the deck. At the same moment I
heard a hearty cheer, and looking around, I saw that our brave fellows
had gained a footing on the deck, and were driving the pirates backwards
towards the stern of the vessel. I now, for the first time, felt the
pain of my wound. But hastily snatching the scarf from the body of my
late opponent, I managed to bandage my arm so as partially to stop the
blood, and hurried to head my gallant tars.
All this had not occupied three minutes, so rapid are the events of a
mortal combat. I had at first thought that we had been forgotten in the
excitement of the strife, but I had not been wholly unobserved, for as I
stooped to snatch the scarf of the pirate, one of his followers who had
seen him fall, levelled a pistol at me with a curse, but the missile was
struck up by one of my men, just as it was discharged, and the ball
lodged itself harmlessly in the bulwark beside me. In another instant I
was again in the midst of the fight. The red scarf which I wore however,
reminding the pirates of the death of their leader, called down on me
their revenge, and my appearance in the strife was a signal for a
general rush upon me.
“Down with him,” roared a tall swarthy assassin, who, from his tone of
authority, I judged to be the second in command, “cut him down—revenge!
revenge!”
I was at that moment surrounded on two sides by the pirates, but
springing back while my gallant tars raised their blades in an arch over
me, I escaped the cutlasses of the foe.
“Hurl the hell-hounds to perdition,” growled a veteran fore-top-man, as
he dashed at the piratical lieutenant.
“Stand fast, all—life or death—that for your vengeance,” was the
response of the foe as he levelled a pistol at the breast of the gallant
seaman. The ball sped on its errand, and the top man fell at my feet.
My men were now infuriated beyond all control. They dashed forward, like
a torrent, sweeping every thing before them. The pirates, headed by
their leader, made one or two desperate efforts to maintain their
ground, but the impetuosity of their antagonists was irresistable, and
the desperadoes, at first sullenly giving way, at length were forced
into an indiscriminate retreat. A few of the most daring of the
freebooters, however, refused to yield an inch and were cut down; while
others, after flying a few paces, turned and died at bay; but with the
mass the love of immediate life triumphed over the fear of an ultimate
ignominious death, and they retreated to the fore-hatch, down which they
were driven. A few attempted to regain the long crank boat in which they
had attacked the brig from the island, but their design was anticipated
by one of our fellows who hove a brace of shot through her bottom.
I now bethought me of the female whose shriek had first alarmed us; and,
advancing to the cabin, I descended with a trembling heart, anxious and
yet fearing to learn the truth. I have faced death in a hundred
forms—in storm, in battle, and amidst epidemics, but my nerves never
trembled before or since as they did when I opened the door into the
cabin. What a sight was there! Extended on the floor lay a white-haired
old man, with a huge gash in his forehead, and his long silvery locks
dabbled in his own gore. At his side, in a state of grief approaching to
stupefaction, sat, or rather knelt, a lovely young creature who might be
about seventeen, her long golden tresses dishevelled on her snowy
shoulders, and her blue eyes gazing with a dry, stony look upon the face
of her dead parent. Both the daughter and the father were attired with
an elegance which bespoke wealth if not rank. Around her were several
female slaves, filling the cabin with their lamentations, and, at
intervals, vainly endeavoring to comfort their young mistress. Several
books and a guitar were scattered about, and the whole apartment, though
only the cabin of a common merchant brig, had an air of feminine grace
and neatness. The sight of the instruments of music almost brought the
tears into my eyes. Alas! little had that lovely girl imagined, when
singing her artless songs, in what misery another hour would find her.
My entrance, however, partially aroused the desolate girl. She looked up
with alarm in every feature, gazed at me irresolutely a moment, and then
frantically clasping the body of her murdered parent, shrunk from my
approach. The negro women clustered around her, their lamentations
stilled by their fears.
“You are free—thank God!” said I in a voice husky with emotion, “the
murderers of your parent are avenged!”
The terrified girl looked at me with an expression which I shall never
forget—an expression in which agony, joy and doubt were all mingled
into one—and then, pressing the cold body of that old man close to her
bosom, she burst into a flood of tears; while her slaves, reassured by
my words, resumed their noisy grief. I knew that the tears of the
agonised daughter would relieve her grief, and respecting the sacredness
of her sorrow, I withdrew to the deck.