THE JEWEL BOX.
As the captain sat with his face toward the palm trees, he saw a woman
rise up from among the dead, and turn first toward the town, then
seaward, in a wild despairing search for help.
The captain stood up in his boat and shouted aloud, while all hands
pulled for the shore.
She heard him, reeled back against the stem of the nearest palm tree,
and clung to it, waving her hand toward the boat. But as they looked, a
young boy was standing at her side, grasping her garments with his hand,
while his face was turned toward the boat. He seemed urging her to flee.
Twice her arm was unwound from the palm, and a step tried, but she fell
back again, as if severely hurt or frightened out of her strength. The
boy still pleaded. They could see it in his gestures, in the eager hand
that motioned toward the shore, which the boat almost touched.
He pointed this out; he pulled frantically at her garments; he fell upon
his knees, lifting his clasped hands toward her imploringly.
Something gave her desperate strength. She left the palm, staggered, and
sprang forward, more than keeping pace with the boy, who, clinging to
her hand, rushed on with his great, wild eyes, uplifted to her face.
The captain sprang on shore, and met them on the verge of the surf. The
woman reeled toward him blindly, with both hands outstretched, and fell
into his arms headlong, as she must have fallen on the sand but for his
presence.
He gathered her to his broad bosom, and wading through the surf, waist
deep, laid her in the boat, upon a pile of jackets that his men
hurriedly took off their persons, and cast at his feet.
She was coldly pale, and did not seem to breathe. But the captain had no
time to remark this or any thing else. A group of negroes who had been
pursuing their death work among the cactus hedges, saw the boy and
turned upon him.
The lad saw them, and with a desperate bound, leaped into the
surf--struggled, lost his foothold, and was in the very sweep of the
undertow, when the captain snatched him away. The savages hurled their
sharp missiles after him, which the water swallowed instantly. So, as
they were without firearms, the boy was saved, while his pursuers raged
and hooted on the shore.
When the boy saw his mother lying so pale and still in the boat, he
struggled from the captain's arms, and kneeling by her side, pressed the
beautiful face--for it was beautiful--between his little trembling
hands, while in the purest and most pathetic French he besought her to
look up. He told her that they were safe now--away on the sea, where
nothing could hurt them. He entreated her to wake up, only for one
minute, just long enough to kiss him, and then she might go to sleep
again for ever so long.
The touching anguish in the boy's voice would have called any mother
back to life. She opened her eyes; a look of divine tenderness came
softly to her face, and died in a smile upon her lips, as the boy bent
down with a gush of tearful gladness and kissed her.
"There," he said, touching her raven hair with infinite tenderness, "go
to sleep now. Paul will sit by and watch."
She seemed to understand him, for a serene smile beamed on her face, and
softly as white rose-leaves fall, the lids drooped over her eyes.
The child was satisfied, and looking up at the captain, said--"Yes, yes,
she will have a sweet, long sleep. We will not wake her--I promised, you
know. If I forget, and begin to kiss her, don't let me, please, sir, for
she always wakes, and smiles, when I do that. How softly the boat rocks!
Oh, it will make her well."
The captain turned away his face, for he knew how long that sleep would
be.
Slowly and sadly they rowed toward the ship. Fire and massacre raged
behind them, but there was safety and solemn stillness on the waters.
The boy clung to his mother's garments, and drooped his head wearily.
The motion of the boat--the soft stars, smiling down, and scattering
their broken images on the waves--affected him peacefully. He longed to
fall asleep with his mother; but somehow the idea that she needed his
care, kept the lids from sinking entirely over those beautiful eyes.
At last the boat drew close to the sides of the brig. The captain
attempted to take the boy in his arms and carry him on board. But the
little fellow struggled manfully, and insisted that his mother should be
carried up first. Captain Mason, with his imperfect knowledge of French,
understood this, for the child's face was more eloquent than words; but
the men only comprehended his gestures, and interposed their
superstitions against his generous wishes.
"No," they protested, with sullen determination, "the woman is
dead--what have we to do with a corpse on board the brig? Ain't the
signs agin her bad enough, without that one? Hoist the youngster aboard,
captain, and let us row the boat over to White's Island, and bury the
poor critter there!"
The child turned upon the sailors and searched their faces eagerly, as
if he guessed that they were planning something against him. The men
dropped their gloomy eyes beneath his glances, but were not the less
resolved.
Captain Mason knew the superstition of his men too well for any idea of
opposing it while his ship lay in that dangerous neighborhood. He cast
one pitying look on the beautiful young woman who lay at his feet, in
her calm, eternal slumber, then tenderly addressed the boy: "Your
mother is asleep, let her stay here," he said, in very confused French.
But the attention of the boy was keenly directed; he understood clearly,
and sat down, folding his little arms with a pleading smile.
"Me too?" he said.
"No, my child, you shall go on deck and wait while the boat rocks here.
All shall go, and leave your mother to sleep alone."
"Is it best?" inquired the boy; "will she sleep longer if we go?"
"Yes, poor orphan, her sleep will be long enough," cried the captain,
all his generous sympathy bursting forth in English.
"What!" said the boy, gently, "will her sleep be sweeter--did you say
that? Lift me up, I will go. Let one of those big men put me on his
shoulder. I shan't be afraid. My father is--oh, how brave!--so am I."
The captain lifted the little fellow in his arms, and held him against
as good and true a heart as ever beat in man's bosom--a heart pained
with many compunctions by the humane deception he was compelled to
practice. The men made the boat fast, and came up the side of the brig,
leaving it rocking softly on the water.
"Wait till he is asleep," the captain said, as they stood in a group,
anxious for orders. "Then we will take her to the island."
The men retired, somewhat dissatisfied at any delay, but made no further
protest.
"Let me sit here, please, where I can look over and see her face as she
sleeps," said the gentle child, in a sweet, pleading way, that went to
that captain's heart; "besides, I want to watch for papa. When the
negroes dragged us away, mamma and I--he followed after a little while,
and when I looked back and he was lying on the ground, tired with
running, I suppose; but he'll come, so if you don't mind, monsieur, I'll
just wait here."
The boy had clambered up to a cask that stood near the side of the
vessel, as he spoke, and folding his arms on the bulwarks, looked down
with touching watchfulness upon the face of his mother, which lay, white
as marble, in the starlight.
How beautiful, and how patient was that childlike watch. Sometimes the
boy would lift his eyes with a troubled look, and turn them toward the
town, which, still glaring and riotous, kept up its atrocious noises.
Then he would search the harbor for some boat, and finding none, sink to
his patient watch again, murmuring, "Oh, but he will come, when it is
daylight--when it is daylight."
At last the struggles of nature were too strong for a child so
delicately nurtured, and with his little arms folded on the bulwark he
dropped into a profound sleep. But it was almost break of day before he
became thus unconscious, and the captain had no time to spare. Taking
the little fellow once more in his arms he laid him on his own bed, and
going instantly on deck, summoned his men. With eager alacrity they
descended to the boat. The captain followed with a large cloak over his
arm, with which he reverently covered the dead. One man brought a
pickaxe and spade, which he had taken from the cargo, and sat them in
the stern of the boat; now that all danger of a dead person being
carried aboard was over, they went quietly and seriously to their
duties. As they gave the boat to her oars every arm fell softly to its
work, it seemed as if they feared that a single splash of water would be
followed by wails of pain from the poor child whose mother was floating
away into eternity while he dreamed.
Across the waters and through the gray gleams of early dawn the boat cut
its way to White's Island--which as yet was calm and peaceful. In a
jungle of roses, where lofty cedars sheltered the beautiful coffee
trees, the sailors dug a grave, leaving the murdered woman in the boat
till their work was done. The captain, saddened by this individual
instance of wrong, sat down upon the bank watching the boat, while his
men completed their task. Once or twice he heard a movement in the
chaparral, as if some wild animal were disturbed by his presence, but he
took no heed, and at last his men came back.