When Pepe the Sleeper had made himself master of the secret of Captain
Despierto--which he had found of such profitable service--he was not
aware that the captain had held back another. Nevertheless, the
coast-guard felt some kind of remorse of conscience--though he had as
yet no idea of the terrible consequences that had resulted. His remorse
was simply that he had betrayed his post of sentinel; and he determined
that he would make up for it by a more zealous performance of duty
whenever an opportunity should offer. To bring about this contingency,
he went on the very next night, and requested to be once more placed on
the post of Ensenada.
His wish was gratified; and while Don Lucas believed him asleep as
usual, Pepe kept wide awake, as on the preceding night.
We shall leave him at his post, while we recount what was taking place
off the coast not far from the Ensenada.
The night was as foggy as that which preceded it, when about the hour of
ten o'clock a _coaster_ was observed gliding in towards the cliffs, and
entering among a labyrinth of rocks that lay near the mouth of the bay.
This vessel appeared well guided and well _sailed_. The shape of her
hull, her rigging, her sails, denoted her to be a ship-of-war, or at the
least a privateer.
The boldness with which she manoeuvred, in the middle of the darkness,
told that her pilot must be some one well acquainted with this dangerous
coast; and also that her commander had an understanding with some people
on the shore.
The sea dashed with fury against both sides of the rocky strait, through
which the coaster was making her way, but still she glided safely on.
The strait once cleared, a large bay opened before her, in which the sea
was more calm, and rippled gently up against a beach of sand and pebble.
The coaster at length succeeded in gaining this bay; and then by a
manoeuvre directed by the officer of the watch she hove-to with a
celerity that denoted a numerous crew.
Two boats were let down upon the water, and, being instantly filled with
men, were rowed off in the direction of the upper end of the bay, where
some houses, which could be distinguished by their whiteness, stood
scattered along the beach.
To end the mystery, let us say that the little coaster was a French
vessel--half-privateer half-smuggler--and had entered the bay with a
double design--the disposing of merchandise and the procuring of
provisions, of which the crew began to stand in need. Further we shall
add, that the pilot was a skilful fisherman of Elanchovi, furnished by
Don Lucas Despierto, captain of the coast-guard!
The officer of the watch silently walked the deck--now listening to the
waves surging against the sides of the little vessel--now stooping a
moment over the light of the binnacle--anon watching the sails that
napped loosely upon the yards, now turned contrary to the direction of
the wind.
An hour had been passed in this manner, when a brisk fusillade was heard
from several points on the shore. Other reports of musketry appeared to
respond and shortly after the two boats came hastening back to the
coaster.
It was Pepe who had caused all this; Pepe, who, to the great chagrin of
his captain, had given warning to the coast-guards. He had been too
late, notwithstanding his zeal, for the boats came back laden with sheep
and other provisions of every soft.
The last of the men who climbed over the gangway--just as the boats were
being hoisted up--was a sailor of gigantic height, of colossal
proportions, and Herculean vigour. He was a Canadian by birth. He
carried in his arms a young child that was cold and motionless, as if
dead. A slight trembling in its limbs, however, proclaimed that there
was still life in it.
"What the deuce have you got there, Bois-Rose?" demanded the officer of
the watch.
"With your leave, lieutenant, it's a young child that I found in a boat
adrift, half dead with hunger and cold. A woman, quite dead, and bathed
in her own blood, still held it in her arms. I had all the trouble in
the world to get the boat away from the place where I found it, for
those dogs of Spaniards espied it, and took it for one of ours. There
was a terrible devil of a coast-guard kept all the while firing at me
with as much obstinacy as awkwardness. I should have silenced him with
a single shot, had I not been hindered in looking after this poor little
creature. But if ever I return--ah!"
"And what do you intend to do with the child?"
"Take care of it, lieutenant, until peace be proclaimed, then return
here and find out who it belongs to."
Unfortunately the only knowledge he was able to obtain about the infant
was its name, Fabian, and that the woman who had been assassinated was
its mother.
Two years passed during which the French privateer did not return to the
coast of Spain. The tenderness of the sailor towards the child he had
picked up--which was no other than the young Count Fabian de Mediana--
did not cease for an instant, but seemed rather to increase with time.
It was a singular and touching spectacle to witness the care, almost
motherly, which this rude nurse lavished upon the child, and the
constant _ruses_ to which he had recourse to procure a supplement to his
rations for its nourishment. The sailor had to fight for his own
living; but he often indulged in dreams that some day a rich prize would
be captured, his share of which would enable him to take better care of
his adopted son. Unfortunately he did not take into his calculations
the perilous hazards of the life he was leading.
One morning the privateer was compelled to run from an English brig of
war of nearly twice her force; and although a swift sailer, the French
vessel soon found that she could not escape from her pursuer. She
disdained to refuse the combat, and the two vessels commenced
cannonading each other.
For several hours a sanguinary conflict was kept up, when the Canadian
sailor, dashed with blood, and blackened with powder, ran towards the
child and lifting it in his arms, carried it to the gangway. There, in
the midst of the tumult, with blood running over the decks, amidst the
confusion of cries and the crash of falling masts, he wished to engrave
on the child's memory the circumstance of a separation, of which he had
a strong presentiment. In this moment, which should leave even upon the
memory of an infant, a souvenir that would never be effaced, he called
out to the child, while shielding it with his huge body, "Kneel, my
son!"
The child knelt, trembling with affright.
"You see what is going on?"
"I am afraid," murmured Fabian, "the blood--the noise--" and saying this
he hid himself in the arms of his protector.
"It is well," replied the Canadian, in a solemn tone. "Never forget,
then, that in this moment, a sailor, a man who loved you as his own
life, said to you--_kneel and pray for your mother_!"
He was not permitted to finish the speech. At that moment a bullet
struck him and his blood spouting over the child, caused it to utter a
lamentable cry. The Canadian had just strength left to press the boy to
his breast, and to add some words; but in so low a tone that Fabian
could only comprehend a single phrase. It was the continuation of what
he had been saying--"_Your mother_--_whom I found_--_dead beside you_."
With this speech ended the consciousness of the sailor. He was not
dead, however; his wound did not prove fatal.
When he came to his senses again he found himself in the fetid hold of a
ship. A terrible thirst devoured him. He called out in a feeble voice,
but no one answered him. He perceived that he was a prisoner, and he
wept for the loss of his liberty, but still more for that of the adopted
son that Providence had given him.
What became of Fabian? That the history of the "Wood-Rangers" will tell
us; but before crossing from the prologue of our drama--before crossing
from Europe to America--a few events connected with the tragedy of
Elanchovi remain to be told.
It was several days after the disappearance of the Countess, before
anything was known of her fate. Then some fishermen found the abandoned
boat driven up among the rocks and still containing the body of the
unfortunate lady. This was some light thrown upon the horrid mystery;
but the cause of the assassination long remained unknown, and the author
of it long unpunished.
The old steward tied black crape upon the vanes of the chateau, and
erected a wooden cross on the spot where the body of his beloved
mistress had been found; but, as everything in this human world soon
wears out, the sea-breeze had not browned the black crape, nor the waves
turned green the wood of the cross, before the tragic event ceased to
cause the slightest emotion in the village--ay, even ceased to be talked
of.