Who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of Richard Rosco,
the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal
swamp?
The human spirit is essentially galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper,
bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a
slight degree. The small men either have exasperating trouble with it,
or make no attempt to curb it at all. It is a rebellious spirit. The
best of books tells us that, "Greater is he that ruleth it, than he that
taketh a city."
Think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. Think of
the conquerors of the world. Think of the "Great" Alexander, whose
might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life
in doing little else. Think of Napoleon "the Great," whose armies
ravaged Europe from the Atlantic to Asia: who even began--though he
failed to finish--the conquest of Africa; who made kings as you might
make pasteboard men, and filled the civilised world with fear, as well
as with blood and graves--all for his own glorification! Think of these
and other "great" men, and reflect that it is written, "He who rules his
own spirit" is _greater_ than they.
Yes, the human spirit is difficult to deal with, and uncomfortably
explosive. At least so Richard Rosco found it when, towards the close
of the day on which his enemy chased him into the dismal swamp, he sat
down on a gnarled root and began to reflect.
His spirit jumped almost out of him with contempt, when he thought that
for the first time in his life, he had fled in abject terror from the
face of man! He could not conceal that from himself, despite the excuse
suggested by pride--that he had half believed Zeppa to be an apparition.
What even if that were true? Had he not boastfully said more than once
that he would defy the foul fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart
him? Then his spirit bounded into a region of disappointed rage when he
thought of the lost opportunity of stabbing his enemy to the heart.
After that, unbidden, and in spite of him, it dropped into an abyss of
something like fierce despair when he recalled the past surveyed the
present, and forecast the future. Truly, if hell ever does begin to men
on earth, it began that day to the pirate, as he sat in the twilight on
the gnarled root, with one of his feet dangling in the slimy water, his
hands clasped so tight that the knuckles stood out white, and his eyes
gazing upwards with an expression that seemed the very embodiment of
woe.
Then his spirit lost its spring, and he began to crawl, in memory, on
the shores of "other days." He thought of the days when, comparatively
innocent he rambled on the sunny hills of old England; played and did
mischief with comrades; formed friendships and fought battles, and knew
what it was to experience good impulses; understood the joy of giving
way to these, as well as the depression consequent on resisting them;
and recalled the time when he regarded his mother as the supreme judge
in every case of difficulty--the only comforter in every time of sorrow.
At this point his spirit grovelled like a crushed worm in the stagnant
pool of his despair, for he had no hope. He had sinned every
opportunity away. He had defied God and man, and nothing was left to
him, apparently, save "a fearful looking-for of judgment."
As he bent over the pool he saw his own distorted visage dimly reflected
therein, and the thought occurred,--"Why not end it all at once? Five
minutes at the utmost and all will be over!" The pirate was a
physically brave man beyond his fellows. He had courage to carry the
idea into effect but--"after death the judgment!" Where had he heard
these words? They were strange to him, but they were not new. Those
who are trained in the knowledge of God's Word are not as a general
rule, moved in an extraordinary degree by quotations from it. It is
often otherwise with those who have had little of it instilled into them
in youth and none in later years. That which may seem to a Christian
but a familiar part of the "old, old story," sometimes becomes to
hundreds and thousands of human beings a startling revelation. It was
so to the pirate on this occasion. The idea of judgment took such a
hold of him that he shrank from death with far more fear than he ever
had, with courage, faced it in days gone by. Trembling, terrified,
abject he sat there, incapable of consecutive thought or intelligent
action.
At last the gloom which had been slowly deepening over the swamp sank
into absolute blackness, and the chills of night, which were
particularly sharp in such places, began to tell upon him. But he did
not dare to move, lest he should fall into the swamp. Slowly he
extended himself on the root; wound his arms and fingers convulsively
among leaves and branches, and held on like a drowning man. An ague-fit
seemed to have seized him, for he trembled violently in every limb; and
as his exhausted spirit was about to lose itself in sleep, or, as it
seemed to him, in death, he gave vent to a subdued cry, "God be merciful
to me a sinner!"
Rest, such as it was, refreshed the pirate, and when the grey dawn,
struggling through the dense foliage, awoke him, he rose up with a
feeling of submissiveness which seemed, somehow, to restore his energy.
He was without purpose, however, for he knew nothing of his
surroundings, and, of course, could form no idea of what was best to be
done. In these circumstances he rose with a strange sensation of
helplessness, and wandered straight before him.
And oh! how beautiful were the scenes presented to his vision!
Everything in this world is relative. That which is hideous at one time
is lovely at another. In the night the evening, or at the grey dawn,
the swamp was indeed dismal in the extreme; but when the morning
advanced towards noon all that was changed, as if magically, by the
action of the sun. Black, repulsive waters reflected patches of the
bright blue sky, and every leaf, and spray, and parasite, and tendril,
that grew in the world above was faithfully mirrored in the world below.
Vistas of gnarled roots and graceful stems and drooping boughs were
seen on right and left, before and behind, extending as if into infinite
space, while innumerable insects, engaged in the business of their brief
existence, were filling the region with miniature melodies.
But Richard Rosco saw it not. At least it made no sensible impression
on him. His mental retina was capable of receiving only two pictures:
the concentrated accumulation of past sin--the terrible anticipation of
future retribution. Between these two, present danger and suffering
were well-nigh forgotten.
Towards noon, however, the sense of hunger began to oppress him. He
allayed it with a few wild berries. Then fatigue began to tell, for
walking from root to root sometimes on short stretches of solid land,
sometimes over soft mud, often knee-deep in water, was very exhausting.
At last he came to what appeared to be the end of the swamp, and here he
discovered a small patch of cultivated ground.
The discovery awoke him to the necessity of caution, but he was awakened
too late, for already had one of the Raturan natives observed him
advancing out of the swamp. Instantly he gave the alarm that a "white
face" was approaching. Of course the appearance of one suggested a
scout, and the speedy approach of a host. Horrified to see a supposed
enemy come from a region which they had hitherto deemed their sure
refuge, the few natives who dwelt there flew to arms, and ran to meet
the advancing foe.
The pirate was not just then in a mood to resist. He had no weapon, and
no spirit left. He therefore suffered himself to be taken prisoner
without a struggle, satisfied apparently to know that the madman was not
one of those into whose hands he had fallen.
Great was the rejoicing among the Raturans when the prisoner was brought
in, for they were still smarting under the humiliation of their defeat,
and knew well that their discomfiture had been largely owing to the
influence of "white faces." True, they did not fall into the mistake of
supposing that Rosco was the awful giant who had chased and belaboured
them so unmercifully with a long stake, but they at once concluded that
he was a comrade of Zeppa--perhaps one of a band who had joined their
foes. Besides, whether he were a comrade or not was a matter of small
moment. Sufficient for them that his face was white, that he belonged
to a race which, in the person of Zeppa, had wrought them evil, and that
he was now in their power.
Of course, the Raturans had not during all these years, remained in
ignorance of the existence of Zeppa. They had heard of his dwelling in
the mountain soon after he had visited the village of their enemies, and
had also become aware of the fact that the white man was a madman and a
giant, but more than this they did not know, because of their feud
preventing interchange of visits or of news between the tribes. Their
imaginations, therefore, having full swing, had clothed Zeppa in some of
the supposed attributes of a demigod. These attributes, however, the
same imaginations quickly exchanged for those of a demi-devil, when at
last they saw Zeppa in the flesh, and were put to flight by him. His
size, indeed, had rather fallen short of their expectation, for sixty
feet had been the average estimate, but his fury and aspect had come
quite up to the mark, and the fact that not a man of the tribe had dared
to stand before him, was sufficient to convince a set of superstitious
savages that he was a real devil in human guise. To have secured one of
his minor comrades, therefore, was a splendid and unlooked-for piece of
good fortune, which they resolved to make the most of by burning the
pirate alive.
Little did the wretched man think, when they conducted him to a hut in
the middle of their village and supplied him with meat and drink, that
this was a preliminary ceremony to the terrible end they purposed to
make of him. It is true he did not feel easy in his mind, for, despite
this touch of hospitality, his captors regarded him with looks of
undisguised hatred.
There was something of the feline spirit in these Raturan savages. As
the cat plays with the mouse before killing it, so did they amuse
themselves with the pirate before putting him to the final torture which
was to terminate his life.
And well was it for Rosco that they did so, for the delay thus caused
was the means of saving his life--though he did not come out of the
dread ordeal scathless.
They began with a dance--a war-dance it is to be presumed--at all events
it involved the flourishing of clubs and spears, the formation of
hideous faces, and the perpetration of frightful grimaces, with bounds
and yells enough to warrant the conclusion that the dance was not one of
peace. Richard Rosco formed the centre of that dance--the sun, as it
were, of the system round which the dusky host revolved. But he did not
join in the celebration, for he was bound firmly to a stake set up in
the ground, and could not move hand or foot.
At first the warriors of the tribe moved round the pirate in a circle,
stamping time slowly with their feet while the women and children stood
in a larger circle, marking time with hands and voices. Presently the
dance grew more furious, and ultimately attained to a pitch of wild
violence which is quite indescribable. At the height of the paroxysm, a
warrior would ever and anon dart out from the circle with whirling club,
and bring it down as if on the prisoner's skull, but would turn it aside
so deftly that it just grazed his ear and fell with a dull thud on the
ground. Other warriors made at him with their spears, which they thrust
with lightning speed at his naked breast, but checked them just as they
touched the skin.
Two or three of these last were so inexpert that they pricked the skin
slightly, and blood began to trickle down, but these clumsy warriors
were instantly kicked from the circle of dancers, and compelled to take
their place among the women and children.
When they had exhausted themselves with the dance, the warriors sat down
to feast upon viands, which had, in the meanwhile, been preparing for
them, and while they feasted they taunted their prisoner with cowardice,
and told him in graphic language of the horrors that yet awaited him.
Fortunately for the miserable man--who was left bound to the stake
during the feast--he did not understand a word of what was said. He had
been stripped of all clothing save a pair of short breeches, reaching a
little below the knee, and his naked feet rested on a curious piece of
basketwork. This last would have been too slight to bear his weight if
he had not been almost suspended by the cords that bound him to the
stake.
Rosco was very pale. He felt that his doom was fixed; but his native
courage did not forsake him. He braced himself to meet his fate like a
man, and resolved to shut his eyes, when next they began to dance round
him, so that he should not shrink from the blow or thrust which, he felt
sure, would ere long end his ill-spent life. But the time seemed to him
terribly long, and while he hung there his mind began to recall the
gloomy past. Perhaps it was a refinement of cruelty on the part of the
savages that they gave him time to think, so that his courage might be
reduced or overcome.
If so, they were mistaken in their plan. The pirate showed no unusual
sign of fear. Once he attempted to pray, but he found that almost
impossible.
Wearied at length with waiting, the savages arose, and began to put
fagots and other combustibles under the wicker-basket on which the
pirate stood. Then, indeed, was Rosco's courage tried nearly to the
uttermost and when he saw the fire actually applied, he uttered a cry of
"Help! help!" so loud and terrible that his enemies fell back for a
moment as if appalled.
And help came from a quarter that Rosco little expected.
But to explain this we must return to Zeppa. We have said that he gave
up the chase of the pirate under the impression that the whole affair
was a dream; but, on returning to his cave, he found that he could not
rest. Old associations and memories had been too violently aroused,
and, after spending a sleepless night he rose up, determined to resume
the chase which he had abandoned. He returned to the spot where he had
lost sight of his enemy in the swamp, and, after a brief examination of
the place, advanced in as straight a line as he could through the
tangled and interlacing boughs.
Naturally he followed the trail of the pirate, for the difficulties or
peculiar formations of the ground which had influenced the latter in his
course also affected Zeppa much in the same way. Thus it came to pass
that when the Raturans were about to burn their prisoner alive, the
madman was close to their village. But Zeppa did not think of the
Raturans. He had never seen or heard of them, except on the occasion of
their attack on the Mountain-men. His sole desire was to be revenged on
the slayer of his boy. And even in this matter the poor maniac was
still greatly perplexed, for his Christian principles and his naturally
gentle spirit forbade revenge on the one hand, while, on the other, a
sense of justice told him that murder should not go unpunished, or the
murderer remain at large; so that it required the absolute sight of
Rosco before his eyes to rouse him to the pitch of fury necessary to
hold him to the execution of his purpose.
It was while he was advancing slowly, and puzzling his brain over these
considerations, that Rosco's cry for help rang out.
Zeppa recognised the voice, and a dark frown settled on his countenance
as he stopped to listen. Then an appalling yell filled his ears. It
was repeated again and again, as the kindling flames licked round the
pirate's naked feet, causing him to writhe in mortal agony.
Instantly Zeppa was stirred to action. He replied with a tremendous
shout.
Well did the Raturans know that shout. With caught breath and blanched
faces they turned towards the direction whence it came, and they saw the
madman bounding towards them with streaming locks and glaring eyes. A
single look sufficed. The entire population of the village turned and
fled!
Next moment Zeppa rushed up to the stake, and kicked the fire-brands
from beneath the poor victim, who was by that time almost insensible
from agony and smoke. Drawing his knife, Zeppa cut the cords, and,
lifting the pirate in his arms, laid him on the ground.
The madman was terribly excited. He had been drenched from frequent
immersions in the swamp, besides being much exhausted by his long and
difficult walk, or rather, scramble, after a sleepless night; and this
sudden meeting with his worst enemy in such awful circumstances seemed
to have produced an access of insanity, so that the pirate felt
uncertain whether he had not been delivered from a horrible fate to fall
into one perhaps not less terrible.
As he lay there on his back, scorched, tormented with thirst and
helpless, he watched with fearful anxiety each motion of the madman.
For some moments Zeppa seemed undecided. He stood with heaving chest
expanding nostrils, and flashing eyes, gazing after the flying crew of
natives. Then he turned sharply on the unhappy man who lay at his feet.
"Get up!" he said fiercely, "and follow me."
"I cannot get up, Zeppa," replied the pirate in a faint voice. "Don't
you see my feet are burnt? God help me!"
He ended with a deep groan, and the ferocity at once left Zeppa's
countenance, but the wild light did not leave his eyes, nor did he
become less excited in his actions.
"Come, I will carry you," he said.
Stooping down quickly, he raised the pirate in his arms as if he had
been a child, and bore him away.
Avoiding the swamp, he proceeded in the direction of the mountain by
another route--a route which ran so near to Ongoloo's village, that the
Raturans never ventured to use it.
He passed the village without having been observed, and began to toil
slowly up the steep ascent panting as he went, for his mighty strength
had been overtaxed, and his helpless burden was heavy.
"Lay me down and rest yourself," said Rosco, with a groan that he could
not suppress, for his scorched lower limbs caused him unutterable
anguish, and beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, while a deadly
pallor overspread his face.
Zeppa spoke no word in reply. He did, indeed, look at the speaker once,
uneasily, but took no notice of his request. Thus, clasping his enemy
to his breast he ascended the steep hill, struggling and stumbling
upwards, as if with some fixed and stern purpose in view, until at last
he gained the shelter of his mountain cave.