THE SLAVE SHIP.
It was on a fair summer's evening that a beautiful English built
craft, after having beat up the Black Sea all day against the ever
prevailing a north-cast wind, now gathered in her light sails and
barely kept steerageway by still spreading her jib and mainsail.
With the setting sun the breeze had lulled also to rest, and there
was but a cap full now coming from off the mountains of the
Caucasus, just enough to keep the little clipper steady in hand.
It would be difficult to define the exact class to which the rig of
this craft would make her belong, there was so much that was English
in the hull and raking step of her masts, while the rigging, and the
way in which she was managed, smacked so strongly of the
Mediterranean that her nation also might have puzzled one familiar
with such a subject. The lofty spread of canvas, the jib, flying-jib
and fore-staysail, that are rarely worn save by the larger class of
merchantmen, gave rather an odd appearance to a craft that could
count hardly more than an hundred tons measurement.
Besides her fore and mainsail, and those already named, the
schooner, for so we must call her, carried two heavy, but graceful
topsails upon her fore and mainmasts, and even a jigger sail or
spanker and gaff above it, on a slender spur rigged from the quarter
deck. Altogether the schooner with her various appurtenances,
resembled such a yacht as some of the English noblemen sail in the
channel and about the Isle of Man in the sporting season.
The schooner was not unobserved from the shore, and a careful
observer could have noticed a group of persons that were evidently
regarding her with no common interest from the landing just above
the harbor of Anapa.
"That must be the craft that has been so long expected," said one of
the group, "and we had best get our girls ready at once to put on
board before the morning."
"This comes in a bad time, for the steamer should be here before
nightfall."
"That's true; as she doesn't seem inclined to run in too close,
perhaps she knows it."
"What was the signal agreed upon?" asked the first speaker of his
companion, who was silently regarding the schooner.
"A red flag at the foretopmast head, and there it goes. Yes, it is
here sure enough."
"How like a witch she looks."
"They say she will outsail anything between here and Gibraltar, in
any wind."
"What does that mean? she's going about."
"Sure enough, and up goes her foresail, they work with a will and
are in a hurry."
"She don't like the looks of something on the coast," said the
other.
The fact was, while the schooner lay under the easy sail we have
described, just off the port of Anapa, the little Russian government
steamer that plies between Odessa and the ports along the Circassian
coast held by the emperor's troops, hove in sight, having just come
down the Sea of Azoff through the Straits of Yorkcale. Her dark line
of smoke was discovered by those on board the schooner, before she
had doubled the headland of Tatman, and it was very plain, that, let
the schooner's purpose be what it might, she desired to avoid all
unnecessary observation, and especially that of the steamer.
A single movement of the helm while the mainsail sheet was eased
away, and the schooner brought the gentle night breeze that was
still setting from the north and east off the Georgian shore, right
aft, and quietly hoisting her foresail, the two were set wing and
wing, and a sea bird could not have skimmed with a more easy and
graceful motion over the deep waters that glanced beneath her hull,
than she did now. If the steamer had desired she might have
overhauled the schooner, but it would have taken all night to do it
with that leading wind in her favor; and so, after looking towards
the clipper craft with her bows for a moment, the steamer again held
on her course.
"Too swift of wing for that smoke pipe of yours," said one of the
Circassians who had been watching the evolutions of the two crafts
from the shore.
"The steamer has put her helm down and gives it up for it bad job,"
said another, as her black bow came once more to look towards the
port of Anapa.
"She will be off before night sets in, and we shall have the
schooner back again."
This was in fact the policy of those on board the schooner; for no
sooner did she find herself unpursued than she hauled her wind,
jibed her foresail to starboard and looked down, towards the coast
of Asia Minor, until the moon crept up from behind the mountains of
the Caucasus as though it had come from a bath in the Caspian Sea
beyond, when the schooner was closer hauled on the other trick, and
bore up again for the harbor of Anapa.
We have said that the little clipper numbered some hundred tons, but
though her appearance would indicate this to be the case, yet your
thorough-bred sailor would have marked how stiffly she bore so much
top hamper, and would have judged more correctly by the depth of
water that the schooner evidently drew. It was plain that she was
deep and much heavier than she looked. A few sprightly Greek youths,
in their picturesque costume were dispersed here and there in the
waist and on the forecastle, while two or three persons wearing the
same dress and evidently of that nation, were talking together in a
group upon the weather-side of the quarter-deck.
As the hours drew towards midnight, the schooner at length opened
communication with the land by means of signal lanterns, and
immediately after boats commenced to ply between the clipper and the
shore, and continued to do so for several hours. It was plain enough
to any one who knew the usages and trade of these waters, that the
schooner was preparing to run a cargo of Circassian girls, the trade
having been, as we have already shown, made contraband by the
Russians.
At last the clipper seemed to have received all on board that she
expected in the shape of passengers, but still stood off and on for
some reason until the breaking day began to tinge the mountain tops
beyond Anapa; when a last boat with five persons, one of whom was a
female, came down to the clipper which was thrown in the wind's eye
long enough for those to get on board, or rather for three of them
to do so; and then, as the other two pulled back to the shore, the
schooner gradually came round under the force of her topsail, and
one sail after another was distended and sheeted home until she
looked to those on shore as though enveloped in canvas, and drove
over the waters like a flying cloud.
One of those who pulled away from the schooner as she lay her
course, would have been recognized by the reader as Krometz; and now
half way to the landing he motioned his companion to cease rowing,
while he paused himself and looked after the receding clipper with a
strange medley of expression pictured in his face.
"Give way, give way," said his companion at last, somewhat
impatiently; "one would think, by the way you look seaward, that you
would like to head in that direction instead of pulling into the
harbor."
"You are right, comrade. I do wish that yonder clipper was carrying
me away from here."
"You are a queer fellow, Krometz, to let that girl make you so
unhappy, but she's off now, and will probably bring up in some
Turkish harem, where she will end her days. Not so bad a fate
either," continued the oarsman. "Surrounded by every luxury the
heart could wish or the imagination conceive, it's a better lot than
either yours or mine."
"Well, say no more of this, and remember the utmost secrecy is to be
observed, for that tiger of an Aphiz will hunt us to death if he
does but suspect that we had a hand in the business."
"Our disguise was sufficient," said the other, "and by-the-way, we
may as well get rid of this black stuff now;" and as he spoke he
dashed the water from alongside upon his face and hands, and removed
a coat of black from them.
"Now give way again; let us get in, and separate before any one is
stirring abroad."
Leaving Krometz and his companion to pursue their own business, and
the clipper craft with her course laid for the Sea of Marmora, we
will, with the reader, return once more to the mountain side where
we met Komel and Aphiz.
In time of peace, or rather when there was no open outbreak between
the Circassians and the Russian forces, Aphiz Adegah passed his time
in hunting among the rugged hills and cliffs, and with the early
morn was abroad with his gun strapped to his back, and in his hand
the long iron-pointed staff that helped him to climb the otherwise
inaccessible rocks of the mountain's sides. Thus equipped, he came,
in the morning referred to above, to the cottage of Komel's parents,
but, instead of the cheerful, happy welcome that usually greeted him
on such occasions, he beheld consternation and misery written in the
father's face, while the mother wept as though her heart would
break.
"What means this strange scene?" asked the young hunter, hastily.
"Where is Komel?"
"Alas! gone, gone," sighed both.
"Gone!"
"Ay, gone forever."
"What mean you? whither has she gone? what has happened to render
you so miserable?"
"Alas, Aphiz; Komel has gone to be the star of some proud Turkish
harem," said the father.
"And with your consent?"
"No! O, no!"
"Nor by her own free will, that I know," he continued, quickly.
"Alas! no; this night she was stolen from us, and we saw her borne
away before our very eyes."
"Was there no one by to strike a blow for her, no one to render you
aid?"
"Yes, one there was, an honest friend who lives in the next cottage.
He was aroused by the noise, and outraged by the violence he beheld,
he rushed upon the thieves, but they struck him bleeding and dead to
the earth. It was a terrible sight and poor Komel saw it as they
carried her away, and uttered such a fearful, piercing scream that
it seems to ring in our cars even now. She fainted then in their
arms, and we saw her no more."
"Heaven guard her!" said Aphiz, with inward anguish expressed in his
face.
"Amen!" said the aged father, with a deep, heartfelt sigh, full of
sorrow.
This told the whole story of the previous night, and the last boat
that put off from, the shore for the clipper schooner contained
Komel as a prisoner, insensible to all about, abducted by her own
countrymen, incited by the revengeful spirit of Krometz. Actuated by
the vilest motives himself, he had persuaded a companion, as we have
seen, by a small bribe and the representation that Komel would in
reality be better off than with her parents, to aid him in his
object. Krometz had not hesitated to receive the handsome sum that
one so beautiful as Komel could not fail to command.
Aphiz was almost too miserable to be able to find words to express
his feelings. A bitter tear stole down his sunburnt check as he saw
the mother's grief, but a stern flash of the eye was also visible in
the expression of his face. He sought at once the highest cliff
beyond the cottage, and in the distant, far-off horizon, could dimly
make out the white canvas of the slave cutter, no bigger than a
sea-bird, on the skirts of the horizon. He sat down in the
bitterness of his anguish, alone and heart-broken, and then he
remembered the scene of the previous evening, how they both together
had seen the hawk pounce down and carry off in its talons the poor
wood dove.
That scene, so suggestive to his mind, was not without its meaning.
It was the forerunner of the calamity under which his heart now
grieved so bitterly. Aphiz Adegah's life had been a bold one, he
knew no fear. The air of his native hills was not freer than his own
spirit and as he looked off once more at the tiny white speck in the
distance that marked the spot where Komel was, his resolution was
instantly made, and he swore to follow and rescue her.
It was but natural that the young mountaineer should desire to find
out the agency by which that evil business had been consummated. He
knew very well that such a plan as Komel's abduction could not have
been perpetrated without the aid of parties that knew her and her
home, but never for one moment did he suspect Krometz. He had ever
professed the warmest friendship for both him and Komel, and he was
deemed honest. But during the melee, when the honest mountaineer had
rushed to Komel's rescue, and had received the fatal blow, her
parents heard a voice that they recognized, and both exclaimed, "Can
that voice be Krometz's!"
This was afterwards made known to Aphiz, and with this clue, though
he could scarcely believe that there was the possibility of fact or
correctness in the surmise, he sought his pretended friend. He
charged him with the evidence and its inference, and bade him speak
and say if this was true.
"It matters not, friend Aphiz, since she is gone, how she came to
go."
"This answer," said the young mountaineer, "is but another evidence
against thee."
"Do you pretend to call me to an account, Aphiz? You are but a boy,
while I have already reached the full age of manhood. Think not,
because you were more successful with that girl, than I, that you
can lord it over me. I shall answer no further charges from you."
"Krometz, your guilt speaks out in every line of your face," said
the excited Aphiz. "Meet me at sunset behind the signal rock on the
cliff, and we will settle this affair together."
"I will neither meet thee, nor account to thee for aught I may have
done."
"Then, as true as to-morrow's sun shall rise, with this good rifle I
will shoot you to the heart. I shall be there at the sunset hour;
fail me, and to-morrow you shall die."
Krometz knew well with whom he had to deal; he knew if he met Aphiz,
as he proposed, there would be a chance for his life, but if he
failed him, he feared the unerring aim of his rifle. He was no
coward--both of them had faced the enemy together, but he lacked the
moral courage that is far more sustaining than mere dogged bravery,
or contempt for immediate danger. Thus influence, at sunset he kept
the appointment.
The young mountaineer had been taught this mode of resort to arms by
the Russian and Polish officers who had been thrown much among them.
They had no seconds, but fought alone, starting back to back,
walking forward five paces, wheeling and firing together. The
position was on the brink of a precipice, and he who fell would be
hurled at once down an immense depth. Aphiz was desperate, Krometz
reckless; they fired and the body of the latter fell over the cliff.
Aphiz was unharmed.
In a moment after he realized his situation, has act, however just,
had made him a fugitive, and he must fly at once from those scenes
of his boyish love and happiness.