I COME TO MY OWN AGAIN
'Twas a rough, wild journey we made to Portsmouth, my dears, and I think
it must have killed me had not my lady been at my side. We were no
sooner started than she pulled the curtains and opened her portmanteau,
which I saw was near filled with things for my aid and comfort. And I
was made to take a spoonful of something. Never, I believe, was medicine
swallowed with a greater willingness. Talk was impossible, so I lay back
in the corner and looked at her; and now and anon she would glance at my
face, with a troubled guess in her own as to how I might stand the night.
For we were still in London. That I knew by the trot of our horses, and
by the granite we traversed from time to time. But at length we rumbled
over a bridge, there was a sharp call back from our post-boy to him of
the chaise behind, and then began that rocking and pitching and swaying
and creaking, which was to last the whole night long, save for the brief
stops at the post-houses.
After an hour of it, I was holding my breath against the lurches, like a
sea-sick man against that bottomless fall of the ship's bows on the
ocean. I had no pain,--only an over whelming exhaustion,--but the joy
of her touch and her presence kept me from failing. And though Aunt Lucy
dozed, not a wink of sleep did my lady get through all of those weary
twelve hours. Always alert was she, solicitous beyond belief, scanning
ever the dial of her watch to know when to give me brandy and physic; or
reaching across to feel my temples for the fever. The womanliness of
that last motion was a thing for a man to wonder at. But most marvellous
of all was the instinct which told her of my chief sickening discomfort,
--of the leathery, travelled smell of the carriage. As a relief for this
she charged her pocket-napkin with a most delicate perfume, and held it
to my face.
When we drew up to shift horses, Jack would come to the door to inquire
if there was aught she wanted, and to know how I was bearing up. And
often Mrs. Manners likewise. At first I was for talking with them, but
this Dorothy would not allow. Presently, indeed, it was beyond my power,
and I could only smile feebly at my Lord when I heard Dolly asking him
that the hostlers might be more quiet. Toward morning a lethargy fell
upon me. Once I awoke when the lamp had burned low, to perceive the
curtains drawn back, a black blotch of trees without, and the moonlight
streaming in on my lady's features. With the crack of a whip I was off
again.
When next consciousness came, the tarry, salt smell of a ship was in my
nostrils, and I knew that we were embarked. I lay in a clean bunk in a
fair-sized and sun-washed cabin, and I heard the scraping of ropes and
the tramp of feet on the deck above my head. Framed against the
irregular glass of the cabin window, which was greened by the water
beyond, Dorothy and my Lord stood talking in whispers.
"Jack!" I said.
At the sound they turned and ran toward me, asking how I felt.
"I feel that words are very empty, Jack, to express such a gratitude as
mine," I answered. "Twice you have saved me from death, you have paid
my debts, and have been stanch to us both in our troubles. And--" The
effort was beyond me, and I glanced appealingly at Dolly.
"And it is to you, dear Jack," she finished, "it is to you alone that we
owe the great joy of our lives."
Her eyes were shining through her tears, and her smile was like the sun
out of a rain-swept sky. His Lordship took one of her hands in his own,
and one of mine. He scanned our faces in a long, lingering look.
"You will cherish her, Richard," he said brokenly, "for her like is not
to be found in this world. I knew her worth when first she came to
London, as arrant a baggage as ever led man a dance. I saw then that a
great love alone was needed to make her the highest among women, and from
the night I fought with you at the Coffee House I have felt upon whom
that love would fall. O thou of little faith," he cried, "what little I
may have done has been for her. No, Richard, you do not deserve her, but
I would rather think of her as your wife than that of any man living."
I shall not dwell upon that painful farewell which wrung our hearts, and
made us silent for a long, long while after the ship was tossing in the
short seas of the Channel.
Nor is it my purpose to tell you of that long voyage across the Atlantic.
We reached Lisbon in safety, and after a week of lodgings in that city by
the best of fortune got passage in a swift bark bound for Baltimore. For
the Chesapeake commerce continued throughout the war, and kept alive the
credit of the young nation. There were many excitements ere we sighted
the sand-spits of Virginia, and off the Azores we were chased for a day
and a night by a British sloop of war. Our captain, however, was a cool
man and a seaman, and slipped through the cruisers lying in wait off the
Capes very triumphantly.
But the remembrance of those fair days at sea fills my soul with longing.
The weather was mild and bright for the season, and morning upon morning
two stout topmen would carry me out to a sheltered spot on the deck,
always chosen by my lady herself. There I sat by the hour, swathed in
many layers of wool, and tended by her hands alone. Every nook and
cranny of our lives were revealed to the other. She loved to hear of
Patty and my years at Gordon's, and would listen with bated breath to the
stories of the Ranger and the Bonhomme Richard, and of that strange man
whom we both loved, whose genius had made those cruises famous.
Sometimes, in low voices, we talked of our future; but often, when the
wind blew and the deck rocked and the sun flashed upon the waters, a
silence would fall between us that needed no word to interpret.
Mrs. Manners yielded to my wish for us all to go to Carvel Hall. It was
on a sparkling morning in February that we sighted the familiar toe of
Kent Island, and the good-natured skipper put about and made for the
mouth of our river. Then, as of old, the white cupola of Carvel House
gleamed a signal of greeting, to which our full hearts beat a silent
response. Once again the great windmill waved its welcome, and the same
memory was upon us both as we gazed. Of a hale old gentleman in the
sheets of a sailing pinnace, of a boy and a girl on his knees quivering
with excitement of the days to come. Dorothy gently pressed my hand as
the bark came into the wind, and the boat was dropped into the green
water. Slowly they lowered me into it, for I was still helpless, Dorothy
and her mother and Aunt Lucy were got down, and finally Mr. Marmaduke
stepped gingerly from the sea-ladder over the gunwale. The cutter leaped
under the strong strokes up the river with the tide. Then, as we rounded
the bend, we were suddenly astonished to see people gathered on the
landing at the foot of the lawn, where they had run, no doubt, in a
flurry at sight of the ship below. In the front of the group stood
out a strangely familiar figure.
"Why," exclaimed Dolly, "it is Ivie Rawlinson!"
Ivie it was, sure enough. And presently, when we drew a little closer,
he gave one big shout and whipped off the hat from his head; and off,
too, came the caps from the white heads of Scipio and Chess and Johnson
behind him. Our oars were tossed, Ivie caught our bows, and reached his
hand to Dorothy. It was fitting that she should be the first to land at
Carvel Hall.
"'Twas yere bonny face I seed first, Miss Dolly," he cried, the tears
coursing down the scars of his cheeks. "An' syne I kennt weel the young
master was here. Noo God be praised for this blythe day, that Mr.
Richard's cam to his ain at last!"
But Scipio and Chess could only blubber as they helped him to lift me
out, Dolly begging them to be careful. As they carried me up the
familiar path to the pillared porch, the first I asked Ivie was of Patty,
and next why he had left Gordon's. She was safe and well, despite the
Tories, and herself had sent him to take charge of Carvel Hall as soon as
ever Judge Bordley had brought her the news of its restoration to me. He
had supplied her with another overseer. Thanks to the good judge and to
Colonel Lloyd, who had looked to my interests since Grafton was fled,
Ivie had found the old place in good order, all the negroes quiet, and
impatient with joy against my arrival.
It is time, my children, to bring this story to a close. I would I might
write of those delicious spring days I spent with Dorothy at Carvel Hall,
waited on by the old servants of my grandfather. At our whim my chair
would be moved from one to another of the childhood haunts; on cool days
we sat in the sun by the dial, where the flowers mingled their odours
with the salt breezes off the Chesapeake; or anon, when it was warmer, in
the summer-house my mother loved, or under the shade of the great trees
on the lawn, looking out over the river. And once my lady went off very
mysteriously, her eyes brimful of mischief, to come back with the first
strawberries of the year staining her apron.
We were married on the fifteenth of June, already an anniversary for us
both, in the long drawing-room. General Clapsaddle was there from the
army to take Dorothy in his arms, even as he had embraced another bride
on the same spot in years gone by. She wore the wedding gown that was
her mother's, but when the hour was come to dress her Aunt Lucy and Aunt
Hester failed in their task, and it was Patty who performed the most of
that office, and hung the necklace of pearls about her neck.
Dear Patty! She hath often been with us since. You have heard your
mothers and fathers speak of Aunt Patty, my dears, and they will tell
you how she spoiled them when they went a-visiting to Gordon's Pride.
Ere I had regained my health, the war for Independence was won. I pray
God that time may soften the bitterness it caused, and heal the breach in
that noble race whose motto is Freedom. That the Stars and Stripes and
the Union Jack may one day float together to cleanse this world of
tyranny!
AFTERWORD
The author makes most humble apologies to any who have, or think they
have, an ancestor in this book. He has drawn the foregoing with a very
free hand, and in the Maryland scenes has made use of names rather than
of actual personages. His purpose, however poorly accomplished, was to
give some semblance of reality to this part of the story. Hence he has
introduced those names in the setting, choosing them entirely at random
from the many prominent families of the colony.
No one may read the annals of these men, who were at once brave and
courtly, and of these women, who were ladies by nature as well as by
birth, and not love them. The fascination of that free and hospitable
life has been so strong on the writer of this novel that he closes it
with a genuine regret and the hope that its perusal may lead others to
the pleasure he has derived from the history of Maryland.
As few liberties as possible have been taken with the lives of Charles
James Fox and of John Paul Jones. The latter hero actually made a voyage
in the brigantine 'John' about the time he picked up Richard Carvel from
the Black Moll, after the episode with Mungo Maxwell at Tobago. The
Scotch scene, of course, is purely imaginary. Accuracy has been aimed at
in the account of the fight between the 'Bonhomme Richard' and the
'Serapis', while a little different arrangement might have been better
for the medium of the narrative. To be sure, it was Mr. Mease, the
purser, instead of Richard Carvel, who so bravely fought the quarter-deck
guns; and in reality Midshipman Mayrant, Commodore Jones's aide, was
wounded by a pike in the thigh after the surrender. No injustice is done
to the second and third lieutenants, who were absent from the ship during
the action.
The author must acknowledge that the only good anecdote in the book and
the only verse worth printing are stolen. The story on page concerning
Mr. Garrick and the Archbishop of York may be found in Fitzgerald's life
of the actor, much better told. The verse (in Chapter X) is by an
unknown author in the Annapolis Gazette, and is republished in Mr. Elihu
Riley's excellent "History of Annapolis."
End of Project Gutenberg's Richard Carvel, Volume 8, by Winston Churchill