It was past midnight when I withdrew from the scene of wassail. My
blood was flushed, and I strolled down upon the beach to enjoy the cool
fresh breeze that was flowing in from the Mexican Sea.
The scene before me was one of picturesque grandeur, and I paused a
moment to gaze upon it. The wine even heightened its loveliness to an
illusion.
The full round moon of the tropics was sweeping over a sky of cloudless
blue. The stars were eclipsed and scarcely visible, except a few of the
larger ones, as the belt of Orion, the planet Venus, and the luminous
radii of the Southern Cross.
From my feet a broad band of silver stretched away to the horizon,
marking the meridian of the moon. This was broken by the line of coral
reef, over which the surf curled and sparkled with a phosphoric
brightness. The reef itself, running all round, seemed to gird the
islet in a circle of fire. Here only were the waves in motion, as if
pressed by some subaqueous and invisible power; for beyond, scarcely a
breath stirred the sleeping sea. It lay smooth and silent, while a
satellite sky seemed caved out in its azure depths.
On the south, a hundred ships were in the deep roadstead, a cable's
length from each other--their hulls, spars, and rigging magnified to
gigantic proportions under the deceptive and tremulous moonbeam. They
were motionless as if the sea had been frozen around them into a solid
crystal. Their flags drooped listlessly down, trailing along the masts,
or warped and twined around the halyards.
Up against the easy ascent extended the long rows of white tents,
shining under the silvery moonbeam like pyramids of snow. In one a
light was still gleaming through the canvas, where, perchance, some
soldier sat up, wearily wiping his gun, or burnishing the brasses upon
his belts.
Now and then dark forms--human and uniformed--passed to and fro from
tent to tent, each returning from a visit to some regimental comrade.
At equal distances round the camp others stood upright and motionless,
the gleam of the musket showing the sentry on his silent post.
The plunge of an oar, as some boat was rowed out among the anchored
ships--the ripple of the light breaker--at intervals the hail of a
sentinel, "Who goes there?"--the low parley that followed--the chirp of
the cicada in the dark jungle--or the scream of the sea-bird, scared by
some submarine enemy from its watery rest--were the only sounds that
disturbed the deep stillness of the night.
I continued my walk along the beach until I had reached that point of
the island directly opposite to the mainland of Mexico. Here the
chaparral grew thick and tangled, running down to the water's edge,
where it ended in a clump of mangroves. As no troops were encamped
here, the islet had not been cleared at this point, and the jungle was
dark and solitary.
The moon was now going down, and straggling shadows began to fall upon
the water.
Certainly some one skulked into the bushes!--a rustling in the leaves--
yes! some fellow who has strayed beyond the line of sentries and is
afraid to return to camp. Ha! a boat! a skiff it is--a net and buoys!
As I live, 'tis a Mexican craft!--who can have brought it here? Some
fisherman from the coast of Tuspan. No, he would not venture; it must
be--
A strange suspicion flashed across my mind, and I rushed through the
mangrove thicket, where I had observed the object a moment before. I
had not proceeded fifty yards when I saw the folly of this movement. I
found myself in the midst of a labyrinth, dark and dismal, surrounded by
a wall of leaves and brambles. The branches of the mangroves, rooted at
their tops, barred up the path, and vines laced them together.
"If they be spies," thought I, "I have taken the worst plan to catch
them. I may as well go through now. I cannot be distant from the rear
of the camp. Ugh! how dismal!"
I pushed on, climbing over fallen trunks, and twining myself through the
viny cordage. The creepers clung to my neck--thorns penetrated my
skin--the _mezquite_ slapped me in the face, drawing blood. I laid my
hand upon a pendent limb; a clammy object struggled under my touch, with
a terrified yet spiteful violence, and, freeing itself, sprang over my
shoulder, and scampered off among the fallen leaves. I felt its fetid
breath as the cold scales brushed against my cheek. It was the hideous
iguana.
A huge bat flapped its sail-like wings in my face, and returned again
and again, breathing a mephitic odour that caused me to gasp. Twice I
struck at it with my sword, cutting only the empty air. A third time my
blade was caught in the trellis of parasites. It was horrible; I felt
terrified to contend with such strange enemies.
At length, after a continued struggle, an opening appeared before me--a
glade; I rushed to the welcome spot.
"What a relief!" I ejaculated, emerging from the leafy darkness.
Suddenly I started back with a cry of horror; my limbs refused to act;
the sword fell from my grasp, and I stood palsied and transfixed, as if
by a bolt from heaven.
Before me, and not over three paces distant, the image of Death himself
rose out of the earth, and stretched forth his skeleton arms to clutch
me. It was no phantom. There was the white, naked skull, with its
eyeless sockets, the long, flesh-less limbs, the open, serrated ribs,
the long, jointed fingers of Death himself.
As my bewildered brain took in these objects I heard a noise in the
bushes as of persons engaged in an angry struggle.
"Emile, Emile!" cried a female voice, "you shall not murder him--you
shall not!"
"Off! off!--Marie, let me go!" was shouted in the rough accents of a
man.
"Oh, no!" continued the female, "you shall not--no--no--no!"
"Curses on the woman! There, let me go now!"
There was a sound as of someone struck with violence--a scream--and at
the same moment a human figure rushed out of the bushes, and,
confronting me, exclaimed: "Ha! Monsieur le Capitaine! _coup pour
coup_!" I heard no more; a heavy blow, descending upon my temples,
deprived me of all power, and I fell senseless to the earth. When I
returned to consciousness the first objects I saw were the huge brown
whiskers of Lincoln, then Lincoln himself, then the pale face of the boy
Jack; and, finally, the forms of several soldiers of my company. I saw
that I was in my own tent and stretched upon my camp-bed.
"What?--howl--what's the matter!--what's this?" I said, raising my
hands to the bandage of wet linen that bound my temples.
"Keep still, Cap'n," said Bob, taking my hand from the fillet and
placing it by my side.
"Och! by my sowl, he's over it; thank the Lord for His goodness!" said
Chane, an Irish soldier.
"Over what? what has happened to me?" I inquired.
"Och, Captin, yer honour, you've been nearly murthered, and all by thim
Frinch scoundhrels; bad luck to their dirty frog-atin' picthers!"
"Murdered! French scoundrels! Bob, what is it?"
"Why, yer see, Cap'n, ye've had a cut hyur over the head; and we think
it's them Frenchmen."
"Oh! I remember now; a blow--but the Death?--the Death?"
I started up from the bed as the phantom of my night adventure returned
to my imagination.
"The Death, Cap'n?--what do yer mean?" inquired Lincoln, holding me in
his strong arms.
"Oh! the Cap'n manes the skilleton, maybe," said Chane.
"What skeleton?" I demanded.
"Why, an owld skilleton the boys found in the chaparril, yer honner.
They hung it to a three; and we found yer honner there, with the
skilleton swinging over ye like a sign. Och! the Frinch bastes!"