AN OLD SALT
“Among the pirates, Capt. Grandiere? Roland Bayard among the pirates?”
exclaimed Mr. Force, while Mrs. Force closed her lips with a sudden
motion and grew a shade paler. Rosemary began to tremble, and the other
young girls to look anxious.
“Come aft! Let us find seats somewhere where we will not be spied or
overhauled, and I will tell you all about it,” said the old skipper,
moving down toward the stern, where the deck was almost deserted by the
other passengers, who were all gathered forward, leaning over the
bulwarks and taking a last look at the receding shores of England.
They found seats on the wooden benches, and sat down.
The old skipper took off his cap and wiped his large, red face and
close-cropped gray head, and then said:
“I didn’t expect to see you here. I should as soon have thought of
seeing Oldfield farmhouse standing up before me, right in my path, as a
group of old neighbors, with my little niece in the midst of them.
Heavens and earth—how a civil war shakes people up! I dare say, now, you
all left on account of the war.”
“No,” said Mr. Force, “we left before the war to visit my brother-in-law
here, and to give our young people some advantage in foreign travel. My
own ill health has detained us abroad for more than two years. We return
now on account of the war.”
“Good Lord! Abel Force, you are not thinking of going into the army in
your crippled condition!”
“No, not exactly. But we can all be useful in the hospitals—even my wife
and daughters—in caring for the sick and wounded soldiers, and for the
widows and orphans of the dead, so far as our strength and means will
go.”
“Ah! that is something else! When did you hear from the folks at home? I
have not heard from them for years.”
“I got a letter a week ago from your niece, Miss Grandiere. Your nephew,
William Elk, is in Richmond, on Gen. Lee’s staff; your nephew, Thomas
Grandiere, is in New Orleans, with Gen. Butler, and your grandnephew,
Edward Grandiere, is with Farragut, in Mobile Bay. Sam has elected to
stay at home, follow the plow, and take care of the women.”
“Sam has the only solid head in the family, except my own! Look at that,
now! Brothers and kinsmen shooting each other down, running each other
through the body, blowing each other up, as if they were at war with a
foreign enemy! Oh, Lord! Lord!” groaned the old skipper, flinging down
his cap with force upon the deck, and furiously wiping his perspiring
face.
“It is grievous enough; but it is human nature, and we cannot change it.
The strangest part of it all is that the men composing the rank and file
of each army have no personal ill will toward their antagonists. Each
fights from a sense of duty. Each invoke the blessing of God upon their
arms. There was a time, Grandiere, in our lives, when peace reigned so
long that we all began to believe that war belonged only to history, and
barbaric history at that, and had passed away forever, as one of the
last relics of barbarism. It was the Mexican War that woke us up from
our dream of the millennium. And, since that, there has been in one part
of the civilized world or another almost incessant and most ruinous war.
So when we call ourselves a Christian, civilized and enlightened
people——”
“We tell a lot of bragging lies! Out with it, papa, in plain English!”
put in Wynnette, who had held her tongue until it ached.
“Who is this girl?” inquired the old skipper.
“My second daughter, Wynnette. Surely, I introduced her to you,” said
the squire.
“So you did! But there are so many of them, you know! I used to dandle
this one on my knee when she was a baby; but she has grown out of my
knowledge!” said the old skipper. Then turning to Wynnette, he grasped
her hand, and said:
“Right you are, my dear! We are a lot of braggarts and ignoramuses! So
far from being Christians, civilized and enlightened, we do not even
know what these terms imply. We are heathen, barbarians, and we live in
the twilight. Right you are, my dear, as to your opinions, but wrong in
your way of putting them. Interrupting your father. Discipline should be
maintained, my dear. Remember that!” said the old skipper, not unkindly.
Before the astonished Wynnette could reply, Rosemary put in her piteous
little plaint, and said:
“Oh, Uncle Gideon! dear Uncle Gideon! Tell us about—about——” She meant
to say “Roland Bayard,” but she reddened, and substituted: “The
pirates!”
“Of course! That is what I brought you here for. You have heard about
the pirate Silver, and his ship, the _Argente_?”
“I have seen notices of depredations made by the _Argente_. It is a
privateer in the Confederate service, is it not?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Privateer? Yes, and worse! It is a pirate! In the Confederate service?
No; no further than running the blockade, to carry in merchandise to
sell at ruinous prices, would go! The _Argente_ is a privateer, a
blockade runner, a slaver, and a pirate. Just as, a few years ago, we
thought war had passed away from the face of the earth forever, so we
thought that piracy had been swept from the sea. But we were mistaken in
both cases. Our Civil War, the blockading of our Southern ports, the
emancipation, and consequent stampede of the negroes, have brought into
action a fleet of sea robbers who call themselves privateers, and
pretend to be in the service of this or that faction, but who are really
pirates and slavers. They are armed to the teeth and are manned by the
most reckless desperadoes gathered from all nations—mostly jail birds,
convicts, criminals. They take our merchant ships, they steal slaves
from the West Indies, run the blockade and sell them in our Southern
ports; or, with equal impartiality, when opportunity is given, they
decoy slaves from the Southern plantations by the promise of a free
passage to the North, and they carry them to the West Indies, where they
sell them to the planters. The most notorious of these brigands of the
sea is the _Argente_. I have never yet heard of any of them being
taken.”
The old sailor having talked himself out of breath, stopped, wiped his
forehead, and flung his rolled handkerchief with force upon the deck.
“But, Uncle Gideon—dear Uncle Gideon—tell us about—about the pirates,”
pleaded Rosemary, pale with sorrow.
“My pet, I have told you about the pirates,” grunted the skipper.
“But—but—about—about—the loss of the _Kitty_,” pleaded Rosemary.
The old skipper snatched up his cap from the deck and flung it down
again with violence. Then he said:
“Yes! Devil fly away with them! They took the _Kitty_! I can’t talk
about it, girl! The devil takes possession of me every time I think of
it! They took the _Kitty_! That is all that is in it! Maybe some time or
other, when the devil forsakes me, I will tell you all about it, but not
now—not now!”
“Tell us something at least of Roland Bayard,” said Wynnette.
“I did tell you! He is among the pirates.”
“But in what capacity? Is he a prisoner or a volunteer?” persisted the
girl.
“Oh! oh, Wynnette! Roland Bayard could never be a volunteer among the
pirates. He would suffer himself to be killed first! Yes—to be tortured
to death first! Yes—yes—to be slowly tortured to death first! Oh,
Roland! Roland!” wailed Rosemary, too deeply distressed for her
childhood’s friend to conceal her emotions.
Capt. Grandiere, touched by the trouble on the quaint little face,
pulled himself together, patted her head, and said:
“Don’t cry, little girl! Roland is not a volunteer in the pirate crew. I
never believed that for one minute, though Silver, the head devil, told
me so. No, my child, he is a prisoner among the pirates—I am sure of
that.”
“Oh, then that is some comfort! I would rather they should keep him a
prisoner, or even kill him, than make him wicked! Indeed, I would, Uncle
Gideon. But how comes he to be among the pirates and you here? He a
captive, and you free? Tell me that, Uncle Gideon,” said the little
creature, with a shade of reproach in her troubled tones.
And while Rosemary waited in suspense for the answer there was another
who listened anxiously to catch its every word. This was Elfrida Force.