THE OLD SKIPPER’S DESPAIR
Meanwhile, Capt. Grandiere, having obtained his pass, got into a crowded
street car, en route for the Old Capitol prison. After toiling up the
long hill on the north side of the Capitol grounds, the car turned into
East Capitol Street.
There the old skipper got off and inquired his way to the “Old
Capitol”—a large pile of brick buildings, looking not unlike a
warehouse, but which in its time, before the present beautiful edifice
had been raised, was used for the councils of the National Congress, and
now was turned into a military prison.
Capt. Grandiere found the place—though it looked very much like a
Baltimore tobacco depot—and then went up to the main floor, at which a
sentry stood on guard.
He showed his pass. The sentinel scrutinized it, returned it to him, and
let him in.
He entered a broad passage, with doors on either side, and a staircase
in the midst. These doors were all closed, and a sentry stood at every
one.
“I wish to see young Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud,” said the captain, correcting
himself—“one of the officers taken prisoner on the blockade runner
_Argente_.”
The sentry to whom he addressed these words looked at his pass, and
said, laconically:
“Upstairs.”
The old man climbed the stairs, and found himself in an upper passage,
with other doors on each side, and another staircase in the midst. These
doors were also closed and guarded by sentries.
“I want to see Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud, one of the prisoners from the
blockade runner _Argente_,” said the skipper, handing his pass to the
nearest sentry, who looked at it, and answered, shortly:
“Upstairs.”
The old man groaned, and slowly mounted the second flight of stairs, to
find himself in a passage exactly like the one below in all respects of
doors, sentries, and a third staircase.
The captain, panting from his long ascent, repeated his formula, and
handed his pass, which was returned to him, with the answering formula.
The old man, feeling fatigued and dizzy, began to ascend the third
flight of stairs. When he reached the top he found himself in a passage
precisely like those below—closed doors, armed sentries, and a fourth
staircase, probably leading into the garret.
“I have been a sailor for sixty years, and hope to sail the seas for
sixty more! Men have lived hale and hearty to extreme old age, and why
not I, who never was drunk or ill in my life? But if I have to go up
another flight of stairs I shall be cut off in my prime!” said the
captain to himself, as he leaned, puffing and blowing, against the
freshly whitewashed wall.
“I feel just like the
“‘Youth who bore through snow and ice
A banner with a strange device—
Excelsior!’
“Which must mean ‘Upstairs.’ And like him, I shall drop dead at the top.
Say! you, sir! I want to see Mr. Craven Cloud, who was taken prisoner
from the blockade runner _Argente_. Here’s my permit,” said the old
skipper, as soon as he could get his breath, handing his pass to one of
the sentries.
“Room at the end—Number 53,” said the soldier, returning the paper.
“Thank Heaven, that is a change for the better!” exclaimed the old man,
trotting up the whole length of the passage to a board partition that
seemed to have been temporarily put up across the end.
A sentry stood before the door in this partition, and to him the skipper
gave his pass.
The sentry unlocked the door and admitted the visitor into the small
room that had been partitioned off from the front end of the passage.
The place was clean, fresh and light, but had no furniture except one
narrow iron bedstead with a mattress, a pillow and a white spread as
clean as the room.
Extended on the mattress lay the young and handsome form of Roland
Bayard, clothed only in his white shirt and gray trousers. His hands
were clasped above his head and his eyes were open and fixed on the
ceiling.
He started up on hearing the visitor enter.
“Roland! Roland! My dear boy, Roland!” cried the old skipper, in a
tremulous voice, while the tears started to his eyes.
If the two had been French or German, they would have fallen into each
other’s arms. Being Americans of English descent, they only clasped
hands a little more firmly than usual, gazed into each other’s eyes
earnestly for a moment, and then sat down on the side of the bed
together in silence.
The old skipper at length spoke:
“Roland, my dear, dear boy, how is this?”
“How is—what?” inquired the young man, slowly, and after a pause,
speaking in a tone of pain in his hesitating voice, and with a look of
pain in his haggard eyes that could not be concealed.
“Oh, you know. Dear lad, you know! You know what I mean! How is that I
find you here a prisoner, instead of a free man? Why did you not tell Le
that you were a captive among the pirates, not a confederate of them? Le
could have corroborated your story and you would have been brought home
in honor, not in this way!”
“Le could have done nothing for me, under the circumstances!” replied
the young man, in a tone so full of despair that the old skipper looked
at him in horror.
“Circumstances, Roland? What circumstances? That devil, Silver, told me
he had persuaded you to join his band. But he never told the truth!
Surely, surely, Roland, he never told the truth! You never joined the
pirate crew! Why do I ask? Of course you never did, and never could!”
said the captain, speaking with great assurance, but—looking anxiously
into the face of his favorite for confirmation of his words.
No such confirmation came.
Roland put up his hand and covered his eyes; he could not bear to meet
that anxious, eager gaze of his old friend.
“Roland, my dear lad, to what circumstances do you allude? Roland, for
my sake—for all our sakes—for—for—little Rosemary’s sake, explain
yourself!”
The young man kept his eyes covered and his head bowed, while his whole
frame shook as with an ague fit.
The old skipper saw the effect of his words, and repeated them:
“For little Rosemary’s sake, dear lad!”
“Don’t! don’t!” wailed Roland. “Don’t! don’t! I loved the child! Heaven
knows how I loved her! She was always the dearest creature on earth to
me! I loved her so much that I hope, in these three years of absence, in
which she has grown from childhood to womanhood, I hope she has
forgotten me!”
These last words were uttered in a wail of anguish.
“But she has not forgotten you, Roland! You are the larger part of her
life! From the time I met her on the _Asia_——Did I tell you that I came
over on the same ship with Force and his party?”
“No. Capt. Silver told me that he had set you ashore on the coast of
England, not far from Penzance, and so I supposed that you had come
home; but I did not know on what ship or in what company! Go on! you
were talking about Rosemary.”
“We met by chance on board the _Asia_. Of course, there was great
surprise on both sides. And, of course, I told them all about the
capture of the _Kitty_ by the pirates. And the first question my niece
asked was about you. And from this she has been in a state of continual
anxiety about you—anxiety that has been much increased since she learned
of the capture of the _Argente_ by the _Eagle_.”
“You told her I was with the pirates?”
“As a captive, yes! as a well-treated captive! I was not likely to
repeat to her a tale that I did not myself believe, about your having
joined the crew,” said the captain, indignantly.
Roland again covered his face with his hands, and bowed his head.
“Boy I what am I to think of your silence?” demanded the old skipper,
more in sorrow than in anger.
“Oh, my dear old captain, you will think as well of me as you can.”
“Are you Capt. Silver’s mate? Yes or no?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Roland, if you were the pirate’s mate, you would be brave enough to
avow it. If you were not, you would be sure to deny it. I do not
understand your silence.”
The young man did not attempt to explain, but sat with his elbows on his
knees and his head bowed upon his hands, in an attitude of despair.
“I will ask you one other question. Perhaps you will answer it. Did you
recognize in the pirate Silver the man whom you once knew as Angus
Anglesea?”
“Yes, I recognized him,” replied Roland, wearily.
“And he recognized you as the youth he was accustomed to see with the
Forces?”
“Yes, he knew me at once.”
“It must have been a strange meeting between you.”
“It was.”
“Tell me all about it, Roland, my lad. What did you say to him? What did
he say to you when you first met? How did he account for having two
characters and two names, eh? Tell me all about it, lad.”
“I cannot. Believe me, I cannot. Oh, my old captain! My dear old
captain! It wrings my heart to refuse you! I would do anything to please
you, but I cannot do this which you ask.”
“I don’t understand! I don’t understand! I don’t believe I shall ever
understand!” exclaimed the perplexed captain, shaking his gray head.
“Perhaps you never will in this world, but I hope that you will in the
world to come, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed. In the
meantime—oh, judge me as charitably as you can!” pleaded Roland.
“Heaven knows that I wish to do so, my dear lad! Perhaps you may answer
me one more question—a last one: Why did you drop your lawful name of
‘Roland Bayard,’ and take another by which you are now known—‘Craven
Cloud?’ You need not answer if you do not choose?”
“I will tell you. The life of a blockade runner——”
“Blockade runner be blowed!” angrily exclaimed the old skipper. “Pirate,
you mean! You can’t blind me with—blockade runner! Not after her taking
the _Kitty_, you can’t! Pirate, lad—pirate!”
“Just as you please! The life, I say, on such a ship is uncertain; death
often tragic. I did not wish to carry an honest name through such a
life, or to such a death. In a word—if those who loved me were destined
to hear one Craven Cloud—blockade runner, pirate, slaver, as you
please—had been taken and hanged, I did not wish them to know that I was
the man. I took an alias, and I made it Craven Cloud because the name
suited the case. There! that is all.”
“But, Roland, you are no pirate—no slaver. It is impossible that you
should be!” exclaimed the old skipper with the utmost confidence, yet
still eagerly, prayerfully gazing into the troubled face of his young
mate for confirmation of those words.
But still no such confirmation came.
The door opened and a soldier entered.
“Sorry,” he said, in a serio-comic spirit in which some of the soldiers
jested their cares away, “sorry to separate you, but the best of friends
must part. Shutting up time has come, and the word is march!”
“Do you mean I must go?” inquired the old skipper.
“That’s about the measure of it, granddad.”
“Good-by, Roland, lad! Mind, I don’t believe any ill of you, in spite of
all. I shall come to see you again to-morrow, and bring Rosemary with
me.”
“No! no! no! no! Do not bring her! I am parted from Rosemary forever!
The sight of her—would unman me!” cried the youth.
“Then—what am I to say to her when I see her?”
“Say—the best you can—the fairest, the most merciful you can!” exclaimed
Roland.
The old skipper wrung the youth’s hand and left the room.
He returned to the hotel, but kept entirely out of the way of the
Forces. He had not the courage to meet Rosemary.