The night after the rescue of the passengers and crew of the brig was to
me a restless one. I could not sleep. Hour after hour I lay in my
hammock eagerly courting repose, but unable to find it, for the images
of the past crowded on my brain, and kept me in a feverish excitement
that drove slumber from my pillow. My thoughts were of my boyhood,—of
Pomfret Hall,—of my early schoolmate—and of his little seraph-like
sister, Annette. I was back once more in the sunny past. Friends whom I
had long forgotten,—scenes which had become strangers to me,—faces
which I once knew but which had faded from my memory, came thronging
back upon me, as if by some magic impulse, until I seemed to be once
more shouting by the brookside, galloping over the hills, or singing at
the side of sweet little Annette at Pomfret Hall.
I was the son of a decayed family. My parents lived in honorable
poverty. But, though reduced in fortune, they had lost none of the
spirit of their ancestors. Their ambition was to see their son a
gentleman, a man of education. I had accordingly been early put to
school, preparatory to a college education. Here I met with a youth of
my own age, a proud, high-spirited, generous boy, Stanhope St. Clair. He
was the heir of a wealthy and ancient family, whose residence, not far
from Boston, combined baronial splendor with classic taste. We formed a
fast friendship. He was a year or two my senior, and being stronger than
myself, became my protector in our various school frays; this united me
to him by the tie of gratitude. During the vacation I spent a month at
his house; here I met his little sister, a sweet-tempered innocent
fairy, some four or five years my junior. Even at that early age I
experienced emotions towards her which I am even now wholly unable to
analyze, but they came nearer the sentiment of love than any other
feeling. She was so beautiful and sweet-tempered, so innocent and frank,
so bright, and sunny, and smiling, so infinitely superior to those of
her age and sex I had been in the habit of associating with, that I soon
learned to look on her with sentiments approaching to adoration. Yet I
felt no reserve in her society. Her frankness made me perfectly at home.
We played, sung and laughed together, as if life had nothing for us but
sunshine and joy. How often did those old woods, the quaintly carved
hall, the green and smiling lawn ring with our gladsome merriment. We
studied, too, together; and as I sat playfully at her feet, looking now
on her book and now in her eyes, while her long silken tresses undulated
in the breeze and frolicked over my face, I experienced sensations of
strange pleasure unlike anything I had ever experienced. At length the
time came when I was to leave this Eden. I remember how desolate I felt
on that day, but how from pride in my sex I struggled to hide my
emotions. Annette made no attempt to conceal her sorrow. She flung
herself into my arms and wept long and bitterly. It was the grief of a
child, but it filled my heart with sunshine, and dwelt in my memory for
years.
I returned to school, but my playmate was always in my thoughts. In
dream or awake, at my tasks or in play, loitering under the forest trees
or wandering by the stream, in the noisy tumult of day or musing in the
silent moonshine, the vision of that light-hearted and beauteous girl
was ever present to my imagination. It may seem strange that such
emotions should occupy the mind of a mere boy; but so it was. At length,
however, St. Clair took sick, and died. How bitter was my grief at this
event. It was the first thing that taught me what real sorrow was. This
occurrence broke up my intimacy with the St. Clair family, for, young as
I was, I could perceive that my presence would be a pain to the family,
by continually reminding them of their lost boy. I never therefore
visited Pomfret Hall again,—but often would I linger in its vicinity
hoping to catch a glance of Annette. But I was unsuccessful. I never saw
her again. Our spheres of life were immeasurably separated, the circles
in which she moved knew me not. We had no friends in common, and
therefore no medium of communication. God knew whether she thought of
me. Her parents, though kind, had always acted towards me as if an
impassable barrier existed betwixt the haughty St. Clairs and the
beggared Cavendish, and now that their son was no more they doubtless
had forgotten me. Such thoughts filled my mind as I grew up. The busy
avocations of life interfered, my father died and left me pennyless,
and, to ensure a subsistence for my mother and myself, I went to sea.
The dreams of my youth had long since given way to the sad realities of
life,—and of all the sunny memories of childhood but one remained. That
memory was of Annette.
It is a common saying that the love of a man is but an episode, while
that of a woman is the whole story of life, nor is it my purpose to
gainsay the remark. The wear and tear of toil, the stern conflict with
the world, the ever changing excitements which occupy him,—war, craft,
ambition,—these are sufficient reasons why love can never become the
sole passion of the stronger sex. But, though the saying is in general
true, it has one exception. The first love of a man is never forgotten.
It is through weal and woe the bright spot in his heart. Old men, whose
bosoms have been seared by seventy years conflict with the world, have
been known to weep at the recollection of their early love. The tone of
a voice, the beam of an eye,—a look, a smile, a footstep may bring up
to the mind the memory of her whom we worshipped in youth, and, like the
rod of Moses, sunder the flinty rock, bring tears gushing from the long
silent fountains of the heart. Nor has any after passion the purity of
our first love. If there is anything that links us to the angels, it is
the affection of our youth. It purifies and exalts the heart—it fills
the soul with visions of the bright and beautiful—it makes us scorn
littleness, and aspire after noble deeds. Point me out one who thus
loves, and I will point you out one who is incapable of a mean action.
Such was the effect which my sentiments for Annette had upon me. I saw
her not, it is true,—but she was ever present to my fancy. I pictured
continually to myself the approbation she would bestow on my conduct,
and I shrunk even from entertaining an ignoble thought. I knew that in
all probability we should never meet, but I thirsted to acquire renown,
to do some act which might reach her ears. I loved without hope, but not
the less fervently. A beggar might love a Princess, as a Paladin of old
looked up to his mistress, as an Indian worshipper adored the sun, I
loved, looked up to, and adored Annette. What little of fame I had won
was through her instrumentality. And now I had met her, had been her
preserver. As I lay in my hammock the memory of these things came
rushing through my mind, and emotions of bewilderment, joy, and
gratitude, prevented me from sleep.
I had seen Annette only for a moment, as the fatigue they had endured,
had confined herself and companion to the cabin, during the day. How
should we meet on the morrow? My heart thrilled at the recollection of
her delighted recognition—would she greet me with the same joy when we
met again? How would her father receive me? A thousand such thoughts
rushed through my brain, and kept me long awake—and when at length I
fell into a troubled sleep, it was to dream of Annette.
When I awoke, the morning watch was being called, and springing from my
hammock I was soon at my post on deck. The sky was clear, the waves had
gone down, and a gentle breeze was singing through the rigging. To have
gazed around on the almost unruffled sea one would never have imagined
the fury with which it had raged scarcely forty-eight hours before.
Early in the day Mr. St. Clair appeared on deck, and his first words
were to renew his thanks to me of the day before. He alluded delicately
to past times, and reproved me gently for having suffered the intimacy
betwixt me and his family to decline. He concluded by hoping that, in
future, our friendship—for such he called it—would suffer no
diminution.
I was attending, after breakfast, to the execution of an order forwards,
when, on turning my eyes aft, I saw the flutter of a woman’s dress. My
heart told me it was that of Annette, and, at the instant, she turned
around. Our eyes met. Her smile of recognition was even sweeter than
that of the day before. I bowed, but could not leave my duty, else I
should have flown to her side. It is strange what emotions her smile
awakened in my bosom. I could scarcely attend to the execution of my
orders, so wildly did my brain whirl with feelings of extatic joy. At
length my duty was performed. But then a new emotion seized me. I wished
and yet I feared to join Annette. But I mustered courage to go aft, and
no sooner had I reached the quarterdeck, than Mr. St. Clair beckoned me
to his side.
“Annette,” he said, “has scarcely yet given you her thanks. She has not
forgotten you, indeed she was the first to recognise you yesterday. You
remember, love, don’t you?” he said, turning to his daughter, “the
summer Mr. Cavendish spent with us at the Hall. It was you, I believe,
who shed so many tears at his departure.”
He said this gayly, but it called the color into his daughter’s cheek.
Perhaps he noticed this, for he instantly resumed in a different tone:
“But see, Annette, here comes the captain, and I suppose you would take
a turn on the quarterdeck. Your cousin will accompany him,—Mr.
Cavendish must be your _chaperon_.”
The demeanor of Mr. St. Clair perplexed me. Could it be that he saw my
love for his daughter and was willing to countenance my suit? The idea
was preposterous, as a moment’s reflection satisfied me. I knew too well
his haughty notions of the importance of his family. My common sense
taught me that he never had entertained the idea of my aspiring to his
daughter’s hand—that he would look on such a thing as madness—and his
conduct was dictated merely by a desire to show his gratitude and that
of his daughter to me. These thoughts passed through my mind while he
was speaking, and when he closed, and I offered to escort his daughter,
I almost drew a sigh at the immeasurable distance which separated me
from Annette. Prudence would have dictated that I should avoid the
society of one whom I was beginning to love so unreservedly, but who was
above my reach. Yet who has ever flown from the side of the one he
adores, however hopeless his suit, provided she did not herself repel
him? Besides, I could not, without rudeness, decline the office which
Mr. St. Clair thrust upon me. I obeyed his task, but I felt that my
heart beat faster when Annette’s taper finger was laid on my arm. How
shall I describe the sweetness and modesty with which Annette thanked me
for the service which I had been enabled to do her father and
herself—how to picture the delicacy with which she alluded to our
childhood, recalling the bright hours we had spent together by the
little brook, under the old trees, or in the rich wainscoted apartments
of Pomfret Hall! My heart fluttered as she called up these memories of
the past. I dwelt in return on the pleasure I had experienced in that
short visit, until her eye kindled and her cheek crimsoned at my
enthusiasm. She looked down on the deck, and it was not till I passed to
another theme that she raised her eyes again. Yet she did not seem to
have been displeased at what I had said. On the contrary it appeared to
be her delight to dwell with innocent frankness on the pleasure she had
experienced in that short visit. The pleasure of that half hour’s
promenade yet lives green and fresh in my memory.
We were still conversing when my attention was called away by the cry of
the look-out that a sail was to be seen to windward. Instantly every eye
was turned over the weather-beam, for she was the first sail that had
been reported since the gale. An officer seized a glass, and, hurrying
to the mast-head, reported that the stranger was considered a heavy
craft, although, as yet, nothing but his royals could be seen. As we
were beating up to windward and the stranger was coming free towards us,
the distance betwixt the two vessels rapidly decreased, so that in a
short time the upper sails of the stranger could be distinctly seen from
the deck. His topgallant-yards were now plainly visible from the
cross-trees, and the officer aloft reported that the stranger was either
a heavy merchantman or a frigate. This increased the excitement on deck,
for we knew that there were no vessels of that grade in our navy, and if
the approaching sail should prove to be a man-of-war and an Englishman,
our chances of escape would be light, as he had the weather-gauge of us,
and appeared, from the velocity with which he approached us, to be a
fast sailer. The officers crowded on the quarterdeck, the crew thronged
every favorable point for a look-out, and the ladies, gathering around
Mr. St. Clair and myself, gazed out as eagerly as ourselves in the
direction of the stranger. At length her top-sails began to lift.
“Ha!” said the captain, “he has an enormous swing—what think you of
him, Mr. Massey?” he asked, shutting the glass violently, and handing it
to his lieutenant.
The officer addressed took the telescope and gazed for a minute on the
stranger.
“I know that craft,” he said energetically, “she is a heavy
frigate,—the Ajax,—I served in her some eight years since. I know her
by the peculiar lift of her top-sails.”
“Ah!” said the captain; “you are sure,” he continued, examining her
through his glass again; “she does indeed seem a heavy craft and we have
but one chance—we should surely fight her?”
“If you ask me,” said the lieutenant, “I say no!—why that craft can
blow us out of the water in a couple of broadsides; she throws a weight
of metal treble our own.”
“Then there is but one thing to do—we must wear, and take to our
heels—a stern chase is proverbially a long one.”
During this conversation not a word had been spoken in our group; but I
had noticed that when the lieutenant revealed the strength of the foe,
the cheek of Annette for a moment grew pale. Her emotion however
continued but a moment. And when our ship had been wore, and we were
careering before the wind, her demeanor betrayed none of that
nervousness which characterized her cousin.
“Can they overtake us Mr. Cavendish?” said her companion. “Oh! what a
treacherous thing the sea is. Here we were returning only from
Charleston to Boston, yet shipwrecked and almost lost,—and now pursued
by an enemy and perhaps destined to be captured.”
“Fear not! sweet coz,” laughingly said Annette, “Mr. Cavendish would
scarcely admit that any ship afloat could outsail THE ARROW, and you see
what a start we have in the race. Besides, you heard Captain Smythe just
now say, that, when night came, he hoped to be able to drop the enemy
altogether. Are they pursuing us yet Mr. Cavendish?”
“Oh! yes, they have been throwing out their light sails for the last
quarter of an hour—see there go some more of their kites.”
“But will not we also spread more canvass?”
I was saved the necessity of a reply by an order from the officer of the
deck to spread our studding-sails, and duty called me away. I left the
ladies in the charge of Mr. St. Clair, and hurried to my post. For the
next half hour I was so occupied that I had little opportunity to think
of Annette, and indeed the most of my time was spent below in
superintending the work of the men. When I returned on deck the chase
was progressing with vigor, and it was very evident that THE ARROW,
though a fast sailer, was hard pressed. Every stitch of canvass that
could be made to draw was spread, but the stranger astern had,
notwithstanding, considerably increased on the horizon since I left the
deck. The officers were beginning to exchange ominous looks, and the
faces of our passengers wore an anxious expression. One or two of the
older members of the crew were squinting suspiciously at the stranger.
The captain however wore his usual open front, but a close observer
might have noticed that my superior glanced every moment at the pursuer,
and then ran his eye as if unconsciously up our canvass. At this moment
the cry of a sail rang down from the mast-head, startling us as if we
had heard a voice from the dead, for so intense had been the interest
with which we had regarded our pursuer that not an eye gazed in any
direction except astern. The captain looked quickly around the horizon,
and hailing the look-out, shouted,
“Whereaway?”
“On the starboard-bow.”
“What does he look like?” continued Captain Smythe to me, for I had
taken the glass at once and was now far on my way to the cross-trees.
“He seems a craft about as heavy as our own.”
“How now?” asked the captain, when sufficient space had elapsed to allow
the top-sails of the new visiter to be seen.
“She has the jaunty cut of a corvette!” I replied.
A short space of time—a delay of breathless interest—sufficed to
betray the character of the ship ahead. She proved, as I had expected, a
corvette. Nor were we long left in doubt as to her flag, for the red
field of St. George shot up to her gaff, and a cannon ball ricochetting
across the waves, plumped into the sea a few fathoms ahead of our bow.
For a moment we looked at each other in dismay at this new danger. We
saw that we were beset. A powerful foe was coming up with us hand over
hand astern, and a craft fully our equal was heading us off. Escape
seemed impossible. The ladies, who still kept the deck, turned pale and
clung closer to their protector’s arm. The crew were gloomy. The
officers looked perplexed. But the imperturbable calm of the captain
suffered no diminution. He had already ordered the crew to their
quarters, and the decks were now strewed with preparations for the
strife.
“We will fight him,” he said; “we will cripple or sink him, and then
keep on our way. But let not a shot be fired until I give the order.
Steady, quartermaster, steady.”
By this time I had descended to the deck, ready to take my post at
quarters. The ladies still kept the deck, but the captain’s eye
happening to fall on them, the stern expression of his countenance gave
way to one of a milder character, and, approaching them, he said,
“I am afraid, my dear Miss St. Clair, that this will soon be no place
for you or your fair companion. Allow me to send you to a place of
safety. Ah! here is Mr. Cavendish, he will conduct you below.”
“Oh! Mr. Cavendish,” said Isabel, with a tremulous voice, “is there any
chance of escape?”
Annette did not speak, but she looked up into my face with an anxious
expression, while the color went and came in her cheek. My answer was a
confident assertion of victory, although, God knows, I scarcely dared to
entertain the hope of such a result. It reassured my fair companions,
however, and I thought that the eyes of Annette at least expressed the
gratitude which did not find vent in words.
“We will not forget you in our prayers,” said Isabel, as I prepared to
reascend to the deck, “farewell—may—may we meet again!” and she
extended her hand.
“God bless you and our other defenders,” said Annette. She would have
added more, but her voice lost its firmness. She could only extend her
hand. I grasped it, pressed it betwixt both of mine, and then tore
myself away. As I turned from them, I thought I heard a sob. I know that
a tear-drop was on that delicate hand when I pressed it in my own.
When I reached the deck, I found Mr. St. Clair already at his post, for
he had volunteered to aid in the approaching combat. Nor was that combat
long delayed. We were now close on to the corvette, but yet not a shot
had been fired from our batteries, although the enemy was beginning a
rapid and furious cannonade, under which our brave tars chafed like
chained lions. Many a tanned and sun-browned veteran glared fiercely on
the foe, and even looked curiously and doubtingly on his officers, as
the balls of the corvette came hustling rapidly and more rapidly towards
us, and when at length a shot dismounted one of our carriages and laid
four of our brave fellows dead on the deck, the excitement of the men
became almost uncontrollable. At this instant, however, the corvette
yawed, bore up, and ran off with the wind on his quarter. Quick as
lightning Captain Smythe availed himself of the bravado.
“Lay her alongside, quartermaster,” he thundered.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the old water-rat, and during a few breathless
moments of suspense we crowded silently after the corvette. That
suspense, however, was of short duration. We were now on the quarter of
the enemy. The captain paused no longer, but waving his sword, he
shouted “FIRE,” and simultaneously our broadside was poured in, like a
hurricane of fire, on the foe. Nor during ten minutes was there any
intermission in our fire. The combat was terrific. The men jerked out
their pieces like playthings, and we could soon hear over even the din
of the conflict, the crashing of the enemy’s hull and the falling of his
spars. The rapidity and certainty of our fire meanwhile seemed to have
paralysed the foe, for his broadsides were delivered with little of the
fury which we had been led to expect. His foremast at length went by the
board. The silence of our crew was now first broken, and a deafening
huzza rose up from them, shaking the very welkin with the uproar.
“Another broadside, my brave fellows,” said Captain Smythe, “and then
lay aloft and crowd all sail—I think she’ll hardly pursue us.”
“Huzza, boys, pour it into her,” shouted a grim visaged captain of a
gun, “give her a parting shake, huzza!”
Like a volcano in its might—like an earthquake reeling by—sped that
fearful broadside on its errand. We did not pause to see what damage we
had done, but while the ship yet quivered with the discharge the men
sprang aloft, and before the smoke had rolled away from the decks our
canvass was once more straining in the breeze and we were rapidly
leaving our late enemy. When the prospect cleared up we could see her
lying a hopeless wreck astern. The frigate which, during the conflict,
had drawn close upon us, was now sending her shots like hail-stones over
us, but when she came abreast of her consort she was forced to stop, as
our late foe by this time had hung out a signal of distress. We could
see that boats, laden with human beings, were putting off from the
corvette to the frigate, which proved that our late antagonist was in a
sinking condition. Before an hour she blew up with a tremendous
explosion.
I was the first one to hurry below and relieve the suspense of Annette
and her cousin by apprising them of our success. A few hours repaired
the damage we had sustained, and before night-fall the frigate was out
of sight astern. So ended our first conflict with our enemy.
* * * * *