HOMEWARD BOUND
“But, madame, I am as anxious as you can be! Independent of my own
feelings—and judge if they be not strong—the brigantine should not lie
here another hour. After last night’s work, it will not be long before
a Spanish man-of-war shows herself in the offing, and I have no desire
that our papers should be overhauled, now when my cruise is so nearly
finished. I tell you, my dearest wish is to have it settled, and weigh
with the next tide.”
Captain George spoke from his heart, yet the Marquise seemed scarcely
satisfied. Her movements were abrupt and restless, her eyes glittered,
and a fire as of fever burned in her cheeks, somewhat wasted with all her
late excitement and suspense. For the first time, too, he detected silver
lines about the temples, under those heavy black locks that had always
seemed to him only less beautiful than her child’s.
“Not a moment must be lost,” said she, “not a moment—not a moment,” and
repeating her words, walked across the deck to gaze wistfully over the
side on Port Welcome, with its white houses glistening in the morning
sun. They were safe on board ‘The Bashful Maid,’ glad to escape with life
from the successful revolt that had burned Montmirail West to the ground,
and destroyed most of the white people’s property on the island. Partly
owing to its distance from the original scene of outbreak, partly from
its lying under the very guns of the brigantine, of which the tonnage and
weight of metal had been greatly exaggerated by the negroes, Port Welcome
was yet standing, but its black population were keeping high holiday,
apparently masters of the situation, and its white residents crept about
in fear and trembling, not knowing how much longer they might be allowed
to call their very lives their own. It had been a memorable night, a
night of murder and rapine, and horror and dismay. Few escaped so well as
Madame de Montmirail and her daughter. None indeed had the advantage of
such a rescue. The negroes who tracked them into the bush, and who had
delayed their departure to appropriate such plunder as they could snatch
from the burning house, or to drink from its cellars success to the
revolt, only reached that defile through which the fugitives were guided
by Fleurette after these had passed by. The disappointed pursuers were
there received by a couple of shots from Slap-Jack and his shipmates,
which drove them back in disorder, yelling, boasting, vowing vengeance,
but without any thought of again placing themselves in danger of lead
or steel. In the death of Hippolyte, the revolt had lost its chief, and
became from that moment virtually a failure. The Coromantee was the only
negro concerned really capable of directing such a movement; and when
his leadership was disposed of by a rapid thrust from Captain George’s
rapier, the whole scheme was destined to fall to pieces of itself, after
the reaction which always follows such disorders had taken place, and the
habits of every-day life began to reassert themselves. In the meantime,
the blacks had more congenial amusements in store than voluntary
collision with an English boat’s crew, and soon desisted from a search
through the jungle, apparently as troublesome and hazardous as a hunt for
a hornet’s nest.
By sunrise, therefore, Slap-Jack was able to draw off his party from
their post, and fall back to where the Marquise sat watching by the dead
seaman, on the brink of the lagoon. Nor was Bottle-Jack the only victim
of their escape, for poor Fleurette had already paid the price of her
fidelity with her life.
A strong reinforcement from ‘The Bashful Maid,’ led by her Captain in
person, who had returned at once, after placing Cerise in safety, enabled
Madame de Montmirail and her defenders to take the high road to Port
Welcome in defiance of all opposition. They therefore rounded the lagoon
at once, and proceeding by an easier route than that which her daughter
followed, reached the quay at their leisure, thence to embark on board
the brigantine unmolested by the crowds of rioters with whom the town was
filled.
Therefore it was that Madame de Montmirail now found herself on the deck
of ‘The Bashful Maid,’ urging with a strange persistency, unusual and
even unbecoming in a mother, Captain George’s immediate marriage to her
child, who was quietly sleeping off the night’s fatigues below.
“There is the chapel, madame,” said George, pointing to the little white
edifice that stood between the lighthouse and the town, distinguished
by a cross that surmounted its glistening roof, “and here is the bride,
safe, happy, and I hope sound asleep beneath the very spot where we are
standing. I know not why there should be an hour’s delay, if indeed
the priest have not taken flight. There must have been a prospect of
martyrdom last night, which he would scarce wish to inspect too closely.
Ah! madame, I may seem cold and undemonstrative, but if you could look
into my heart you would see how happy I am!”
His voice and manner carried with them a conviction not to be disputed.
It probed the Marquise to the quick, and true to her character, she
pressed the instrument deeper and deeper into the wound.
“You love her then, monsieur?” she said, speaking very clearly and
distinctly through her set teeth. “You love her as a woman must be loved
if she would be happy—unreservedly, with your whole heart?”
“I love her so well,” he answered, “that I only ask to pass my life in
contributing to her happiness. Mine has been a rude wild career, in
many scenes and many countries. I have lived _in_ society and _out of_
society, afloat and ashore, at bivouac fires and Court receptions, yet I
have always carried the portrait of that one gentle loving face printed
on my heart.”
“I compliment you on your constancy,” she answered, rather bitterly.
“Such gallants have been very rare of late both at the old and new
Courts. You must have seen other women too, as amiable, as beautiful,
who could have loved you perhaps as well.”
Something like a sigh escaped her with the concluding sentence, but there
is no egotist like a happy lover, and he was too preoccupied with his own
thoughts to perceive it. Smiling in his companion’s face, with the old
honest expression that reminded her of what he had been as a boy, he took
her hand and kissed it affectionately.
“Madame,” said he, “shall I make you a frank avowal? Ever since I was a
wild page at Versailles, and you were so kind to me, I have believed in
Madame de Montmirail as my ideal of all that woman should be, and perhaps
might never have loved Cerise so well had she not resembled her mother.”
The Marquise was not without plenty of self-command, but she wanted it
all now. Under pretence of adjusting her glove, she snatched away the
hand he held, that he might not feel it tremble, and forced herself to
laugh while she replied lightly—
“You are complimentary, monsieur, but your compliments are somewhat out
of date. An _old_ woman, you know, does not like to be reminded of her
age, and you were, yes, I honestly confess you were, a dear, mischievous,
good-looking, good-for-nothing boy in that far-off time so long ago. But
all this is nothing to the purpose. Let us send ashore at once to the
priest. The ceremony may take place at noon, and I can give the young
couple my blessing before wishing them good-bye.”
“How, madame?” replied he, astonished. “You will surely accompany us?
You will return with us to Europe? You will never trust yourself amongst
these savages again, after once escaping out of their hands?”
“I shall be safe enough when the garrison has crossed the mountain,”
she answered, “and that must be in a few hours, for they are probably
even now on the march. Till then I will take refuge with the Jesuits on
their plantation at Maria-Galante. I do not think all my people can have
rebelled. Some of them will escort me faithfully as far as that. No,
monsieur, the La Fiertés have never been accustomed to abandon a post
of danger, and I shall not leave the island until this rising has been
completely put down.”
She spoke carelessly, almost contemptuously, but she scarcely knew what
she said. Her actual thoughts, had she allowed herself to utter them,
would have thus framed themselves: “Can there be anything so blind, so
heartless, so self-engrossed—shall I say it?—so entirely and hopelessly
_stupid_ as a man?”
It was not for George to dispute her wishes. Though little given to
illusions, he could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming now, so
strange did it seem to have achieved in the last twelve hours that
which had hitherto formed the one engrossing object of his life,
prized, coveted, dwelt on the more that it looked almost impossible of
fulfilment. There was but one drawback to his joy, one difficulty left,
perplexing indeed, although simple, and doubly annoying because others of
apparently far greater moment had been surmounted. There was no priest to
be found in Port Welcome! The good old Portuguese Curé who took spiritual
charge of the white inhabitants, and such negroes as could be induced
to pay attention to his ministering, had been nearly frightened out of
his wits by the outbreak. This quiet meek old man, who, since he left
his college forty years before, had never known an excitement or anxiety
greater than a visit from his bishop or a blight in his plantain-ground,
now found himself surrounded by swarms of drunken and infuriated slaves,
yelling for his life. It was owing to the presence of mind shown by an
old coloured woman who lived with him as housekeeper, and to no energy
or activity of his own, that he made his escape. She smuggled him out
of the town through a by-street, and when he had once got his mule into
an amble he never drew rein till he reached the Jesuits’ establishment
at Maria-Galante, where he found a qualified welcome and a precarious
refuge. From this shelter, defenceless and uncertain as it was, nothing
would induce him to depart till the colours of a Spanish three-decker
were flying in the harbour, and ere such an arrival could restore
confidence to the colony it would behove ‘The Bashful Maid’ to spread her
wings and flee away.
Captain George was at his wits’ end. In such a dilemma he bethought him
of consulting his second in command. For this purpose he went below to
seek Beaudésir, and found him keeping guard at the cabin door within
which Mademoiselle de Montmirail was reposing, a post he had held without
stirring since she came on board before dawn, and was confided by the
Captain to his care. He had not spoken to her, he had not even seen her
face; but from that moment he had exchanged no words with his comrades,
standing as pale, as silent, and almost as motionless as a statue. He
started violently when the Captain spoke, and collected his faculties
with an obvious effort. George could not but observe his preoccupation.
“I am in a difficulty,” said the latter, “as I have already told you more
than once. Try and comprehend me. I do not often ask for advice, but I
want yours now.”
“You shall have it at any cost,” replied the other. “Do not I owe
everything in the world to you?”
“Listen,” continued George. “The young lady whom my honest fellows
rescued last night, and whom I brought on board, is—is—Mademoiselle de
Montmirail herself.”
“I know—I know,” answered Beaudésir, impatiently. “At least, I mean you
mentioned it before.”
“Very likely,” returned the Captain, “though I do not remember it. Well,
it so happens, you see, that this is the same young lady—the person—the
individual—in short, I have saved the woman of all others who is most
precious to me in the world.”
“Of course—of course,” repeated Beaudésir, impatiently, “she cannot go
back—she _shall_ not go back amongst those wretches. She must stay on
board. You must take her to Europe. There should be no delay. You must be
married—now—immediately—within two hours—before we get the anchor up.”
He seemed strangely eager, restless, excited. Without actually
acknowledging it, George felt instinctively that something in his
friend’s manner reminded him of the Marquise.
“There is a grave difficulty,” said the Captain. “Where can we find a
priest? That fat little Portuguese who looked like a guinea-pig is sure
to have run away, if the negroes have not cut his throat.”
The other reflected, his pale face turning paler every moment. Then he
spoke, in a low determined voice—
“My Captain, there is a Society of Jesuits on the island: I know it for
certain; do not ask me why. I have never failed you, have I? Trust me yet
this once. Order a boat to be manned; I will go ashore instantly; follow
in an hour’s time with a strong guard; bring your bride with you; I will
undertake that everything shall be ready at the chapel, and a priest in
waiting to perform the ceremony.”
George looked him straight in the face. “You are a true friend,” said he,
and gave him his hand. The other bent over it as if he would have put
it to his lips, and when he raised his head again his eyes were full of
tears. He turned away hastily, sprang on deck, and in five minutes the
boat was lowered and Beaudésir over the side.
George tapped humbly at the cabin door, and a gentle face, pale but
lovely, peeped out to greet him. After his whisper the face was anything
but pale, and although the little monosyllable “No” was repeated again
and again in that pleading, yielding tone which robs the negative of all
its harshness, the boon he begged must have been already nearly accorded
if there be any truth in the old Scottish proverb which affirms that
“Nineteen nay-says make half a grant.”
In less than two hours the bridal procession was formed upon the quay,
guarded by some score of stalwart, weather-beaten tars, and presenting
an exceedingly formidable front to the crowds of grinning negroes who
were idling in the sun, talking over the events of the past night, and
congratulating themselves that no such infliction as field-work was ever
to be heard of in the island again.
It was a strange and picturesque wedding, romantic enough in appearance
and reality to have satisfied the wildest imagination. Smoke-Jack
and certain athletic able seamen marched in front; Slap-Jack and his
foretopmen brought up the rear. In the centre walked the Marquise and
her daughter, accompanied by the bridegroom. Four deep on each side
were the special attendants of the bride, reckless in gait, free in
manner, bronzed, bearded, broad-shouldered, and armed to the teeth, yet
cherishing perhaps as deep a devotion for her whom they attended to the
altar as could have been entertained by the fairest bevy of bridesmaids
that ever belonged to her own sex.
Cerise was very grave and very silent; happy indeed beyond expression,
yet a little frightened at the extent as at the suddenness of her own
happiness.
It seemed so strange to be besieged, rescued, carried off by a lover,
and married to him, all within twenty-four hours. The Marquise, on the
contrary, was gay, talkative, brilliant, full of life and spirits; more
beautiful too than usual, in the bright light of that noonday sun.
Slap-Jack, who considered himself no mean judge of such matters, was much
distracted by the conflict in his own mind as to whether, under similar
circumstances, he would have chosen the mother or the child.
Taking little notice of the crowd who followed at a respectful distance,
having received from the free-handed sailors several very intelligible
hints not to come too near, the bridal procession moved steadily through
the outskirts of the town and ascended the hill on which the chapel stood.
Halting at its door, the crew formed a strong guard to prevent
interruption, and the principal performers, accompanied only by
Smoke-Jack, Slap-Jack, and the Marquise, entered the building. There were
flowers on the altar, with wax tapers already lighted, and everything
seemed prepared for the ceremony. A priest, standing with his back
to them, was apparently engaged in putting a finishing touch to the
decorations when they advanced. Cerise, bewildered, frightened, agitated,
clung to her mother’s arm. “Courage, my child,” said the Marquise, “it
will soon be over, and you need never do this again!”
There was something in the voice so hard, so measured, so different from
its usual tone, that the girl glanced anxiously in her face. It betrayed
no symptoms of emotion, not even the little flutter of maternal pride
and anxiety natural to the occasion. It was flushed, imperious, defiant,
and strangely beautiful. Slap-Jack entertained no longer the slightest
doubt of its superiority to any face he had ever seen. And yet no
knightly visor, or Eastern _yashmak_ ever concealed its real wearer more
effectually than that lovely mask which she forced to do her bidding,
though every muscle beneath was quivering in pain the while.
Nor was the Marquise the only person under this consecrated roof who
curbed unruly feelings with a strong and merciless hand. That priest,
with his back to the little congregation, adjusting with trembling
gestures the sacred symbols of his faith, had fought during the last hour
or two such a battle as a man can only fight once in a lifetime; a battle
that, if lost, yields him a prey to evil without hope of rescue; if won,
leaves him faint, exhausted, bleeding, a maimed and shattered champion
for the rest of his earthly life. Since sunrise he had wrestled fiercely
with sin and self. They had helped each other lustily to pull him down,
but he had prevailed at last. Though one insuperable barrier already
existed between himself and the woman he loved so madly at the cost of
his very soul, it was hard to rear another equally insurmountable, with
his own hand; but it would insure her happiness—he resolved to do it, and
therefore he was here.
So when Cerise and her lover advanced to the altar, and the Jesuit
priest, whom they had imagined to be a stranger from Maria-Galante,
turned round to confront them, in spite of his contracted features, in
spite of the wan, death-like hue of his face, they recognised him at
once, and exclaimed simultaneously, in accents of intense surprise,
“Brother Ambrose!” and “Beaudésir!”
The sailors, too much taken aback to speak, gasped at each other in
mute astonishment, nor did Slap-Jack, who had constituted himself in a
manner director of the proceedings, recover his presence of mind till the
conclusion of the ceremony.
If a corpse could be galvanised and set up in priest’s robes to bless
a loving couple whom Heaven has joined together, its benediction could
scarcely be more passionless and mechanical than was that which Florian
de St. Croix—the Brother Ambrose who had been the bride’s confessor, the
Beaudésir who had been the bridegroom’s lieutenant—now pronounced over
George Hamilton and Cerise de Montmirail. Not an eyelash quivered, not a
muscle trembled, not a tone of emotion could be detected in his voice.
Still young, still enthusiastic, still, though it was wild and warped and
wilful, possessing a human heart, he believed honestly that he then bade
farewell at once and for ever to earth and earthly things.
When they left the chapel, he was gone; gone back, so said some negroes
lounging in the neighbourhood, to the other Jesuits at Maria-Galante.
They believed him to be a priest of that order, resident at their
plantation, who had simply come across the island, and returned in the
regular performance of his duty. They cheered him when he emerged from
a side door and departed swiftly through their ranks. They cheered the
bridal party a few minutes later, leaving the chapel to re-embark.
They even cheered the Marquise, when, after bidding them farewell,
she separated from the others, and sought a house in the town, where
Célandine had already collected several faithful slaves who could be
trusted to defend her, and in the cellars of which refuge the Italian
overseer was even then concealed. They cheered Slap-Jack more than any
one, turning round to curse them, not without blows, for crowding in too
close. Lighthearted and impressionable, they were delighted with the
glitter, the bustle, the parade of the whole business, and thought it
little inferior to the “bobbery” of the preceding night.
So Cerise and her husband embarked on board the brigantine without delay.
In less than an hour the anchor was up, and with a following tide and a
wind off shore, ‘The Bashful Maid’ stood out to sea, carrying at least
two happy hearts along with her, whatever she may have left behind.
Before sunset she was hull-down on the horizon, but long after white
sails vanished their last gleam seemed yet to linger on the eyes of two
sad, wistful watchers, for whom, henceforth, it was to be a gloomier
world.
They knew not each other’s faces, they never guessed each other’s
feelings, nor imagined how close a link between the two existed in that
sunny speck, fading to leeward on the deep blue sea.
None the less longingly did they gaze eastward; none the less keenly
did the Marquise de Montmirail and Florian de St. Croix feel that their
loves, their hopes, their better selves-all that brightened the future,
that enhanced the past, that made life endurable—was gone from them in
the Homeward Bound.