EXPIATION.
Among the killed on board the _Xyphias_ was Captain Spear.
Whether it had been owing to his long enforced abstinence from his bane,
strong drink, or to the long hours of solitude giving him ample time for
reflection on the desert island, or to earlier and holier associations
revived, or to all these influences combined, I do not know; but it is
certain that a gradual change for the better had been stealing over this
man for some time before the sea fight.
Up to the day of the engagement he had had the freedom of the ship. On
that day, however, in the beginning of the action, Captain Yetsom,
meeting him on deck, had said:
“I know how hard it is for a brave man to be cooped up in his quarters
while a battle is going on; but prudential considerations oblige me to
send you to yours. Were you at large here, unforeseen accidents might
place it in your power to do us much injury.”
“Captain Yetsom,” said Spear, speaking earnestly and seeking to meet the
eye of the commander of the _Xyphias_, “if you will give me the freedom
of your deck during this engagement, I promise you upon my sacred honor
that I will take no part in it against you or for your enemy. I owe the
dogs who deserted me no love or service, Heaven knows! And even should
circumstance place it in my power to harm you, or aid them, I will do
neither. I swear it in the hearing of high Heaven!”
Captain Yetsom looked into the eyes that had been seeking his so
earnestly, and saw in them such good faith as won his confidence.
“Well—I will trust you,” he said, and hurried off to his duties.
Spear had promised no more than this.
All through the exciting chase he had remained a silent, inactive
spectator, brooding mournfully over—what?
Officers and men, passing rapidly on their hurried errands, sometimes
glanced at this sombre figure like a statue there, and wondered
carelessly what his thoughts and feelings might be.
And what were they in truth? Who could tell? Was his love for the old
flag stealing over him? Did he remember how his father, now in his
grave, had sailed and served under it for more than forty well-spent
years? How that brave and patriotic father had taught him to love and
honor it as the emblem of his nation, the safeguard of liberty, the
_ægis_ under which the oppressed of all the earth found or hoped to find
protection? Or did he remember his own stainless and promising youth
when he had been the pride of his father, the joy of his mother, the
idol of his brothers and sisters, and the very life’s life of her, the
fair one, dearer than all the rest, who was to have been his wife, but
from whom the sins of his manhood had utterly divided him.
Ah, seduced by evil counselors, misled by specious arguments, tempted by
ambition, and weakened by that growing vice, he had suffered himself to
be drawn in and hurried down into that malebogle, in which so many
brave, misguided spirits perished! He had deserted the old Flag—he had
raised his hand against it!
I cannot speak here with assurance, for I gathered these antecedents of
this man from another source than his lips; but I think it must have
been memories like these that caused the sobs and tears that shook his
broad chest and flowed down his bronzed cheeks as he stood again under
the old Flag, among the men who were fighting for it. I say no one could
read his heart or tell his thoughts and feelings; but many saw his
actions and heard the few words he uttered.
“God have mercy on me, what have I been doing? God forgive me, for I
have been mad, I think!”
While he had been standing thus absorbed, entranced, by the memories of
the past and the pains of the present, the storm of battle had been
gathering all around him.
The ships had been manœuvring and were now abreast of each other,
pouring in their broadsides.
The tremendous crash of the reports aroused him. He started up, his eyes
kindled with a new resolution, and he watched his opportunity to put it
in practice.
It came. He saw a brave gunner fall. He sprang to fill his place, and
served the gun until he was relieved. After that he threw himself into
the action with all his soul, now serving a gun that was short handed,
now, cap in hand, cheering on the men. He drew attention from all. Many
a brave old soldier, in the midst of the battle, found time to grasp his
hand, saying:
“You are one of us still, God bless you!” or words to that effect. One
earnest old gunner of the order of men who prayed and fought, gave him a
grip, exclaiming, with more cordiality than coherence:
“‘There is more joy in Heaven over one,’ _et cetera_, and ‘go thou and
do likewise.’”
On seeing his zeal and devotion, Justin found time once to dart to his
side and say:
“Heaven bless you for your noble example! I had done you injustice in
the past! Forgive me now!”
“You did me no injustice, Mr. Rosenthal. I had given you too much reason
by word and deed to think the worst of me. I was never so evil as I made
myself out to be, however; though evil of late have been my days.
Enough! that is past! And I am offering up my life in expiation now.”
He was indeed. He never shrank from duty or from danger. And, not ten
minutes after these words had left his lips, a cannon ball from the
enemy struck and cut him in two. And thus at last was his promise to his
dying father grandly redeemed.
To return from this episode.
Lieutenant Ethel, on leaving Justin, ordered the forehold of the
_Xyphias_ to be prepared to receive the prisoners. Then he mustered his
men under arms, passed over to the _Sea Scourge_, ordered the hatches to
be taken off and the prisoners to come up on deck.
One hundred and nineteen men responded to the call, and were all marched
to their place of confinement, with the exception of the officers, who
were furnished quarters with the officers of the _Xyphias_.
As soon as the prisoners were secured, a portion of the ship’s company
were set to putting the _Xyphias_ in order. The decks were swabbed, the
rigging righted, and all traces of the late conflict so effectually
removed that she began again to look like one of our tidy men-of-war,
and not like a cross between a shipwreck and a butcher’s shambles.
Lieutenant Ethel, with the surgeon and another portion of the crew, went
over to the _Sea Scourge_ to attend to her remaining wounded and to put
her to rights.
The injured men on the upper deck having been already removed and
relieved, the lieutenant and the surgeon passed at once to the lower
deck, where a sight of horror met their eyes.
The wounded, dying and dead lay scattered thickly around. The groans of
the living were more appalling than the ghastliness of the dying or the
dead.
All that were still breathing were at once tenderly removed to the
cockpit, where the surgeon of the _Xyphias_, assisted by the surgeon of
the _Sea Scourge_, dressed their wounds, administered opiates, or in
other ways sought to alleviate their sufferings.
Body after body of the dead was brought up, sewed in a sail-cloth
winding sheet, with a weight at head and foot, and solemnly consigned to
the deep to remain until that dread day when “the sea shall give up its
dead.”
This sacred duty having been performed, the deck was swabbed and put in
as good order as circumstances would admit.
The carpenter now reported that he had plugged all the shot-holes of
both ships under or near the water lines, and sounded their pumps, and
that neither of them now gained any more water.
Lieutenant Ethel then ordered that the further repairs needed by both
vessels should be continued by watches both day and night, so that the
benefit of the present calm might not be lost.
And then he went below and turned in to take the rest he so much needed.
Britomarte, on leaving Justin, had gone, as I said, down into the
cockpit to look after her own especial cases among the wounded, and also
to dispatch a messenger in search of Judith. An hour passed away, during
which Britomarte had ministered to the wants of all her patients, and at
the end of which her messenger returned without any news of Judith, who
was nowhere to be found.
Miss Conyers now felt seriously alarmed lest some fatal accident had
happened to the girl, or lest she, in her delirium of terror, had cast
herself into the sea. In the midst of this anxiety, however, it occurred
to her that at the cessation of the cannonading Judith might have
returned to the cabin. With this hope Britomarte returned thither.
She had scarcely reached the foot of the companion ladder, when she
thought she heard a groan coming from the direction of the stateroom
occupied in common by herself and Judith.
She hurried thither and opened the door, and there lay the girl tossing
and moaning in high fever, brought on by excitement.
“Lorrd bless you, ma’am, is it yerself sure? Troth I thought you had
forgot me entirely, and left me here to perish alone. Faix I’m burning
up, so I am. May the divil fly away wid all say fights, for this has
been the death iv me, so it has. Sure, I’m murthered complately from
head to fut. And you left me to me fate, so you did.”
“Hush, Judith! You must be quiet, or you will grow worse. Try to compose
yourself now, while I go and get something that will do you good,” said
Miss Conyers, laying a towel wet with cold water upon the girl’s burning
head.
Then she went in search of a surgeon and procured an opiate, which she
administered to her patient. Then she renewed the wet towel, rearranged
the disordered bed, darkened the room and left Judith to repose. If any
of my readers imagine this portrait of Judith to be overdrawn, I can
assure them it is not. I knew this girl for years. She was just the
“medley of contraries”—the mixture of wit and folly, good sense and
absurdity, spirit and cowardice, selfishness and self-devotion, that I
represent her to have been. I lost her, and could have better spared a
better.
From the cabin Miss Conyers returned to the cockpit, to her wounded,
bringing smiles to the faces of the poor sufferers, as she tenderly
eased their positions, turned their pillow, bathed their faces and
hands, or held cooling drinks to their feverish lips.
It was while Britomarte was engaged in this humane work, that the
surgeon was summoned on the upper deck. But little did she imagine that
he was called to attend Justin or that Justin had the slightest need of
his care.
Britomarte did not confine her attentions to the wounded on the
_Xyphias_. But when she had done all she could for them she visited the
_Sea Scourge_ and ministered to the sufferers there.
The next morning the repairs upon the _Xyphias_ were completed, so that
she was once more in good fighting order.
The men were then transferred to the _Sea Scourge_ to expedite the work
there. Lieutenant Ethel found the decks of the prize clean and sweet,
the wounded men in their hammocks, and the work progressing so rapidly
that the privateer would be fit for sailing in twenty-four hours.
Britomarte, worn out by her arduous labors of the day before, slept very
late that morning; and upon entering the cabin she found that the
breakfast had been long set. She was very hungry, but not knowing the
condition of her companions, she patiently waited for their appearance,
only wondering at their prolonged absence.
At length the steward entered the cabin, and she inquired what detained
the gentlemen.
The man, forewarned not to alarm her, answered that neither Captain
Yetsom nor Mr. Rosenthal had risen yet.
So Britomarte, amazed at their self-indulgence and unsuspicious of their
true state, breakfasted alone, and then took in a cup of tea and a round
of toast to Judith, whose fever was now gone, but who still kept her bed
from the weakness of reaction.
Finding still that her companions did not appear, she became uneasy and
went to seek the surgeon and inquire of him the true reason of their
absence.
Dr. Brown informed her that they were both wounded, though not
dangerously; and that he had ordered both of them to keep quiet for a
day or two.
“My Brother Justin wounded! And I not know it until now! Oh, Dr. Brown,
I must go to him at once!” she exclaimed, in excessive agitation.
“No, Miss Conyers, you must not—you of all persons.”
“But I will go! Who shall hinder me? And why should I not? Why shouldn’t
I, who have attended so many wounded seamen who had no claims upon me
but those of common humanity, go and wait on my own——” her voice broke
down in tears.
—“Sweetheart?” said the doctor, archly, finishing her sentence in his
own way.
“No, sir! my own soul’s brother!” flashed Britomarte.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“I ask you why I may not minister to my brother, as I have ministered to
scores of strangers?”
“Because your presence would agitate him as it could not possibly
agitate strangers. He must be kept quiet to-day. His wound is not a
dangerous one, as it is now, but there are incident upon even slight
wounds such things as irritative fevers, which are bad, and erysipelas,
which is worse.”
Britomarte sank down upon a coil of rope and covered her face with her
hands.
“Now don’t do that! You, the ‘Battle Queen’ of yesterday, to give way
to-day because your—ahem! well! brother, since you will have it,
brother—is wounded! I tell you his wound is not dangerous, scarcely
serious. The worst of it is he concealed it too long. He concealed it
until every other case was attended to—noble fellow! Now see here! I
told you of what might possibly happen in case he should be excited,
only to prove to you how necessary it is that he should be quiet. Now I
will tell you what I will do with you. I will promise that if he is kept
still to-day, he shall see you for a few minutes to-morrow or next day.”
But Britomarte was too much agitated to trust herself to speak. She
started up, hurried to her stateroom, flung herself upon her berth and
burst into tears.
“Justin wounded,” she sobbed, “and concealing his wound from all others
until even the humblest sufferer was served! And concealing it even from
me, to save me pain! How patient, how noble, how self-sacrificing he
always is! Justin wounded! and ah! much more seriously than the doctor
will admit. And if he should die! disappear from the earth forever! I
could not live on it! I could not! Heavenly Father, spare him and save
me this dread trial that I could not bear!”
Yes, truly, the “Battle Queen” of yesterday was a weeping woman to-day!
The next morning, on waking, both Captain Yetsom and Mr. Rosenthal found
themselves much better, though still so heavily oppressed with languor
and weariness that they dozed away the whole day, indifferent to all
that was going on around them and unconscious almost even of their own
existence.
Britomarte again breakfasted alone, feeling very miserable. She had
never realized so keenly how vitally necessary to her happiness Justin’s
presence was. And she was not permitted to see him that day.
In the course of the forenoon Judith came out of her stateroom, cross
and sulky, and muttering maledictions upon the sea, the ships, the guns,
and most things in general.
Meanwhile the calm still continued and the works on the prize were all
but finished.
On the third morning our two wounded friends were very much better.
Justin especially, whose hurt was the least severe, felt his strength so
much revived, and his wish to see Britomarte so urgent, that in the
afternoon he arose and dressed himself and crept out into the cabin.
Britomarte was seated with her elbow resting upon the center-table, and
her forehead bowed upon her hands in deep thought.
Justin came quietly to her side, and resting his hand upon the table,
whispered softly:
“Britomarte!”
Like a deer she sprang up, her hands extended, her whole face beaming
with joy, as she exclaimed:
“Oh, Justin! I am so glad to see you! I have missed you so much! I
wished to go and nurse you, but the doctor would not allow it. How is
your wound? And oh! why did you conceal it from me?”
“Dear Britomarte, I did not wish to distress you with groundless
anxieties. My injury was slight. I am nearly well now; and I am more
than repaid for my short confinement by the welcome you give me. But
yourself? I hear that you have been a sister of mercy among the wounded.
How have you borne the trial?” he inquired, looking down upon her with
infinite tenderness and solicitude.
“I have borne everything well, except your wound and your concealment of
it from me. Oh, Justin!”
“Well, well, dear sister, I am all right now—quite right,” he answered,
smiling.
But even as he spoke she saw his lips grow white, and a film pass over
his eyes, but she governed her alarm, and said gently:
“Justin, you must lie down—there on the sofa; hush! you must not speak.
I will help you there, and I will get a book and sit down by you and
read to you, but if you attempt to talk I will leave you.”
“Well, I submit myself to you, my gentle nurse,” said Justin, willingly
enough obeying her mandate, for he felt that he was not strong enough to
sit up, or self-denying enough to leave Britomarte’s company.
So she led him to the sofa and eased him gently down upon it, and
arranged the cushions under his head and chest.
Then she drew a chair to his side, and sat down to read to him. Her
right hand held the book on her lap, her left hand lay softly on his
forehead. She read purposely in a low, monotonous tone.
Presently, as if her touch and tone were mesmeric, his eyes grew heavy,
then closed. She shut her book, and continued to watch him until
gradually her head drooped lower and lower, until her forehead rested on
the arm of the sofa, and her beautiful, heavy, dark hair, slipping from
its fastening, fell down and mingled with the auburn curls that shaded
his pale forehead.
Both were asleep.
Judith came in and found them so. She stood contemplating them a few
minutes, and then her Irish enthusiasm burst forth.
“Och, sure, what a beautiful picter entirely. It’s like the babes in the
woods, so it is, or Adam and Ave in the garden iv Aden, before the
sarpint entered it. Sure it’s made for aich other they are, the
darlints. Troth meself wonders the chaplain did not marry thim out iv
hand, the jewels. Faix it’s a pair iv slaping beauties they are, the
angels. And meself will sit down and guard thim.”
And Judith drew a chair up to the sofa, and set herself squarely before
them, losing all consciousness of her own pains, injuries and
misadventures, in the satisfaction with which she contemplated this
picture of beauty and repose.