IN WHICH SIR HENRY MORGAN APPEALS UNAVAILINGLY ALIKE TO THE PITY OF
WOMAN, THE FORGIVENESS OF PRIEST, THE FRIENDSHIP OF COMRADE, AND THE
HATRED OF MEN
"And bless me also, my father," cried Mercedes, kneeling by Alvarado's
side.
"Most willingly, my fair daughter," answered the old man. "A fit
helpmate indeed thou hast shown thyself for so brave a soldier. By your
leave, your Excellency. You will indulge an old man's desire to bless
the marriage of the son as he did that of the mother? No obstacle, I
take it, now exists to prevent this most happy union."
"None," answered the Viceroy, as the young people rose and stood before
him, "and glad I am that this happy solution of our difficulties has
come to pass."
"And when, sir," questioned the priest further, "may I ask that you
design----"
"The sooner the better," said the Viceroy smiling grimly. "By the mass,
reverend father, I'll feel easier when he hath her in his charge!"
"I shall prove as obedient to thee as wife, Don Francisco----" said
Mercedes with great spirit, turning to him.
"Nay, call me Alvarado, sweet lady," interrupted her lover.
"Alvarado then, if you wish--for it was under that name that I first
loved thee--I shall prove as obedient a wife to thee as I was a dutiful
daughter to thee, my father."
"'Tis not saying o'er much," commented the Viceroy, but smiling more
kindly as he said the words. "Nay, I'll take that back, Mercedes, or
modify it. Thou hast, indeed, been to me all that a father could ask,
until----"
"'Twas my fault, your Excellency. On me be the punishment," interrupted
the lover.
"Thou shalt have it with Mercedes," answered the Viceroy, laughing
broadly now. "What say ye, gentlemen?"
"My lord," said Agramonte, from his age and rank assuming to speak for
the rest, "there is not one of us who would not give all he possessed to
stand in the young Lord de Guzman's place."
"Well, well," continued the old man, "when we have restored order in the
town we shall have a wedding ceremony--say to-morrow."
"Ay, ay, to-morrow, to-morrow!" cried the cavaliers.
"Your Excellency, there is one more thing yet to be done," said Alvarado
as soon as he could be heard.
"Art ever making objections, Captain Alvarado--Don Francisco, that is.
We might think you had reluctance to the bridal," exclaimed the Viceroy
in some little surprise. "What is it now?"
"The punishment of this man."
"I gave him into your hands."
"By God!" shouted old Hornigold, "I wondered if in all this fathering
and mothering and sweethearting and giving in marriage he had
forgot----"
"Not so. The postponement but makes it deeper," answered Alvarado
gravely. "Rest satisfied."
"And I shall have my revenge in full measure?"
"In full, in overflowing measure, senor."
"Do you propose to shoot me?" asked the buccaneer chieftain coolly. "Or
behead me?"
"That were a death for an honorable soldier taken in arms and forced to
bide the consequences of his defeat. It is not meet for you," answered
Alvarado.
"What then? You'll not hang me? Me! A knight of England! Sometime
Governor of Jamaica!"
"These titles are nothing to me. And hanging is the death we visit upon
the common criminal, a man who murders or steals, or blasphemes. Your
following may expect that. For you there is----"
"You don't mean to burn me alive, do you?"
"Were you simply a heretic that might be meet, but you are worse----"
"What do you mean?" cried the buccaneer, carried away by the
cold-blooded menace in Alvarado's words. "Neither lead, nor steel, nor
rope, nor fire!"
"Neither one nor the other, sir."
"Is it the wheel? The rack? The thumbscrew? Sink me, ye shall see how an
Englishman can die! Even from these I flinch not."
"Nor need you, from these, for none of them shall be used," continued
the young soldier, with such calculating ferocity in his voice that in
spite of his dauntless courage and intrepidity the blood of Morgan froze
within his veins.
"Death and destruction!" he shouted. "What is there left?"
"You shall die, senor, not so much by the hand of man as by the act of
God."
"God! I believe in none. There is no God!"
"That you shall see."
"Your Excellency, my lords! I appeal to you to save me from this man,
not my son but my nephew----"
"S'death, sirrah!" shouted the Viceroy, enraged beyond measure by the
allusion to any relationship, "not a drop of your base blood pollutes
his veins. I have given you over to him. He will attend to you."
"What means he to do then?"
"You shall see."
"When?"
"To-morrow."
The sombre, sinister, although unknown purpose of the Spaniards had new
terrors lent to it by the utter inability of the buccaneer to foresee
what was to be his punishment. He was a man of the highest courage, the
stoutest heart, yet in that hour he was astonied. His knees smote
together; he clenched his teeth in a vain effort to prevent their
chattering. All his devilry, his assurance, his fortitude, his strength,
seemed to leave him. He stood before them suddenly an old, a broken man,
facing a doom portentous and terrible, without a spark of strength or
resolution left to meet it, whatever it might be. And for the first time
in his life he played the craven, the coward. He moistened his dry lips
and looked eagerly from one face to another in the dark and gloomy ring
that encircled him.
"Lady," he said at last, turning to Mercedes as the most likely of his
enemies to befriend him, "you are a woman. You should be tender hearted.
You don't want to see an old man, old enough to be your father, suffer
some unknown, awful torture? Plead for me! Ask your lover. He will
refuse you nothing now."
There was a dead silence in the room. Mercedes stared at the miserable
wretch making his despairing appeal as if she were fascinated.
"Answer him," said her stern old father, "as a Spanish gentlewoman
should."
It was a grim and terrible age. The gospel under which all lived in
those days was not that of the present. It was a gospel writ in blood,
and fire, and steel.
"An eye for an eye," said the girl slowly, "a tooth for a tooth, life
for life, shame for shame," her voice rising until it rang through the
room. "In the name of my ruined sisters, whose wails come to us this
instant from without, borne hither on the night wind, I refuse to
intercede for you, monster. For myself, the insults you have put upon
me, I might forgive, but not the rest. The taking of one life like yours
can not repay."
"You hear?" cried Alvarado. "Take him away."
"One moment," cried Morgan. "Holy Father--your religion--it teaches to
forgive they say. Intercede for me!"
His eyes turned with faint hope toward the aged priest.
"Not for such as thou," answered the old man looking from him. "I could
forgive this," he touched his battered tonsure, "and all thou hast done
against me and mine. That is not little, for when I was a lad, a youth,
before I took the priestly yoke upon me, I loved Maria Zerega--but that
is nothing. What suffering comes upon me I can bear, but thou hast
filled the cup of iniquity and must drain it to the dregs. Hark ye--the
weeping of the desolated town! I can not interfere! They that take the
sword shall perish by it. It is so decreed. You believe not in God----"
"I will! I do!" cried the buccaneer, clutching at the hope.
"I shall pray for thee, that is all."
"Hornigold," cried the now almost frenzied man, his voice hoarse with
terror and weakness, "they owe much to you. Without you they had not
been here. I have wronged you grievously--terribly--but I atone by this.
Beg them, not to let me go but only to kill me where I stand! They will
not refuse you. Had it not been for you this man would not have known
his father. He could not have won this woman. You have power. You'll not
desert an old comrade in his extremity? Think, we have stood together
sword in hand and fought our way through all obstacles in many a
desperate strait. Thou and I, old shipmate. By the memory of that old
association, by the love you once bore me, and by that I gave to you,
ask them for my death, here--now--at once!"
"You ask for grace from me!" snarled Hornigold savagely, yet triumphant.
"You--you hanged my brother----"
"I know, I know! 'Twas a grievous error. I shall be punished for
all--ask them to shoot me--hang me----"
He slipped to his knees, threw himself upon the floor, and lay
grovelling at Hornigold's feet.
"Don't let them torture me, man! My God, what is it they intend to do to
me?"
"Beg, you hound!" cried the boatswain, spurning him with his foot. "I
have you where I swore I'd bring you. And, remember, 'tis I that laid
you low--I--I--" He shrieked like a maniac. "When you suffer in that
living death for which they design you, remember with every lingering
breath of anguish that it was I who brought you there! You trifled with
me--mocked me--betrayed me. You denied my request. I grovelled at your
feet and begged you--you spurned me as I do you now. Curse you! I'll ask
no mercy for you!"
"My lord," gasped out Morgan, turning to the Viceroy in one final
appeal, as two of the men dragged him to his feet again, "I have
treasure. The galleon we captured--it is buried--I can lead you there."
"There is not a man of your following," said the Viceroy, "who would not
gladly purchase life by the same means."
"And 'tis not needed," said the boatswain, "for I have told them where
it lies."
"If Teach were here," said Morgan, "he would stand by me."
A man forced his way into the circle carrying a sack in his hand.
Drawing the strings he threw the contents at the feet of the buccaneer,
and there rolled before him the severed head of the only man save Black
Dog upon whom he could have depended, his solitary friend.
Morgan staggered back in horror from the ghastly object, staring at it
as if fascinated.
[Illustration: ... he threw the contents at the feet of the buccaneer,
and there rolled before him the severed head of ... his solitary
friend.]
"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" laughed the old boatswain. "What was it that he sang?
'We'll be damnably mouldy'--ay, even you and I captain--'an hundred
years hence.' But should you live so long, you'll not forget 'twas
I."
"You didn't betray me then, my young comrade," whispered Morgan, looking
down at the severed head. "You fought until you were killed. Would that
my head might lie by your side."
He had been grovelling, pleading, weeping, beseeching, but the utter
uselessness of it at last came upon him and some of his courage
returned. He faced them once more with head uplifted.
"At your will, I'm ready," he cried. "I defy you! You shall see how
Harry Morgan can die. Scuttle me, I'll not give way again!"
"Take him away," said Alvarado; "we'll attend to him in the morning."
"Wait! Give me leave, since I am now tried and condemned, to say a
word."
A cunning plan had flashed into the mind of Morgan, and he resolved to
put it in execution.
"It has been a long life, mine, and a merry one. There's more blood upon
my hands--Spanish blood, gentlemen--than upon those of any other human
being. There was Puerto Principe. Were any of you there? The men ran
like dogs before me there and left the women and children. I wiped my
feet upon your accursed Spanish flag. I washed the blood from my hands
with hair torn from the heads of your wives, your sweethearts, and you
had not courage to defend them!"
A low murmur of rage swept through the room.
"But that's not all. Some of you perhaps were at Porto Bello. I drove
the women of the convents to the attack, as in this city yesterday. When
I finished I burned the town--it made a hot fire. I did it--I--who stand
here! I and that cursed one-eyed traitor Hornigold, there!"
The room was in a tumult now. Shouts, and curses, and imprecations broke
forth. Weapons were bared, raised, and shaken at him. The buccaneer
laughed and sneered, ineffable contempt pictured on his face.
"And some of you were at Santa Clara, at Chagres, and here in Venezuela
at Maracaibo, where we sunk the ships and burned your men up like rats.
Then, there was Panama. We left the men to starve and die. Your mother,
Senor Agramonte--what became of her? Your sister, there! Your wife,
here! The sister of your mother, you young dog--what became of them all?
Hell was let loose in this town yesterday. Panama was worse than La
Guayra. I did it--I--Harry Morgan's way!"
He thrust himself into the very faces of the men, and with cries of rage
they rushed upon him. They brushed aside the old Viceroy, drowning his
commands with their shouts. Had it not been for the interference of
Hornigold and Alvarado they would have cut Morgan to pieces where he
stood. And this had been his aim--to provoke them beyond measure by a
recital of some of his crimes so that he would be killed in their fury.
But the old boatswain with superhuman strength seized the bound captain
and forced him into a corner behind a table, while Alvarado with
lightning resolution beat down the menacing sword points.
"Back!" he cried. "Do you not see he wished to provoke this to escape
just punishment? I would have silenced him instantly but I thought ye
could control yourselves. I let him rave on that he might be condemned
out of his own mouth, that none could have doubt that he merits death at
our hands to-morrow. Sheath your weapons instantly, gentlemen!" he
cried.
"Ay," said the Viceroy, stepping into the crowd and endeavoring to make
himself heard, "under pain of my displeasure. What, soldiers, nobles, do
ye turn executioners in this way?"
"My mother----"
"My sister----"
"The women and children----"
"The insult to the flag----"
"The disgrace to the Spanish name!"
"That he should say these things and live!"
"Peace, sirs, he will not say words like these to-morrow. Now, we have
had enough. See!" cried the old Viceroy, pointing to the windows, "the
day breaks. Take him away. Agramonte, to you I commit the fort.
Mercedes, Alvarado, come with me. Those who have no duties to perform,
go get some sleep. As for you, prisoner, if you have preparation to
make, do so at once, for in the morning you shall have no opportunity."
"I am ready now!" cried Morgan recklessly, furious because he had been
balked in his attempt. "Do with me as you will! I have had my day, and
it has been a long and merry one."
"And I mine, to-night. It has been short, but enough," laughed
Hornigold, his voice ringing like a maniac's in the hall. "For I have
had my revenge!"
"We shall take care of that in the morning," said Alvarado, turning away
to follow the Viceroy and Mercedes.
BOOK VI
IN WHICH THE CAREER OF SIR HENRY MORGAN IS ENDED ON ISLA DE LA TORTUGA,
TO THE GREAT DELECTATION OF MASTER BENJAMIN HORNIGOLD, HIS SOMETIME
FRIEND
CHAPTER XXV
AND LAST. WHEREIN IS SEEN HOW THE JUDGMENT OF GOD CAME UPON THE
BUCCANEERS IN THE END
Before it was submerged by the great earthquake which so tremendously
overwhelmed the shores of South America with appalling disaster nearly a
century and a half later, a great arid rock on an encircling stretch of
sandy beach--resultant of untold centuries of struggle between stone and
sea--thrust itself above the waters a few miles northward of the coast
of Venezuela. The cay was barren and devoid of any sort of life except
for a single clump of bushes that had sprung up a short distance from
the huge rock upon a little plateau sufficiently elevated to resist the
attacks of the sea, which at high tide completely overflowed the islet
except at that one spot.
Four heavy iron staples had been driven with great difficulty into holes
drilled in the face of the volcanic rock. To these four large chains had
been made fast. The four chains ended in four fetters and the four
fetters enclosed the ankles and wrists of a man. The length of the four
chains had been so cunningly calculated that the arms and legs of the
man were drawn far apart, so that he resembled a gigantic white cross
against the dark surface of the stone. A sailor would have described his
position by saying that he had been "spread-eagled" by those who had
fastened him there. Yet the chains were not too short to allow a little
freedom of motion. He could incline to one side or to the other, lift
himself up or down a little, or even thrust himself slightly away from
the face of the rock.
The man was in tatters, for his clothing had been rent and torn by the
violent struggles he had made before he had been securely fastened in
his chains. He was an old man, and his long gray hair fell on either
side of his lean, fierce face in tangled masses. A strange terror of
death--the certain fate that menaced him, was upon his countenance. He
had borne himself bravely enough except for a few craven moments, while
in the presence of his captors and judges, chief among whom had been the
young Spanish soldier and the one-eyed sailor whom he had known for so
many years. With the bravado of despair he had looked with seeming
indifference on the sufferings of his own men that same morning. After
being submitted to the tortures of the rack, the boot, the thumbscrew,
or the wheel, in accordance with the fancy of their relentless captors,
they had been hanged to the outer walls and he had been forced to pass
by them on his way to this hellish spot. But the real courage of the man
was gone now. His simulation had not even been good enough to deceive
his enemies, and now even that had left him.
He was alone, so he believed, upon the island, and all of the mortal
fear slowly creeping upon him already appeared in his awful face,
clearly exhibited by the light of the setting sun streaming upon his
left hand for he was chained facing northward, that is, seaward. As he
fancied himself the only living thing upon that island he took little
care to conceal his emotions--indeed, it was impossible for him any
longer to keep up the pretence of indifference. His nerves were
shattered, his spirit broken. Retribution was dogging him hard.
Vengeance was close at hand at last. Besides, what mattered it? He
thought himself alone, absolutely alone. But in that fancy he was wrong,
for in the solitary little copse of bushes of which mention has been
made there lay hidden a man--an ancient sailor. His single eye gleamed
as fiercely upon the bound, shackled prisoner as did the setting sun
itself.
Old Benjamin Hornigold, who had schemed and planned for his revenge, had
insisted upon being put ashore on the other side of the island after
the boats had rowed out of sight of the captive, that he might steal
back and, himself unseen, watch the torture of the man who had betrayed
him and wronged him so deeply that in his diseased mind no expiation
could be too awful for the crime; that he might glut his fierce old soul
with the sight for which it had longed since the day Harry Morgan,
beholden to him as he was for his very life and fortune, for a thousand
brave and faithful, if nefarious, services, had driven him like a dog
from his presence. Alvarado--who, being a Spaniard, could sympathize and
understand the old sailor's lust for revenge--had readily complied with
his request, and had further promised to return for the boatswain in two
days. They calculated nicely that the already exhausted prisoner would
scarcely survive that long, and provisions and water ample for that
period had been left for the sustenance of Hornigold--alone.
Morgan, however, did not know this. He believed his only companions to
be the body of the half-breed who had died for him as he had lived for
him, and the severed head of a newer comrade who had not betrayed him.
The body lay almost at his feet; the head had been wedged in the sand so
that its sightless face was turned toward him in the dreadful, lidless
staring gaze of sudden death. And those two were companions with whom
he could better have dispensed, even in his solitude.
They had said to the buccaneer, as they fastened him to the rocks, that
they would not take his life, but that he would be left to the judgment
of God. What would that be? He thought he knew.
He had lived long enough on the Caribbean to know the habits of that
beautiful and cruel sea. There was a little stretch of sand at his feet
and then the water began. He estimated that the tide had been ebbing for
an hour or so when he was fastened up and abandoned. The rock to which
he had been chained was still wet, and he noticed that the dampness
existed far above his head. The water would recede--and recede--and
recede--until perhaps some three hundred feet of bare sand would stretch
before him, and then it would turn and come back, back, back. Where
would it stop? How high would it rise? Would it flood in in peaceful
calm as it was then drawing away? Would it come crashing in heavy
assault upon the sands as it generally did, beating out his life against
the rock? He could not tell. He gazed at it intently so long as there
was light, endeavoring to decide the momentous question. To watch it was
something to do. It gave him mental occupation, and so he stared and
stared at the slowly withdrawing water-line.
Of the two he thought he should prefer a storm. He would be beaten to
pieces, the life battered out of him horribly in that event; but that
would be a battle, a struggle,--action. He could fight, if he could not
wait and endure. It would be a terrible death, but it would be soon over
and, therefore, he preferred it to the slow horror of watching the
approach of the waters creeping in and up to drown him. The chief agony
of his position, however, the most terrifying feature in this dreadful
situation to which his years of crime had at last brought him, was that
he was allowed no choice. He had always been a man of swift, prompt,
bold action; self-reliant, fearless, resolute, a master not a server;
accustomed to determine events in accordance with his own imperious
will, and wont to bring them about as he planned. To be chained there,
impotent, helpless, waiting, indeed, the judgment of God, was a thing
which it seemed impossible for him to bear. The indecision of it, the
uncertainty of it, added to his helplessness and made it the more
appalling to him.
The judgment of God! He had never believed in a God since his boyhood
days, and he strove to continue in his faithlessness now. He had been a
brave man, dauntless and intrepid, but cold, paralyzing fear now
gripped him by the heart. A few lingering sparks of the manhood and
courage of the past that not even his crimes had deprived him of still
remained in his being, however, and he strove as best he might to
control the beating of his heart, to still the trembling of his arms and
legs which shook the chains against the stone face of the rock making
them ring out in a faint metallic clinking, which was the sweetest music
that had ever pierced the eager hollow of the ear of the silent listener
and watcher concealed in the thicket.
So long as it was light Morgan intently watched the sea. There was a
sense of companionship in it which helped to alleviate his unutterable
loneliness. And he was a man to whom loneliness in itself was a
punishment. There were too many things in the past that had a habit of
making their presence felt when he was alone, for him ever to desire to
be solitary. Presently the sun disappeared with the startling suddenness
of tropic latitudes, and without twilight darkness fell over the sea and
over his haggard face like a veil. The moon had not yet risen and he
could see nothing. There were a few faint clouds on the horizon, he had
noticed, which might presage a storm. It was very dark and very still,
as calm and peaceful a tropic night as ever shrouded the Caribbean.
Farther and farther away from him he could hear the rustle of the
receding waves as the tide went down. Over his head twinkled the stars
out of the deep darkness.
In that vast silence he seemed to hear a voice, still and small, talking
to him in a faint whisper that yet pierced the very centre of his being.
All that it said was one word repeated over and over again,
"God--God--God!" The low whisper beat into his brain and began to grow
there, rising louder and louder in its iteration until the whole vaulted
heaven throbbed with the ringing sound of it. He listened--listened--it
seemed for hours--until his heart burst within him. At last he screamed
and screamed, again and again, "Yes--yes! Now I know--I know!" And still
the sound beat on.
He saw strange shapes in the darkness. One that rose and rose, and grew
and grew, embracing all the others until its head seemed to touch the
stars, and ever it spoke that single word "God--God--God!" He could not
close his eyes, but if he had been able to raise his hand he would have
hid his face. The wind blew softly, it was warm and tender, yet the man
shivered with cold, the sweat beaded his brow.
Then the moon sprang up as suddenly as the sun had fallen. Her silver
radiance flooded the firmament. Light, heavenly light once more! He was
alone. The voice was still; the shadow left him. Far away from him the
white line of the water was breaking on the silver sand. His own cry
came back to him and frightened him in the dead silence.
Now the tide turned and came creeping in. It had gone out slowly; it had
lingered as if reluctant to leave him; but to his distraught vision it
returned with the swiftness of a thousand white horses tossing their
wind-blown manes. The wind died down; the clouds were dissipated. The
night was so very calm, it mocked the storm raging in his soul. And still
the silvered water came flooding in; gently--tenderly--caressingly--the
little waves lapped the sands. At last they lifted the ghastly head of
young Teach--he'd be damnably mouldy a hundred years hence!--and laid
it at his feet.
He cursed the rising water, and bade it stay--and heedlessly it came on.
It was a tropic sea and the waters were as warm as those of any
sun-kissed ocean, but they broke upon his knees with the coldness of
eternal ice. They rolled the heavier body of his faithful slave against
him--he strove to drive it away with his foot as he had striven to
thrust aside the ghastly head, and without avail. The two friends
receded as the waves rolled back but they came on again, and again, and
again. They had been faithful to him in life, they remained with him in
death.
Now the water broke about his waist; now it rose to his breast. He was
exhausted; worn out. He hung silent, staring. His mind was busy; his
thought went back to that rugged Welsh land where he had been born. He
saw himself a little boy playing in the fields that surrounded the
farmhouse of his father and mother.
He took again that long trip across the ocean. He lived again in the hot
hell of the Caribbean. Old forms of forgotten buccaneers clustered about
him. Mansfelt, under whom he had first become prominent himself. There
on the horizon rose the walls of a sleeping town. With his companions he
slowly crept forward through the underbrush, slinking along like a tiger
about to spring upon its prey. The doomed town flamed before his eyes.
The shrieks of men, the prayers of women, the piteous cries of little
children came into his ears across forty years.
Cannon roared in his ear--the crash of splintered wood, the despairing
appeals for mercy, for help, from drowning mariners, as he stood upon a
bloody deck watching the rolling of a shattered, sinking ship. Was that
water, spray from some tossing wave, or blood, upon his hand?
The water was higher now; it was at his neck. There were Porto Bello,
Puerto Principe, and Maracaibo, and Chagres and Panama--ah, Panama! All
the fiends of hell had been there, and he had been their chief! They
came back now to mock him. They pointed at him, gibbered upon him,
threatened him, and laughed--great God, how they laughed!
There was pale-faced, tender-eyed Maria Zerega who had died of the
plague, and the baby, the boy. Jamaica, too, swept into his vision.
There was his wife shrinking away from him in the very articles of
death. There was young Ebenezer Hornigold, dancing right merrily upon
the gallows together with others of the buccaneers he had hanged.
The grim figure of the one-eyed boatswain rose before him and leered
upon him and swept the other apparitions away. This was La
Guayra--yesterday. He had been betrayed. Whose men were those? The men
hanging on the walls? And Hornigold had done it--old Ben Hornigold--that
he thought so faithful.
He screamed aloud again with hate, he called down curses upon the head
of the growing one-eyed apparition. And the water broke into his mouth
and stopped him. It called him to his senses for a moment. His present
peril overcame the hideous recollection of the past. That water was
rising still. Great God! At last he prayed. Lips that had only cursed
shaped themselves into futile petitions. There was a God, after all.
The end was upon him, yet with the old instinct of life he lifted
himself upon his toes. He raised his arms as far as the chains gave him
play and caught the chains themselves and strove to pull, to lift, at
last only to hold himself up, a rigid, awful figure. He gained an inch
or two, but his fetters held him down. As the water supported him he
found little difficulty in maintaining the position for a space. But he
could go no higher--if the water rose an inch more that would be the
end. He could breathe only between the breaking waves now.
The body of the black was swung against him again and again; the head of
young Teach kissed him upon the cheek; and still the water seemed to
rise, and rise, and rise. He was a dead man like the other two, indeed
he prayed to die, and yet in fear he clung to the chains and held on.
Each moment he fancied would be his last. But he could not let go. Oh,
God! how he prayed for a storm; that one fierce wave might batter him to
pieces; but the waters were never more calm than on that long, still
night, the sea never more peaceful than in those awful hours.
By and by the waters fell. He could not believe it at first. He still
hung suspended and waited with bated breath. Was he deceived? No, the
waters were surely falling. The seconds seemed minutes to him, the
minutes, hours. At last he gained assurance. There was no doubt but that
the tide was going down. The waves had risen far, but he had been lifted
above them; now they were falling, falling! Yes, and they were bearing
away that accursed body and that ghastly head. He was alive still, saved
for the time being. The highest waves only touched his breast now.
Lower--lower--they moved away. Reluctantly they lingered; but they fell,
they fell.
To drown? That was not the judgment of God for him then. What would it
be? His head fell forward on his breast--he had fainted in the sudden
relief of his undesired salvation.
Long time he hung there and still the tide ebbed away, carrying with it
all that was left of the only two who had loved him. He was alone now,
surely, save for that watcher in the bushes. After a while consciousness
returned to him again, and after the first swift sense of relief there
came to him a deeper terror, for he had gone through the horror and
anguish of death and had not died. He was alive still, but as helpless
as before.
What had the Power he had mocked designed for his end? Was he to watch
that ghastly tide come in again and rise, and rise, and rise until it
caught him by the throat and threatened to choke him, only to release
him as before? Was he to go through that daily torture until he starved
or died of thirst? He had not had a bite to eat, a drop to drink, since
the day before.
It was morning now. On his right hand the sun sprang from the ocean bed
with the same swiftness with which it had departed the night before.
Like the tide, it, too, rose, and rose. There was not a cloud to temper
the fierceness with which it beat upon his head, not a breath of air to
blow across his fevered brow. The blinding rays struck him like hammers
of molten iron. He stared at it out of his frenzied, blood-shot eyes and
writhed beneath its blazing heat. Before him the white sand burned like
smelted silver, beyond him the tremulous ocean seemed to seethe and
bubble under the furious fire of the glowing heaven above his head--a
vault of flaming topaz over a sapphire sea.
He closed his eyes, but could not shut out the sight--and then the
dreams of night came on him again. His terrors were more real, more
apparent, more appalling, because he saw his dreaded visions in the
full light of day. By and by these faded as the others had done. All his
faculties were merged into one consuming desire for water--water. The
thirst was intolerable. Unless he could get some his brain would give
way. He was dying, dying, dying! Oh, God, he could not die, he was not
ready to die! Oh, for one moment of time, for one drop of
water--God--God--God!
Suddenly before his eyes there arose a figure. At first he fancied it
was another of the apparitions which had companied with him during the
awful night and morning; but this was a human figure, an old man, bent,
haggard like himself with watching, but with a fierce mad joy in his
face. Where had he come from? Who was he? What did he want? The figure
glared upon the unhappy man with one fiery eye, and then he lifted
before the captive's distorted vision something--what was it--a cup of
water? Water--God in heaven--water brimming over the cup! It was just
out of reach of his lips--so cool, so sweet, so inviting! He strained at
his chains, bent his head, thrust his lips out. He could almost touch
it--not quite! He struggled and struggled and strove to break his
fetters, but without avail. Those fetters could not be broken by the
hand of man. He could not drink--ah, God!--then he lifted his blinded
eyes and searched the face of the other.
"Hornigold!" he whispered hoarsely with his parched and stiffened lips.
"Is it thou?"
A deep voice beat into his consciousness.
"Ay. I wanted to let you know there was water here. You must be thirsty.
You'd like a drink? So would I. There is not enough for both of us. Who
will get it? I. Look!"
"Not all, not all!" screamed the old captain faintly, as the other
drained the cup. "A little! A drop for me!"
"Not one drop," answered Hornigold, "not one drop! If you were in hell
and I held a river in my hand, you would not get a drop! It's gone."
He threw the cup from him.
"I brought you to this--I! Do you recall it? You owe this to me. You had
your revenge--this is mine. But it's not over yet. I'm watching you. I
shall not come out here again, but I'm watching you, remember that! I
can see you!"
"Hornigold, for God's sake, have pity!"
"You know no God; you have often boasted of it--neither do I. And you
never knew pity--neither do I!"
[Illustration: "I wanted to let you know there was water here ... There
is not enough for both of us. Who will get it? I; look!"]
"Take that knife you bear--kill me!"
"I don't want you to die--not yet. I want you to live--live--a long
time, and remember!"
"Hornigold, I'll make amends! I'll be your slave!"
"Ay, crawl and cringe now, you dog! I swore that you should do it! It's
useless to beg me for mercy. I know not that word--neither did you.
There is nothing left in me but hate--hate for you. I want to see you
suffer----"
"The tide! It's coming back. I can't endure this heat and thirst! It
won't drown me----"
"Live, then," said the boatswain. "Remember, I watch!"
He threw his glance upward, stopped suddenly, a fierce light in that old
eye of his.
"Look up," he cried, "and you will see! Take heart, man. I guess you
won't have to wait for the tide, and the sun won't bother you long.
Remember, I am watching you!"
He turned and walked away, concealing himself in the copse once more
where he could see and not be seen. The realization that he was watched
by one whom he could not see, one who gloated over his miseries and
sufferings and agonies, added the last touch to the torture of the
buccaneer. He had no longer strength nor manhood, he no longer cried
out after that one last appeal to the merciless sailor. He did not even
look up in obedience to the old man's injunction. What was there above
him, beneath him, around him, that could add to his fear? He prayed for
death. They were the first and last prayers that had fallen from his
lips for fifty years, those that day. Yet when death did come at last he
shrank from it with an increasing terror and horror that made all that
he had passed through seem like a trifle.
When old Hornigold had looked up he had seen a speck in the vaulted
heaven. It was slowly soaring around and around in vast circles, and
with each circle coming nearer and nearer to the ground. A pair of keen
and powerful eyes were aloft there piercing the distance, looking,
searching, in every direction, until at last their glance fell upon the
figure upon the rock. The circling stopped. There was a swift rush
through the air. A black feathered body passed between the buccaneer and
the sun, and a mighty vulture, hideous bird of the tropics, alighted on
the sands near by him.
[Illustration: Hell had no terror like to this, which he, living,
suffered.]
So this was the judgment of God upon this man! For a second his tortured
heart stopped its beating. He stared at the unclean thing, and then he
shrank back against the rock and screamed with frantic terror. The
bird moved heavily back a little distance and stopped, peering at him.
He could see it by turning his head. He could drive it no farther. In
another moment there was another rush through the air, another, another!
He screamed again. Still they came, until it seemed as if the earth and
the heavens were black with the horrible birds. High in the air they had
seen the first one swooping to the earth, and with unerring instinct, as
was their habit, had turned and made for the point from which the first
had dropped downward to the shore.
They circled themselves about him. They sat upon the rock above him.
They stared at him with their lustful, carrion, jeweled eyes out of their
loathsome, featherless, naked heads, drawing nearer--nearer--nearer.
He could do no more. His voice was gone. His strength was gone. He closed
his eyes, but the sight was still before him. His bleeding, foamy lips
mumbled one unavailing word:
"Hornigold!"
From the copse there came no sound, no answer. He sank forward in his
chains, his head upon his breast, convulsive shudders alone proclaiming
faltering life. Hell had no terror like to this which he, living,
suffered.
There was a weight upon his shoulder now fierce talons sank deep into
his quivering flesh. In front of his face, before a pair of lidless eyes
that glowed like fire, a hellish, cruel beak struck at him. A faint,
low, ghastly cry trembled through the still air.
* * * * *
And the resistless tide came in. A man drove away the birds at last
before they had quite taken all, for the torn arms still hung in the
iron fetters; an old man, blind of one eye, the black patch torn off the
hideous hole that had replaced the socket. He capered with the
nimbleness of youth before the ghastly remains of humanity still
fastened to that rock. He shouted and screamed, and laughed and sang.
The sight had been too horrible even for him. He was mad, crazy; his
mind was gone. He had his revenge, and it had eaten him up.
The waters dashed, about his feet and seemed to awaken some new idea in
his disordered brain.
"What!" he cried, "the tide is in. Up anchor, lads! We must beat out to
sea. Captain, I'll follow you. Harry Morgan's way to lead--old Ben
Hornigold's to follow--ha, ha! ho, ho!"
He waded out into the water, slowly going deeper and deeper. A wave
swept him off his feet. A hideous laugh came floating back over the sea,
and then he struck out, and out, and out----
* * * * *
And so the judgment of God was visited upon Sir Henry Morgan and his men
at last, and as it was writ of old:
_With what measure they had meted out, it had been measured back to them
again!_
[Illustration]