WHAT THE SEA GAVE TO ETOILE.
“A ruddy tinge of glowing bronze
Upon his face is set,
Closely around his temples cling
Thick locks of shining jet;
He loves to climb the tall mast-head
Or plunge in the rapid stream;
He dares to look on the thunder cloud
And laugh at the lightning’s gleam.”—_Eliza Cook._
The sun arose over a scene of wild devastation. The green and blooming
Isle was laid waste. Rose trellises, fences, arbors, and even the
cottage homes of the negroes had been swept off by the flood. Groves of
old forest trees had been torn up or broken down. Orchards of young
fruit-trees were uprooted and swept away. Growing crops were
annihilated. The sea that had receded from the Isle, surged, boiled and
plunged madly upon the beach. A wild, sullen, and chaotic sky overhung
the scene. Black, torn and jagged clouds, looking as though by some
violent concussion of the elements they had been shivered into
fragments, still hung about the horizon. The receding winds and waves
still moaned in fitful gusts. “‘Our house is left unto us desolate,’”
said old Moll, speaking in the solemn words of Scripture, as she looked
forth upon this scene.
“But indeed I do not mind that! for a few months of patient labor and
another spring will repair all the damage done to the Island. But for
the lives lost! Oh, friends, for the lives lost upon that doomed vessel,
and upon how many more—good Heaven!—that may have gone down in the storm
of last night!” said Etoile, mournfully.
“Our cabins are all carried away,” muttered one old woman
disconsolately.
“Your cabins shall be rebuilt and refurnished. All your losses shall be
repaired. But alas! for those who have perished. Who shall rebuild their
house of life?” she added sorrowfully. Then solemnly replying to her own
question, she said: “Even the Lord of life! He shall rebuild their house
of life! He shall give them mansions in the sky.”
Then, after a little pause, she suddenly exclaimed: “Come, friends, let
us go down and learn the worst.” And she led the way, followed by the
whole troop.
The third and the second floor of the house were found uninjured. But
the first floor that had been swept by the flood, was thoroughly
saturated with wet, and covered with a thick deposit of sand. The
water-mark upon the walls showed that the sea had risen to the height of
four feet in the rooms. All the lighter articles of furniture, such as
chairs, footstools, etc., had been floated off. Other things remained
uninjured.
They quickly opened all the doors and windows, to let the drying air
pass through, and then they went forth from the house.
So rapidly had the sea advanced and receded, that the ground was not wet
many inches deep. And they were enabled to pass, if not dry-shod, yet
without wading, down to the beach, called The Shells.
Here was a wild scene! The higher sites of the shoals were littered with
fragments of the wreck—broken spars, planks, casks, coops, etc. Further
down the stormy sea still leaped, plunged, and broke upon the shore.
While carefully picking her way among the multifarious fragments of the
wreck, and springing over the surging pools, from rift to rift, Etoile
suddenly paused and shrieked.
At her feet, among broken boxes, staved barrels, and tangled
ropes,—bound with sea-weed, and half buried in sand, lay the body of a
young man!
In an instant, Etoile was kneeling by his side, sweeping the sand and
sea-weed from his face and form, and eagerly searching for some sign of
life.
“Oh, come Moll! come Timon! come all of you and tell me! Is he dead? Is
he dead?”
With an interest almost as intense as though the stranger had been some
near friend or relative, she cleared his face from obstruction, loosened
his cravat, and sought to raise his head.
But at that moment a spasm of pain convulsed his face and a tremulous
moan escaped his lips. “Oh! he lives! the poor youth lives!” she
exclaimed, rising and addressing the old negroes, whose slow steps had
now brought them to the spot.
“Peggy! you and Chloe run, and bring down hither the light wicker settee
from the hall, and spread two soft quilts upon it, girls. He must be
laid upon that and carried up to the house. Timon! as soon as ever the
sea subsides sufficiently to permit it, you must take the cutter, and
run across to Heathville, to bring Doctor Crampton here. He is very much
hurt, I fear! Oh girls, make haste! It is so dreadful for a bruised or
wounded man to lie here on these rugged rifts!” she exclaimed, giving
all her orders with a clearness and promptitude worthy of an older head.
As soon as it was possible to accomplish the task, the young negro maids
returned, bringing the settee and soft quilts, which were folded and
laid upon it.
“Now raise him tenderly, tenderly. Timon, help them. Softly—do not jar
his form. Ah! he moans! you hurt his shoulders, Timon! Be very careful.
Now ease him down on the settee—so—there,” she said, hovering with
compassionate interest around the wounded man, while her troop of
attendants looked on stupidly, or lent their aid only at her command. In
truth, the poor creatures had not yet recovered from the panic of the
storm.
“Now, Peggy and Chloe, take the head, and, Anne and Jane, go to the
feet, and so go on, slowly to the house. Be careful! do not stumble! The
least roughness of motion must be so painful to a wounded man. Aunt
Moll, you and Aunt Patsy, hurry on to the house, and prepare your old
master’s chamber and bed for this youth,” said Etoile, anxiously heedful
of the welfare of the human waif thus cast upon her care.
She was promptly obeyed in every particular. And while the old negro men
remained upon the shoals, searching with the instinct of natural
wreckers, for spoils among the fragments, the old women, with a kinder
impulse, hastened as fast as age and the rough way would allow, to
prepare for the comfort of this survivor of the wreck. The young maids
bore their burden gently on; and Etoile walked by the side of the
settee, anxiously watching the pale, haggard, but handsome face of the
sufferer.
Very carefully he was carried into the house, and up into the chamber of
the late Monsieur Henri.
Very tenderly, then, the two old women changed his clothes, and laid him
on the bed, covering him with a light, soft, white counterpane. When
this was done, they called their young mistress, who came in with a
small crystal flask of brandy, and a little glass.
“I have been looking in a medical book. It says that brandy must be
given. Lift his head gently, Moll, while I pour a little into his lips,”
she said, approaching the bed.
The woman complied; but the lips, or rather the teeth of the patient
were so firmly closed, that she could not force a drop through.
“Moll, I shall have to bleed him!” she said, almost in tears.
“Bleed! you! Miss Etoile? You do such a thing?” exclaimed old Moll in
dismay.
“Yes! the book says in such a case as this, it must be done. There is no
one here to do it but me. I know how it should be done, for I have often
seen my dear uncle do it, in cases of necessity. Oh, I feel it is
dreadful. It makes my blood run cold to think of it; but sooner than see
a fellow-creature die, you know, why, even I must nerve myself to use a
lancet.”
And, without further ado, the young heroine prepared bandages and bowl,
selected from her late uncle’s case of instruments a proper lancet; and
then, having stripped the arm to the shoulder, and tied a handkerchief
tightly around it above the elbow, until the vein was erected, she took
the blade between her finger and thumb, and with a firm hand proceeded
to make the incision. It is true, that her sweet young face was pale as
marble, and her lips firmly compressed, as she watched the thick and
crimson stream of life curl slowly over the white arm; but her courage
was repaid when, presently, she saw the rigor of the patient’s form and
face relax, and his bosom rise and fall in a long, deep, soft breath.
“Thank Heaven! Oh, thank Heaven!” she said, as she unbound the tight
ligature to let the tide of life flow back, and carefully bandaged the
arm.
“I thank you, fair and gentle lady,” she heard a faint voice murmur, and
looking up, as she replaced the arm, she saw the dark eyes of her
patient opened, and regarding her with an expression of mingled
astonishment and gratitude.
She beckoned her old servant to take away the sanguinary evidences of
her late work, and then stooping, inquired softly—
“Are you hurt much?”
“I think not, young lady.”
“Try to make a very deep breath,—so, there,—does it hurt you to breathe
thus?”
“Not in the least, my kind nurse.”
“Then that proves that you have received no injury!”
“Ay! thank Heaven, I have received no inward hurt.”
“Now move your limbs. Can you move them freely and without pain?”
“Yes, young lady.”
“It is certain, then, that they are not broken nor strained.”
“Ay! thank Heaven for that, also,” said the patient smiling.
“Forgive me, if I seem intrusive; but I am the only doctor that is at
hand, just now. So, for your own sake, young gentleman, you will be so
good as not to mock when I question you,” said the young girl, with the
mild majesty that, on occasions, she could assume.
“I am most indebted to your compassion, my fair physician. I am blessed
beyond my merits in falling into your hands. Did my smile offend you?
Ah, young lady! it was the smile of one not fully come to his senses!
Did you know how little cause I have to smile, you would pity, even more
than you condemn.”
“I condemn not! I pity from my deepest heart. But think of yourself, and
of getting better. You have friends who love you, and for whose sake you
must strive quickly to recover. Now then! move your arms, please.”
The patient obeyed, but groaned deeply with the effort.
“One of your arms is hurt?”
“I think it is broken above the elbow.”
“Oh!”
It was a sudden catching of the breath, so full of acute, sympathetic
pain, that the sufferer looked up in the pale face of his young nurse,
wondering that this sensitive creature could be the same girl who, ten
minutes before, had nerved her gentle heart to use the lancet.
But even while he wondered, she was gone from the room.
In two minutes she was back again, with Moll bringing a little pail and
some napkins.
“My name, lady, is Willful Brande, midshipman in the United States’
service,” said the youth, who thought the time had come when politeness
required him to announce himself.
“Oh! you are the Brande of the Headland. And, indeed, I saw a
resemblance to Miss Barbara Brande,” said Etoile smiling.
“She is my only sister.”
“I saw her only once; but I liked her very much; I am glad if I can be
of service to her brother, for her sake,” said the young girl.
“And not for his own?” was upon the lips of the youth to ask; but
respect and delicacy restrained the question.
“I thank you on the part of my sister as well as of myself, young lady,”
he answered.
“_My_ name is Etoile L’Orient,” replied the maiden, blushing, she knew
not why, under the eloquent look of gratitude he had raised to her face.
“I shall never forget that name in my prayers, sweet lady,” said the
youth.
And now with slightly tremulous fingers, having confined the last
bandage around the wounded arm, she directed Moll to take her place
beside the sick bed, and went out to prepare, with her own careful
little hands, a delicate repast for the invalid.
It was noon before the sea had sufficiently subsided to make it safe for
a boat to be sent to the mainland. And thus it was night before old Dr.
Crampton arrived. He was shown immediately to the room of the patient.
Willful’s hurt was a simple fracture, and the bone was easily set. The
old physician praised the skill of the young nurse, but bade her go now
and take care of herself.
As it was so late the doctor remained through the night, and until after
breakfast the next morning. Then, while the boat was being prepared to
take him to the main land, he paid, in company with his young hostess, a
final visit to his patient, whom he found clear of febrile symptoms, and
getting on very well.
And it was now that, with the physician seated on one side of the bed,
and the young mistress of the house on the other, Willful Brande spoke
of the circumstances of his shipwreck.
He informed his hearers that he had lately returned from the
Mediterranean in the United States sloop-of-war Yorktown, now lying at
the Norfolk Navy-yard; that he had left his ship and taken passage on
board the schooner Nautilus from Norfolk for Baltimore, where he was
going to join his sister, who expected to sail from New York to meet him
there by a certain date; but that in the storm of the preceding evening
the doomed vessel had been, as they knew, wrecked.
“Were none but yourself saved?” inquired Etoile, mournfully.
“Young lady, I think it likely _all_ were saved! I will tell you. As
soon as it was seen that the vessel must go down, when it was known that
the water was rushing into the hold faster than two men at the pumps
could pump it out, the crew took to the boats. The captain, the mate,
and myself remained the last upon the wreck. When we saw every one else
in safety we prepared to follow them. But the boats were already full,
and when those on board saw us about to enter, a question arose among
them, as to whether they could bear the additional burden. It was
decided that they should not risk the trial. And so they cut the ropes
and deserted us. We were not willing, you may judge, to be thus left to
death. We threw off our coats in an instant, and plunged into the sea to
swim to the boats. It seemed our only chance. The captain and the mate,
I hope, reached them in safety. For myself, I must have been struck by a
portion of the wreck and stunned, for from the instant of my plunge I
remember nothing more until I found myself on your hospitable Island,
where I suppose a friendly wave, immediately after my fall, cast me.”
“Ah! it was base in the crew and passengers to desert you and the brave
officers. Still, I feel very much relieved to hear that the shipwreck
was not near so disastrous as I had feared,” said Etoile, with a sigh of
satisfaction.
The boat was now reported ready, and the physician arose to take his
leave. He declared his patient doing very well, left a few simple
directions for his treatment, promised to call the next day, and so
departed.
Willful Brande was ordered to lie quietly in bed for another day and
night, to partake of only light food and cooling drinks, but was
permitted to read or converse for pastime.
Now that it was ascertained that the patient was entirely free from
danger of death, Etoile appointed Moll and Timon to wait upon him, while
she, with an instinct of delicacy, absented herself from the sick room,
or visited it only at stated times. But though absent, she occupied
herself diligently in the service of the invalid, and provided for all
his wants.