Be not afraid!
’Tis but a pang, and then a thrill,
A fever fit, and then a chill,
And then an end of human ill;
For thou art dead.
Scott’s Lay of Louise.
The Scorpion and her prize had arrived safely in Havana. Willis, heavily
manacled, was brought on deck, where, joined by the small remnant of his
crew, amongst whom he was glad to discover the face of Mateo, though its
symmetry had been spoiled by a cutlas-cut, extending from under his
right eye to the left corner of his mouth, entirely severing the end of
his nose. The captain of the Maraposa was kept a few moments waiting,
and then, under a strong guard, they were all carried to the Moro
Castle, and lodged in its dungeons, were left to await their trial.
Mateo and the rest of the men were put in a cell together, Willis, for
greater security, had been confined in a strong apartment alone.
It was the first time the slaver had ever been in prison, and the close,
dank air, the gloom, the high, dull, cold, stone walls, the heavy
fetters upon his limbs, the entire lack of any thing external to
distract his thoughts from his situation, all together, produced a
feeling of depression he had never known before.
Thus was he four days, with naught to while away the time but his own
thoughts, and they brought any thing but comfort to his mind, for the
past scenes of a misspent life were constantly presenting themselves
with the vividness of a panorama.
His early youth, when a good and gentle boy he had listened to the kind
admonitions of his excellent mother; then the loss of his sweet parent,
throwing him amongst selfish and careless relations; his first steps in
vice; then his desire to repent and reform; the cold looks and want of
sympathy with which he had been met; and bitterly cursing the want of
charity that had been so parsimonious of kindness, when a few soothing
words would have established him in the road to rectitude, he looked at
the darker deeds of the few last years, and the end to which they would
soon bring him.
Harassed by such painful reflections, it was a relief when the jailor
came to conduct him to trial, though he knew that with him the road
would be short from the tribunal to the gallows.
He felt that his fate was sealed; he had mortified De Vere so much, by
dismantling his vessel and killing so many of his men, besides wounding
him in the duel, that he knew the Englishman’s influence would prevent
his being treated with the least leniency, and that the utmost penalty
of the law would be exacted. He lacked also that powerful friend, gold.
Aware of the uncertain tenure one in his profession had of life, he
squandered the immense sums he made as he got them, and he had not been
allowed an opportunity of obtaining aid from his associates.
It was with a mind conscious of the worst, and prepared to bear it, that
with a calm, determined countenance, and collected air, he was
confronted with his judges.
The indictment was read, and the presiding judge asked him if he was
“Guilty, or not guilty?”
“Guilty I am!” said Willis, “as who that hears me is not? but, that I am
more worthy of condemnation than even you, my judges, or than the
accuser, I deny! ’Tis true, I have been guilty of bringing negroes from
Africa to this island. But wherein am I thereby more guilty than you? Do
you not eagerly buy them as soon as landed; and so hold out the
temptation to bring them? ’Tis also true, that on the high sea I did,
with force and death, resist ‘her Britannic Majesty’s vessel.’ Were
moral right to prevail for once, her captain would be in my situation;
for by his intervention the slaves that I would have brought here, to
live in comfort to a good old age, will now be condemned to hard and
short lives, as apprentices, in Brazil. But what avails my talking! My
life, I know, is forfeited! and I will not degrade myself by making
useless efforts to save it.”
The counts in the indictment were all sustained. After a short
consultation, he was adjudged to die. And standing up to hear his
sentence, he found he was to be hung, the day after the morrow, to the
fore-yard of his own vessel. He then was carried back to his dungeon.
After the captain had been sentenced, the rest of the crew were brought
up for trial; but being all men of little notoriety, and pleading their
necessity to obey the commands of Willis, and that when they had joined
the Maraposa they did not know she was a slaver, they were all pardoned
except Mateo, who was compelled to pay a fine.
De Vere, after the trial, returned home exultingly; the man that had
caused him to be laughed at by the whole squadron, the one who had
nearly killed him, and again came within an ace of capturing his brig,
was about to be punished.
Clara was likewise glad to hear of Willis’s fate, for she hated him for
wounding her betrothed.
But Don Manuel learned the result of the trial with sadness; he had
tried to prevail upon De Vere not to prosecute, but the Englishman said
it was impossible; his sense of justice, his oath and honor as an
officer, all, he contended, compelled him to have the law enforced; he
had even made an effort to influence the court, but found De Vere’s
influence governed them all; he had not, however, given up all hope yet.
Well was it for the secret of Francisca’s heart that the sentence of
Willis was conveyed to her in her own chamber, by the faithful duenna,
for as soon as she heard the awful news she sunk senseless on the floor;
swoon succeeded swoon for some time, but recovering, in a degree, her
composure, her eye brightened and her cheek flushed, as if some happy
idea had flashed across her mind, and leaving the room she sought her
father.
It was the night after the day of the trial, the bells of the many
churches had just ceased chiming ten, when the silence that reigned in
the slaver’s cell was broken by the sound of a key grating in the lock
of his door.
Surprised at having a visiter at so unusual an hour, Willis turned to
see why he was disturbed, and was astonished to discover, as the door
opened, by the light in the hands of the jailor, who remained in the
passage, a female figure, closely enveloped in the folds of a large
mantilla, glide into his dungeon. When within a few feet of Willis, the
lady paused, and, save the convulsive motion of her breast, stood for a
moment motionless. Then, slowly dropping the mantilla from about her
face, she revealed to the startled gaze of the prisoner the features of
Francisca, not as he had seen them, but pale as death, and thin, as if
she had lately been very ill.
Willis was about to speak, but raising her finger as a sign for him to
be silent, she said—
“Time is precious, Captain Willis, waste it not in inquiries or
conjectures of the cause of my being here, but believe that I am deeply
grateful for the life I owe you, and am desirous of repaying it in kind.
Every exertion has been made without success by my father to procure
your pardon, but my efforts have been more blessed. In two hours the
turnkey, who has been bribed, will let you out; proceed to the nearest
quay, where you will find all that is left of your crew, waiting for you
in a boat; take them to your schooner, which is at anchor in the same
place she was when you were brought here; the few men in charge of her
have also been bought; and then to make your way out safely will have to
depend upon yourself.”
Again Willis endeavored to speak, and express his thanks, but Francisca
motioned him to hush.
“One moment more, and I must be gone. In this package,” she handed him a
small bundle, apparently of paper, “you will find that which will be
useful to you, if you get to sea. And praying that the blessed Virgin
will protect you, I wish you God speed.”
She turned, and was going, but Willis seized her hand for an instant,
and imprinting upon it a kiss, said, in a voice tremulous with emotion,
“The gratitude I feel, lady, after years shall prove;” and letting her
hand go she vanished, and the door shutting, Willis was again in the
dark.
Had it not been for the palpable evidence of the package, still in his
hand, he would have thought the interview had been a dream; as it was,
he could hardly convince himself it was aught else. So sudden had been
the entrance of Francisca, she had looked so much an angel, so quickly
vanished, that the two hours had elapsed before he was really certain he
had not been only blest by a vision.
But the noiseless entry of the turnkey established the fact of mortal
agency. And his fetters being unlocked, he once more was comparatively
free. With deep feelings of gratitude and love toward Francisca, for her
noble conduct, he left his cell, and in silence followed the unechoing
steps of his former jailor, through many long passages and winding ways
that led at last to a small private door, built in the outer wall,
opening toward the harbor.
Here Willis paused, to bid his conductor good-night, and thank him. But
the man said his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase if he were
found there in the morning, and he had been paid well enough to leave
his situation, and that if el Señor Capitan had no objection, he would
go with him.
Willis of course could not have refused; but he had no such intention;
and knowing the sparseness of his crew, was very glad thus to obtain
another able-bodied man.
Much pleased at the captain’s ready acquiescence, the obliging turnkey
locked the door on the outside, and put the key in his pocket, saying he
never liked to part with old friends, and it might be of use to him
again.
Quietly continuing their way, Willis and his quondam jailor walked out
to the extremity of the nearest quay, where, in a boat laying close in
the shadow of the wharf, he found Mateo and the remnant of his former
crew. Brief, but cordial, were the greetings that passed between the
slavers and their recovered captain, who, telling them how much he was
indebted to his companion, stepped with him into the boat.
The night was dark; thick clouds of misty vapor obscuring the light of
the stars; and every thing seemed to be slumbering; even the “alerto
sentinelo” of the guards on the castle, and in the city, as it broke the
silence, had a sleepy sound; and the safety with which the boat shoved
off and pulled into the basin proved they were not very wide awake.
The tall masts of the Maraposa were dimly seen by Willis, as his boat,
slowly and with muffled oars, made toward her, and the ebb tide was
running out with all its force by the time he was alongside.
“Who comes there?” some one hailed, in a stifled voice, from the
schooner, as the bow of the boat slightly touched her side.
“Friends!” was Willis’s reply, and with the celerity and noiseless tread
of Indian warriors, he and his boat’s crew transferred themselves to the
deck of the schooner.
As the foot of Willis once more pressed his own quarter-deck he seemed a
new being, and felt as if he were already safe, but a glance at the dark
pile of the Moro, and the black hull of the Scorpion, just visible in
the haze behind him, reminded him of the dangers still to be overcome.
“Silently! silently, men! on your lives!” he whispered; “put the helm
hard a-port, one of you! and, Mateo, forward and slip the cable.”
With the silence of men who knew their lives depended on their
quietness, but with the dispatch engendered by long habit, his orders
were obeyed, and the schooner forced from her anchor, swung round with
the tide and began to drift toward the sea.
Not a word was spoken, or a foot moved; had the vessel been unmanned,
until the castle had been passed, she could not have been more silent;
unchallenged she floated on.
So excited and alert were the organs of her men, however, that when
Willis ordered them to hoist away the jib, though speaking in a low
tone, it caused them all to start. The jib greatly increased the
Maraposa’s way through the water; and as soon as he thought it would not
excite the attention of the sentinels at the castle, he hoisted his
main-sail and fore-sail, loosing his square-sails quietly, the yards
rose to their places, and in half an hour more the gallant schooner,
under all sail, was standing out to sea. With a wild huzza, the crew
gave vent to their feelings, and Willis, rejoiced to be again at
liberty, and in safety, could not help joining them.
Upon examining the state of his vessel, which he did at once, he was
gratified to find every thing undisturbed in the hold—all the
provisions and water were still in her—the powder had not even been
removed from the magazine, and the only things missing were the
schooner’s papers.
His crew, indeed, instead of numbering fifty men, as it had, now only
mustered ten beside himself—Mateo, and his six companions, with the two
men who had been in charge of the Maraposa, and the turnkey. Though too
few to fight with, they were amply sufficient to manage the vessel.
The course he intended ultimately to pursue Willis had not yet decided.
The first and most imperative object was to get beyond the reach of
pursuit; and leaving Mateo in charge of the deck, with directions to
steer to the eastward, and to call him if he saw a sail, he descended to
the cabin, to reflect on the eventful changes of the last few hours, and
think about his future line of conduct.
The first thing that attracted his attention, when he entered the cabin,
was a small, strong wooden box, well secured with cords, setting on the
table. Never having seen it before, and curious to know why it was so
carefully fastened, he approached the table, and with surprise
discovered the box was directed to “Captain Willis, of the Maraposa.”
Hastily undoing the rope that bound it, and lifting the lid, he found
the box full of Spanish doubloons, and a note, likewise endorsed with
his name, lying on the top of them. Opening it, he read—
“Sir,—Having in vain endeavored to find some other method by
which I could testify the gratitude I feel to the preserver of
my beloved Francisca, I hope you will accept of the enclosed
contents, as a slight evidence of the obligation I feel; and
sincerely desiring it may prove useful, I have the honor to be,
“Very respectfully,
“Manuel Velasquez.”
Willis was mortified to think the old Spaniard believed he was actuated
by any hope of gain when he saved Francisca; and had he been able, would
at once have returned him the money. But, situated as he now was, to
return it at once was impossible. So, replacing the cover on the box,
and putting it in his chest, he took from his breast the package given
him by Francisca in the dungeon, which his constant occupation had
prevented him as yet from examining.
Undoing the wrapper, he found the bundle contained nothing but
Portuguese papers, regularly authenticated for a vessel exactly of the
size and build of the Maraposa. In vain he looked amongst their folds,
and on them, for a note, or even a line, from the fair donor, but
nothing of the kind was to be seen; and disappointed, he scarce knew
why, for he had not the slightest reason to expect any thing of the
kind, he sat down by the cabin table, and with his face buried in his
hands, the following thoughts, reflections, and resolutions, passed
through his mind.
For some time the image of Francisca usurped his thoughts. He felt
confident she took a more tender interest in his welfare than she had
expressed; for there is a species of clairvoyance in love, that enables
one to see things that are meant to be hidden; and though gratitude had
been assigned as the cause of her efforts in delivering him from death,
he believed it was only an excuse, and his heart warmed with love as he
thought of her. With the long frozen springs of his better feelings thus
thawed by tender sentiments, the kind and impressive lessons of virtue
that had been inculcated by his departed mother, and which had been
allowed to slumber in forgetfulness for many years, now all distinctly
and forcibly presented themselves; and the hardened slaver, the stern
man, shed bitter tears, as he thought of the happy days of his youth,
and the slight regard he had paid to the teachings of his once dearly
loved parent.
It seemed as if a veil had been removed from his sight; and he now saw,
in all its deformity, his present course of life, and the desire became
strong within him to reform. He now had an object to strive for—the
possession of Francisca’s love.
But how was he to begin? All he possessed in the world was his vessel,
and the money on board of Don Manuel’s. He could not hope to win the
consent of the proud Spaniard, even if his daughter was willing, while
he was poor. He knew no profession but that of ploughing the deep; and
as merchant captain, who would employ him?
A short time longer he sat, and then rising, spoke aloud. “I cannot
reform yet; one more voyage I must make—one more voyage in the
slave-trade. I will use the old Spaniard’s money to buy a new cargo,
sell it, and repay his doubloons; and with the capital remaining I will
begin a new and honorable career, and win, spite of all opposition, the
hand of Francisca.”