Mr. Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, the Dumfries bo'sun, both of whom would
have died for the captain, assured me of the truth of MacMuir's story,
and shook their heads gravely as to the probable outcome. The peculiar
water-mark of greatness that is woven into some men is often enough
to set their own community bitter against them. Sandie, the plodding
peasant, finds it a hard matter to forgive Jamie, who is taken from the
plough next to his, and ends in Parliament. The affair of Mungo Maxwell,
altered to suit, had already made its way on more than one vessel to
Scotland. For according to Lowrie, there was scarce a man or woman in
Kirkcudbrightshire who did not know that John Paul was master of the
John, and (in their hearts) that he would be master of more in days to
come. Human nature is such that they resented it, and cried out aloud
against his cruelty.
On the voyage I had many sober thoughts of my own to occupy me of the
terrible fate, from which, by Divine inter position, I had been rescued;
of the home I had left behind. I was all that remained to Mr. Carvel in
the world, and I was sure that he had given me up for dead. How had he
sustained the shock? I saw him heavily mounting the stairs upon Scipicks
arm when first the news was brought to him. Next Grafton would come
hurrying in from Kent to Marlboro Street, disavowing all knowledge of
the messenger from New York, and intent only upon comforting his father.
And when I pictured my uncle soothing him to his face, and grinning
behind his bed-curtains, my anger would scald me, and the realization of
my helplessness bring tears of very bitterness.
What would I not have given then for one word with that honest and
faithful friend of our family, Captain Daniel! I knew that he suspected
Grafton: he had told me as much that night at the Coffee House. Perhaps
the greatest of my fears was that my uncle would deny him access to Mr.
Carvel when he returned from the North.
In the evening, when the sun settled red upon the horizon, I would think
of Patty and my friends in Gloucester Street. For I knew they missed me
sadly of a Sunday at the supper-table. But it has ever been my nature
to turn forward instead of back, and to accept the twists and flings of
fortune with hope rather than with discouragement. And so, as we left
league after, league of the blue ocean behind us, I would set my face to
the forecastle. For Dorothy was in England.
On a dazzling morning in March, with the brigantine running like a
beagle in full cry before a heaping sea that swayed her body,--so I
beheld for the first time the misty green of the high shores of Ireland.
Ah! of what heroes' deeds was I capable as I watched the lines come
out in bold relief from a wonderland of cloud! With what eternal life I
seemed to tingle! 'Twas as though I, Richard Carvel, had discovered all
this colour; and when a tiny white speck of a cottage came out on the
edge of the cliff, I thought irresistibly of the joy to live there the
year round with Dorothy, with the wind whistling about our gables, and
the sea thundering on the rocks far below. Youth is in truth a mystery.
How long I was gazing at the shifting coast I know not, for a strange
wildness was within me that made me forget all else, until suddenly
I became conscious of a presence at my side, and turned to behold the
captain.
“'Tis a braw sight, Richard,” said he, “but no sae bonnie as auld
Scotland. An' the wind hands, we shall see her shores the morn.”
His voice broke, and I looked again to see two great tears rolling upon
his cheeks.
“Ah, Scotland!” he pressed on, heedless of them, “God aboon kens what
she is to me! But she hasna' been ower guid to me, laddie.” And he
walked to the taffrail, and stood looking astern that two men who
had come aft to splice a haulyard might not perceive his disorder. I
followed him, emboldened to speak at last what was in me.
“Captain Paul,” said I, “MacMuir has told me of your trouble. My
grandfather is rich, and not lacking in gratitude,”--here I paused for
suitable words, as I could not solve his expression,--“you, sir, whose
bravery and charity will have restored me to him, shall not want for
friends and money.”
He heard me through.
“Mr. Carvel,” he replied with an impressiveness that took me aback,
“reward is a thing that should not be spoken of between gentlemen.”
And thus he left me, upbraiding myself that I should have mentioned
money. And yet, I reflected secondly, why not? He was no more nor less
than a master of a merchantman, and surely nothing was out of the common
in such a one accepting what he had honestly come by. Had my affection
for him been less sincere, had I not been racked with sympathy, I had
laughed over his notions of gentility. I resolved, however, that when
I had reached London and seen Mr. Dix, Mr. Carvel's agent, he should be
rewarded despite his scruples. And if he lost his ship, he should have
one of my grandfather's.
But at dinner he had plainly forgot any offence, and I had more
cause than ever to be puzzled over his odd mixture of confidence and
aloofness. He talked gayly on a score of subjects,--on dress, of which
he was never tired, and described ports in the Indies and South America,
in a fashion that betrayed prodigious powers of acute observation; nor
did he lack for wit when he spoke of the rich planters who had wined
him, and had me much in laughter. We fell into a merry mood, in Booth,
jingling the glasses in many toasts, for he had a list of healths to
make me gasp, near as long as the brigantine's articles,--Inez in Havana
and Maraquita in Cartagena, and Clotilde, the Creole, of Martinico, each
had her separate charm. Then there was Bess, in Kingston, the relict
of a customs official, Captain Paul relating with ingenuous gusto a
midnight brush with a lieutenant of his Majesty, in which the fair
widow figured, and showed her preference, too. But his adoration for the
ladies of the more northern colonies, he would have me to understand,
was unbounded. For example, Miss Arabella Pope of Norfolk, in
Virginia,--and did I know her? No, I had not that pleasure, though I
assured him the Popes of Virginia were famed. Miss Pope danced divinely
as any sylph, and the very memory of her tripping at the Norfolk
Assembly roused the captain to such a pitch of enthusiasm as I had never
seen in him. Marvellous to say, his own words failed him, and he had
recourse to the poets:
“Her feet beneath her petticoat
Like little mice stole in and out,
As if they feared the light;
But, oh, she dances such a way!
No sun upon an Easter-day
Is half so fine a sight.”
The lines, he told me, were Sir John Suckling's; and he gave them
standing, in excellent voice and elegant gesture.
He was in particular partial to the poets, could quote at will from Gay
and Thomson and Goldsmith and Gray, and even from Shakespeare, much
to my own astonishment and humiliation. Saving only Dr. Courtenay
of Annapolis I had never met his equal for versatility of speech and
command of fine language; and, having heard that he had been at sea
since the age of twelve, I made bold to ask him at what school he had
got his knowledge.
“At none, Richard,” he answered with pride, “saving the rudiments at the
Parish School at Kirkbean. Why, sir, I hold it to be within every
man's province to make himself what he will, and I early recognized in
Learning the only guide for such as me. I may say that I married her for
the furtherance of my fortunes, and have come to love her for her own
sake. Many and many the 'tween-watch have I passed in a coil of rope in
the tops, a volume of the classics in my hand. And 'my happiest days,
when not at sea, have been spent in my brother William's little library.
He hath a modest estate near Fredericksburg, in Virginia, and none holds
higher than he the worth of an education. Ah, Richard,” he added, with
a certain sadness, “I fear you little know the value of that which hath
been so lavishly bestowed upon you. There is no creation in the world to
equal your fine gentleman!”
It struck me indeed as strange that a man of his powers should set store
by such trumpery, and, too, that these notions had not impaired his
ability as a seaman. I did not reply. He gave no heed, however, but drew
from a case a number of odes and compositions, which he told me were
his own. They were addressed to various of his enamouritas, abounded in
orrery, and were all, I make no doubt, incredibly fine, tho' not so
much as one sticks in my mind. To speak truth I listened with a very ill
grace, longing the while to be on deck, for we were about to sight the
Isle of Man. The wine and the air of the cabin had made my eyes heavy.
But presently, when he had run through with some dozen or more, he put
them by, and with a quick motion got from his chair, a light coming into
his dark eyes that startled me to attention. And I forgot the merchant
captain, and seemed to be looking forward into the years.
“Mark you, Richard,” said he, “mark well when I say that my time will
come, and a day when the best of them will bow to me. And every ell of
that triumph shall be mine, sir,-ay, every inch!”
Such was his force, which sprang from some hidden fire within him, that
I believed his words as firmly as they had been writ down in the Book of
Isaiah. Brimming over with enthusiasm, I pledged his coming greatness in
a reaming glass of Malaga.
“Alack,” he cried, “an' they all had your faith, laddie, a fig for the
prophecy! Ya maun ken th' incentive's the maist o' the battle.”
There was more of wisdom in this than I dreamed of then. Here lay hid
the very keynote of that ambitious character: he stooped to nothing less
than greatness for a triumph over his slanderers.
I rose betimes the next morning to find the sun peeping above the
wavy line of the Scottish hills far up the. Solway, and the brigantine
sliding smoothly along in the lee of the Galloway Rhinns. And, though
the month was March, the slopes of Burrow Head were green as the lawn of
Carvel Hall in May, and the slanting rays danced on the ruffed water. By
eight of the clock we had crept into Kirkcudbright Bay and anchored off
St. Mary's Isle, the tide running ebb, and leaving a wide brown belt of
sand behind it.
St. Mary's Isle! As we looked upon it that day, John Paul and I, and
it lay low against the bright water with its bare oaks and chestnuts
against the dark pines, 'twas perhaps as well that the future was sealed
to us.
Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a master's hand; but
now that the anchor was on the ground, he became palpably nervous. I had
donned again good MacMuir's shore suit, and was standing by the gangway
when the captain approached me.
“What'll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?” he asked kindly.
What indeed! I was without money in a foreign port, still dependent upon
my benefactor. And since he had declared his unwillingness to accept any
return I was of no mind to go farther into his debt. I thanked him again
for his goodness in what sincere terms I could choose, and told him I
should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working my passage to
London upon some coasting vessel. But my voice was thick, my affection
for him having grown-past my understanding.
“Hoots!” he replied, moved in his turn, “whyles I hae siller ye shallna
lack. Ye maun gae post-chaise to London, as befits yere station.”
And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the longboat, bidding me be
ready to go ashore with him. I had nothing to do but to say farewell
to MacMuir and Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough. For the
honest first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyond speech
when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long as I had want of it.
“But you will be needing it, MacMuir,” I said, suspecting he had no
other.
“Haith! I am but a plain man, Mr. Carvel, and ye can sen' back the claw
frae London, wi' this geordie.”
He slipped a guinea into my hand, but this I positively refused to take;
and to hide my feelings I climbed quickly over the side and into the
stern of the boat, beside the captain, and was rowed away through the
little fleet of cobles gathering about the ship. Twisting my neck for
a parting look at the John, I caught a glimpse of MacMuir's ungainly
shoulders over the fokesle rail, and I was near to tears as he shouted a
hearty “God speed” after me.
As we drew near the town of Kirkcudbright, which lies very low at the
mouth of the river Dee, I made out a group of men and women on the
wharves. The captain was silent, regarding them. When we had got within
twenty feet or so of the landing, a dame in a red woollen kerchief
called out:
“What hae ye done wi' Mungo, John Paul?”
“CAPTAIN John Paul, Mither Birkie,” spoke up a coarse fellow with a
rough beard. And a laugh went round.
“Ay, captain! I'll captain him!” screamed the carlin, pushing to
the front as the oars were tossed, “I'll tak aith Mr. Currie'll be
captaining him for his towmond voyage o' piratin'. He be leukin' for ye
noo, John Paul.” With that some of the men on the thwarts, perceiving
that matters were likely to go ill with the captain, began to chaff
with their friends above. The respect with which he had inspired them,
however, prevented any overt insult on their part. As for me, my temper
had flared up like the burning of a loose charge of powder, and by
instinct my right hand sought the handle of the mate's hanger. The
beldame saw the motion.
“An' hae ye murder't MacMuir, John Paul, an' gien's claw to a Buckskin
gowk?”
The knot stirred with an angry murmur: in truth they meant
violence,--nothing less. But they had counted without their man, for
Paul was born to ride greater crises. With his lips set in a line he
stepped lightly out of the boat into their very midst, and they looked
into his eyes to forget time and place. MacMuir had told me how those
eyes could conquer mutiny, but I had not believed had I trot been
thereto see the pack of them give back in sullen wonder. And so we
walked through and on to the little street beyond, and never a word from
the captain until we came opposite the sign of the Hurcheon.”
“Do you await me here, Richard,” he said quite calmly; “I mast seek Mr.
Currie, and make my report.”
I have still the remembrance of that pitiful day in the clean little
village. I went into the inn and sat down upon an oak settle in a corner
of the bar, under the high lattice, and thought of the bitterness of
this home-coming. If I was amongst strangers, he was amongst worse:
verily, to have one's own people set against one is heaviness of heart
to a man whose love of Scotland was great as John Paul's. After a while
the place began to fill, Willie and Robbie and Jamie arriving to discuss
Paul's return over their nappy. The little I could make of their talk
was not to my liking, but for the captain's sake I kept my anger under
as best I could, for I had the sense to know that brawling with a lot
of alehouse frequenters would not advance his cause. At length, however,
came in the same sneering fellow I had marked on the wharf, calling
loudly for swats. “Ay, Captain Paul was noo at Mr. Curries, syne banie
Alan seed him gang forbye the kirk.” The speaker's name, I learned, was
Davie, and he had been talking with each and every man in the long-boat.
Yes, Mungo Maxwell had been cat-o'-ninetailed within an inch of his
life; and that was the truth; for a trifling offence, too; and cruelly
discharged at some outlandish port because, forsooth, he would not
accept the gospel of the divinity of Captain Paul. He would as soon sign
papers with the devil.
This Davie was gifted with a dangerous kind of humour which I have
heard called innuendo, and he soon had the bar packed with listeners who
laughed and cursed turn about, filling the room to a closeness scarce
supportable. And what between the foul air and my resentment, and
apprehension lest John Paul would come hither after me, I was in
prodigious discomfort of body and mind. But there was no pushing my way
through them unnoticed, wedged as I was in a far corner; so I sat still
until unfortunately, or fortunately, the eye of Davie chanced to fall
upon me, and immediately his yellow face lighted malignantly.
“Oh! here be the gentleman the captain's brocht hame!” he cried,
emphasizing the two words; “as braw a gentleman as eer taen frae
pirates, an' nae doubt sin to ae bien Buckskin bonnet-laird.”
I saw through his game of getting satisfaction out of John Paul thro'
goading me, and determined he should have his fill of it. For, all in
all, he had me mad enough to fight three times over.
“Set aside the gentleman,” said I, standing up and taking off MacMuir's
coat, “and call me a lubberly clout like yourself, and we will see which
is the better clout.” I put off the longsleeved jacket, and faced him
with my fists doubled, crying: “I'll teach you, you spawn of a dunghill,
to speak ill of a good man!”
A clamour of “Fecht! fecht!” arose, and some of them applauded me,
calling me a “swankie,” which I believe is a compliment. A certain sense
of fairness is often to be found where least expected. They capsized
the fat, protesting browsterwife over her own stool, and were pulling
Jamie's coat from his back, when I began to suspect that a fight was not
to the sniveller's liking. Indeed, the very look of him made me laugh
out--'twas now as mild as a summer's morn.
“Wow,” says Jamie, “ye maun fecht wi' a man o' yere ain size.”
“I'll lay a guinea that we weigh even,” said I; and suddenly remembered
that I had not so much as tuppence to bless me.
Happily he did not accept the wager. In huge disgust they hustled him
from the inn and put forward the blacksmith, who was standing at the
door in his leather apron. Now I had not bargained with the smith, who
seemed a well-natured enough man, and grinned broadly at the prospect.
But they made a ring on the floor, I going over it at one end, and he
at the other, when a cry came from the street, those about the entrance
parted, and in walked John Paul himself. At sight of him my new
adversary, who was preparing to deal me out a blow to fell an ox,
dropped his arms in surprise, and held out his big hand.
“Haith! John Paul,” he shouted heartily, forgetting me, “'tis blythe I
am to see yere bonnie face ance mair!
“An' wha are ye, Jamie Darrell,” said the captain, “to be bangin' yere
betters? Dinna ye ken gentry when ye see't?”
A puzzled look spread over the smith's grimy face.
“Gentry!” says he; “nae gentry that I ken, John Paul. Th' fecht be but a
bit o' fun, an' nane o' my seekin'.”
“What quarrel is this, Richard?” says John Paul to me.
“In truth I have no quarrel with this honest man,” I replied; “I desired
but the pleasure of beating a certain evil-tongued Davie, who seems to
have no stomach for blows, and hath taken his lies elsewhere.”
So quiet was the place that the tinkle of the guidwife's needle, which
she had dropped to the flags, sounded clear to all. John Paul stood in
the middle of the ring, erect, like a man inspired, and the same strange
sense of prophecy that had stirred my blood crept over him and awed the
rest, as tho' 'twere suddenly given to see him, not as he was, but as he
would be. Then he spoke.
“You, who are my countrymen, who should be my oldest and best friends,
are become my enemies. You who were companions of my childhood are
revilers of my manhood; you have robbed me of my good name and my
honour, of my ship, of my very means of livelihood, and you are not
content; you would rob me of my country, which I hold dearer than all.
And I have never done you evil, nor spoken aught against you. As for
the man Maxwell, whose part you take, his child is starving in your very
midst, and you have not lifted your hands. 'Twas for her sake I shipped
him, and none other. May God forgive you! He alone sees the bitterness
in my heart this day. He alone knows my love for Scotland, and what it
costs me to renounce her.”
He had said so much with an infinite sadness, and I read a response in
the eyes of more than one of his listeners, the guidwife weeping aloud.
But now his voice rose, and he ended with a fiery vigour.
“Renounce her I do,” he cried, “now and forevermore! Henceforth I am
no countryman of yours. And if a day of repentance should come for this
evil, remember well what I have said to you.”
They stood for a moment when he had finished, shifting uneasily, their
tongues gone, like lads caught in a lie. I think they felt his greatness
then, and had any one of them possessed the nobility to come forward
with an honest word, John Paul might yet have been saved to Scotland.
As it was, they slunk away in twos and threes, leaving at last only the
good smith with us. He was not a man of talk, and the tears had washed
the soot from his face in two white furrows.
“Ye'll hae a waught wi' me afore ye gang, John,” he said clumsily, “for
th' morns we've paddl' 't thegither i' th' Nith.”
The ale was brought by the guidwife, who paused, as she put it down, to
wipe her eyes with her apron. She gave John Paul one furtive glance and
betook herself again to her knitting with a sigh, speech having failed
her likewise. The captain grasped up his mug.
“May God bless you, Jamie,” he said.
“Ye'll be gaen noo to see the mither,” said Jamie, after a long space.
“Ay, for the last time. An', Jamie, ye'll see that nae harm cams to her
when I'm far awa'?”
The smith promised, and also agreed to have John Paul's chests sent by
wagon, that very day, to Dumfries. And we left him at his forge, his
honest breast torn with emotion, looking after us.