the wind will free at all before the morning?’
‘It may, and may not,’ was the somewhat surly answer, and in the husky
tones Cornell betrayed that he was the worse for liquor. ‘I suppose you
were thinking of the Red Lily,’ he remarked.
‘Really, Mr. Cornell, you are a little familiar,’ Dick said, not
unkindly, for he was willing to make every allowance at such a time.
‘Bah, why am I familiar?’ sneered the second mate. ‘I suppose the night
before his marriage every man thinks of the woman who is to be his
wife.’
‘I suppose he does,’ Dick answered curtly, for he was not anxious to
prolong the conversation seeing the strange humour Cornell was in.
‘You have quite made up your mind that she is to be your wife?’ asked
Cornell.
‘Well, please God that nothing happens between now and the morning,
Miss Hetherington will certainly become Mrs. Fenton.’
‘But it is destined that _something_ shall happen,’ Cornell exclaimed,
‘and you will never see the morrow.’
The words were spoken rapidly, and with a lightning-like movement he
threw the whole weight of his body against Dick, who, unprepared for
such an assault, was pressed backwards, and falling between the boat
and the side of the vessel was lost in the dark, hissing waters.
‘A man overboard!’ cried the second mate with all the power of his
lusty lungs, and instantly the dreadful cry was taken up, and the watch
came rushing aft. The captain, who was in his cabin, tore on deck, and
in a moment all was confusion.
‘Who is it, who is it?’ exclaimed the captain.
‘Mr. Fenton, I think, for I saw him sitting on the rail a few minutes
before,’ said Cornell.
‘Clear away the boat, men, quick!’ cried the captain. Then he and
Cornell cut away lifebuoys and cast them into the sea.
‘I will try and save him, sir,’ said Cornell, as he divested himself of
his heavy sea boots and his oil skins.
Divining his motives the captain laid hold of his arm and said:
‘Are you mad, man? It is enough that one life should be sacrificed.’
But Cornell, making no reply, shook himself free, mounted the rail, and
dived headlong into the black waters.
The excitement was now intense. Everyone on board knew what had
happened, but everyone did not know that it was Dick who had gone. The
Red Lily was in this state of blissful ignorance, though she with the
other ladies crowded up the companion-way, and waited in breathless and
painful anxiety.
The boat was manned and lowered. Lamps were brought and held up so as
to throw a light as far as possible over the sea. The boat was away
about an hour. It was a fearful agony of suspense that hour. The ship
was hove to, and everything done that could be done. The searchers
returned at last, bringing with them the second mate in an exhausted
condition, but not Dick; he had gone, and as nothing more could be
done, sail was again set, and the ‘Sirocco’ went upon her way with one
soul less.
Christmas morning dawned. The gaiety was changed to sorrow, and the
marriage decorations were taken down and signs of mourning appeared.
Tenderly and gently the sad news was broken to the Red Lily, and those
who told her did not fail to tell how ‘nobly’ the second mate had
risked his life to try and save that of her lover. Tenderly as the news
was broken, the shock stunned her, and for days she lay in a state of
partial coma. But there were loving hands to tend, and loving voices to
soothe, and gradually she came round. All the sunshine, however, seemed
to have gone out of her nature, and she was a crushed woman.
For the first time for many days she went on deck, and was propped with
pillows in a sofa-chair, and for the first time since that terrible
night she saw Cornell. All her feeling of revulsion for him had
changed, and, stretching forth her white hand to him, she said in her
loving, sweet voice:
‘Mr. Cornell, I have been unjust to you. You must forgive me. You are a
brave and generous man.’
He took her hand and answered:
‘I grieve with you, Miss Hetherington. I did my best to save him, but
it was not to be. No man can prevent his fate. It is not for me to say
why, at such a moment, your lover should have met his doom. It was
Destiny; but, though I battled with the waves and the darkness of the
night, it was not my destiny to drown.’
Lily shuddered. The man spoke so strangely. There was such a weird
appearance about him, and his influence over her was as strong as
ever. And yet a fearful thought came to her. Was it not probable that
Cornell had hurled her lover into the sea, and then, seized with sudden
remorse, had dived after him?
Oh, how that dreadful thought troubled and pained her! She struggled
with it for days, and wept and wept and wept again. At one moment she
resolved to take her mother into her confidence, and tell her all. But
whenever this feeling came upon her the mysterious Cornell seemed to be
at her side, and then all her will power went again. She felt that she
hated him one moment, but the next she could and would have grovelled
at his feet, overcome by a curious fascination, mingled with a sort of
admiration, for the daring, reckless, wicked, iron-willed fellow.
* * * * *
A week later the ship was in the London docks.
Lily and her mother went on shore at Gravesend. The poor girl was
bowed with sorrow, and she felt as though she would never again hold up
her head. Before she left the ship Cornell begged hard to be allowed to
call upon her. She wanted to refuse him, but could not, and, with the
consent of her mother, she gave him permission to do so, for the mother
felt she was indebted to him.
Lily and Mrs. Hetherington went to reside in the west-end of London,
and Cornell, availing himself of their permission, was almost a daily
visitor. He announced his intention of not going to sea again for some
time, and the old fascination he had exercised over Lily was exerted
now to a greater degree; and though she was sure she possessed no love
for him, she felt drawn towards him in a strange manner. One day, four
months after their arrival home, he pressed her to become his wife,
and she reluctantly gave her consent. She would have said ‘No’ if she
could, but she was powerless; and believing that she had previously
misjudged him and done him a wrong, she said:
‘I will be a dutiful and faithful wife to you, but you must never hope
to win my love. _That_ is buried in the cruel sea.’
It was arranged that the wedding was to take place in a few months’
time. He objected to the delay, but she was firm on the point, for she
felt that it would not be respectful to her dead love to marry so soon
after the calamity. Many a girl who knew Lily and her lover envied
her. Cornell was so ‘handsome,’ so ‘fascinating,’ so ‘manly,’ ‘such a
splendid type of a sailor’; but when her friends congratulated her she
only sighed. She felt as if she were sacrificing herself; but then her
affianced husband had so nobly risked his life for her lover’s sake,
notwithstanding his previous strange conduct, and on that account alone
she was going to give him her hand. She little dreamed that his jumping
overboard was only part of his diabolical plan, and was meant to avert
suspicion--which it did most effectually. So far as the risk to himself
was concerned, it was reduced to a minimum, for he was a magnificent
and powerful swimmer, and before he took the leap he was careful to
see that plenty of lifebuoys had been dropped over, and that the boat
was all ready for lowering.
In the course of the next few months Mrs. Hetherington and her daughter
removed to the village of Bowness, on the banks of Windermere, as they
had friends living there; and it was arranged that the marriage should
take place in the parish church of that place.
The wedding day came. It was a glorious summer’s morning, and the
air was filled with the music of birds and the scent of flowers. The
wedding was to be very quiet, and but few guests had been invited.
Those who knew Lily well said that the ‘Red Lily had drooped.’ All the
brightness was out of her life, for she felt that her heart was beneath
the waves of the Bay of Biscay.
The wedding party had assembled in the church, and the ceremony had
commenced. When the grey-haired clergyman asked if anyone knew any just
cause or impediment why the man and woman should not be joined together
in the bonds of holy matrimony, there rose up a man in the body of the
church, and in a loud and steady voice exclaimed:
‘I forbid this marriage.’
Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof the consternation and
confusion could not have been greater. With a great cry the Red Lily
threw up her arms, and then fell forward on her face in a swoon. For a
few moments Cornell stood as if petrified. His face was ghastly pale.
By this time the man had come forward to the altar rails, and then
Cornell found tongue.
‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘is it possible that the dead can come to
life?’
‘No; but the living can thwart the machinations of a villain, and I
am here to do that,’ said Dick Fenton, for he it was. ‘This man,’
continued Dick, addressing the astonished spectators, ‘attempted to
murder me.’
No one moved. They were dumb with amazement, for they naturally thought
a madman was amongst them. Dick himself stooped and lifted up the
inanimate form of the Lily, and bore her into the vestry. Taking
advantage of the confusion--for everyone seemed bewildered--Cornell
stole from the church, got clear away, and was never heard of more.
It was some time before Lily recovered consciousness. It is better to
leave the reunion of the lovers to the imagination of the reader, for
words always fail to convey anything like an adequate notion of such
a scene. The news of the affair had rapidly spread over the village;
an enormous crowd had gathered about the church, and the uproar was
immense. The wedding party had to wait a considerable time before they
could get back to their homes; then explanations were given.
On that dreadful night in the Bay of Biscay Dick had escaped death
almost by a miracle, as it were. He was a good swimmer, but was a
little stunned by striking his head against the side of the vessel
in his descent. He had a recollection, however, of making a powerful
effort to swim, and in a little while he felt something touch his hand,
and found it was a lifebuoy. On this he supported himself for a long
time--it seemed to him two or three hours. Then he saw the outlines
of a vessel, which he took to be the ‘Sirocco,’ and he shouted with
all his might, and presently had the satisfaction to hear the plash of
oars. He had only a faint recollection of hearing a human voice, and
feeling the grasp of hands about him. Then ensued a blank. When next
he opened his eyes he found himself in a comfortable cabin, and he
soon learnt that it was not the ‘Sirocco’ that had picked him up, but
an outward bound ship, called the ‘Golden Fleece.’ She was bound for
the Cape, and so Dick was mortified to find that he must accompany her
there, unless a homeward bounder should be fallen in with, and he could
get on board. This chance did not occur, and so to the Cape he went,
but the vessel made a long voyage. As soon after arrival as possible he
took ship for England, and on reaching there he soon discovered to his
amazement that the Red Lily was on the eve of being married to Cornell.
He hurried down to the Lake district, and was there a whole week
determining not to declare himself until the last moment, so that the
discomfiture of his enemy might be the more complete.
For some months after this strange and startling incident Lily remained
in such delicate health that grave fears were at one time entertained.
Sudden joy is almost as bad as great sorrow at times, and the
unexpected return of her lost lover had been too great a shock. Care,
attention, and change of air, however, gradually restored her, and
again she made preparations for her marriage, which was to take place
on Christmas Day, twelve months after the terrible scene in the Bay of
Biscay, when Dick was hurled into the sea.
The day came at last--cold, crisp, and bright. The earth was wrapped
in a robe of spotless white, and the church was decorated with holly
and winter flowers. As the bells pealed forth merrily, and the winter
sun shone out from the dull sky, Dick Fenton led his bride down the
pathway to the carriage that waited them at the gate, and the crowd
of villagers that had gathered in the old churchyard declared that no
bonnier bride had ever been seen than the Red Lily.
V
THE PIRATE’S TREASURE
A TRUE AND DRAMATIC STORY OF THE SEA
At the time the startling events I am about to relate occurred, I had
but recently passed my final examination in medicine, after what I may
modestly say was a successful course of study in Glasgow, of which
city I am a native. For some time I had been anxiously expecting my
diploma, which would give me the right to practice my profession, and
I was trying to obtain an appointment as surgeon on board a splendid
East Indiaman, known as the ‘Clydesdale.’ Singularly enough, on the
very day that I received the intimation that my application had
been favourably considered, I was placed in possession of a letter
from a dear friend in London, asking me if I would proceed on his
behalf with all possible speed to Surinam, on a very delicate and
important mission. For an hour or two I was exercised in my mind as
to the proper course I ought to pursue in my own interests; that is,
whether I should accept the ‘Clydesdale’ appointment, or undertake my
friend’s commission. Something prompted me to choose the latter, and
I immediately communicated my decision to London. In a post or two I
received my instructions, with a bank draft for my expenses, and I was
told to secure a berth in a vessel if possible proceeding direct to
the place where my business was to be transacted. I therefore lost no
time in making inquiries about a ship, and at last heard of one called
the ‘Ariadne.’ She had been chartered by a Glasgow company, and was
then loading up at the West Quay, and was to sail in a few days. I at
once secured a passage in her, and went down to see the vessel for
the first time the very day she was to leave. Little did I dream then
how strangely my destiny was to be affected by the fact of my having
undertaken my friend’s commission. While I stood examining her from the
pier, two sailors, who seemed to be roaming idly about, stopped and
began to converse by my side.
‘Has the “Ariadne” shipped all her hands, Jack?’ asked the one; ‘I see
she has the Blue Peter flying. Somebody told me she has been sold to a
Dutch firm now. How would you like to sail in her?’
‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other; ‘I know too much about her. I made
a voyage in her four years ago, and a cleaner or livelier craft is not
on the sea! But there is a limb of the devil in her as skipper that is
enough to cause her to sink to the bottom. It was in my voyage that
he did for Bill Burnet with the pump-sounding rod, because the little
fellow snivelled a bit, and was not handy to jump when he was ordered
aloft to set the fore-royal. It was his first voyage, and the boy was
mortal afraid to venture; but the captain swore he would make him, and
in his passion hit him a rap with the iron rod and killed him. When he
saw what he had done he lifted the body while it was still quivering
and hove it over the side; and many a long day the men wondered what
had become of little Bill, for they were all below at dinner, and none
but myself saw the bloody deed. It was needless for me to complain and
get him overhauled, as there were no witnesses; but I left the ship,
and berths would be scarce before I would sail with him again or put my
foot on the deck of his ship. I tell you, mate, there’s a curse on her,
and them as sails in her will come to grief.’
Knowing what tyrants shipmasters are in general, and how much their
passengers’ comfort depends on them, I was somewhat startled by this
piece of information respecting the temper of the man I purposed to
sail with. But necessity has no law! The circumstance was probably
much misrepresented, I thought, and, from a simple act of discipline,
exaggerated to an act of wanton cruelty. But be that as it might--my
affairs were urgent. There was no other vessel for the same port--I
must either take my passage or run the risk of being superseded. The
thing was not to be thought of, so I went and secured my berth. As my
preparations were few and trifling, I had everything arranged and on
board just as the vessel was unmooring from the quay. During the night
we got down to the Clock Lighthouse, and stood off and on, waiting for
the captain, who had remained behind to get the ship cleared out at
the Custom House. Soon afterwards he joined us, and, the pilot leaving
us in the return-boat, we stood down the Forth under all our canvas.
Her beloved Majesty Queen Victoria had not long been on the throne,
and piracy on the high seas was still a lucrative pursuit. Every
merchantman, therefore, generally carried a fair amount of armament,
and our vessel was no exception, although I, for one, certainly never
anticipated any adventure.
For four weeks we had a quick and pleasant passage. The ‘Ariadne’ was a
good sailer; for, being American-built, and originally intended for a
privateer, she sailed uncommonly fast, generally running at the rate of
twelve knots an hour in a good wind.
As I expected, Captain Mahone, an Irishman by birth, proved to be, in
point of acquirements, not at all above the common run of skippers
in command of sailing ships at that period. He was haughty and
overbearing, and domineered over the crew with a high hand; in return
for which he was evidently feared and detested by them all. He had
been many years in the West Indies, and during most of that time had
commanded a local trader, and had, between the fervid suns of such
high latitudes and the copious use of grog, become of a rich mahogany
colour, or something between vermilion and the tint of a sheet of
new copper. He was a middle-sized man, square built, with a powerful
and muscular frame. His aspect, naturally harsh and forbidding, was
rendered more so by the sinister expression of his left eye, which had
been nearly forced out by some accident, and the lineaments of his
countenance expressed plainly that he was passionate and furious in the
extreme. In consequence of this I kept rather distant and aloof; and,
except at meals, we seldom exchanged more than ordinary civilities.
By our reckoning, our ship had now got into the latitude of the
Bermudas, when one evening at sunset the wind, which had hitherto been
favourable, fell at once into a dead calm. The day had been clear and
bright; but now huge masses of dark and conical-shaped clouds began
to tower over each other in the western horizon, which, being tinged
with the rays of the sun, displayed that lurid and deep brassy tint
so well known to mariners as the token of an approaching storm. All
the sailors were of opinion that we should have a coarse night, and
every precaution that good seamanship could suggest was taken to make
the vessel snug before the gale came on. The oldest boys were sent
up to hand and send down the royal and top-gallant sails and strike
the yards, while the topsails and staysails were close-reefed. These
preparations were hardly accomplished when the wind shifted, and took
us aback with such violence as nearly to capsize the vessel. The ship
was put round as soon as possible, and lay to, while all hands remained
on deck in case of any emergency. About ten, in the interval of a
squall, we heard a gun fired as a signal of distress. The night was as
black as pitch, but the flash showed us that the stranger was not far
to leeward; so, to avoid drifting on the wreck during the darkness,
the main-topsail was braced round and filled, and the ship hauled to
windward. In this manner we kept alternately beating or heaving-to
as the gale rose or fell till the morning broke, when, through the
haze, we perceived a small vessel with her masts carried away. As the
wind had dropped, the captain had gone to bed; so it was the mate’s
watch on deck. The steersman, an old grey-headed seaman, named James
Gemmel, proposed to bear down and save the people, saying he had been
twice wrecked himself, and knew what it was to be in such a situation.
Owing to the captain being below, the mate was irresolute what to do,
being aware that the success of the speculation depended on their
getting to Surinam with all possible speed; however, he was at length
persuaded--the helm was put up, and the ship bore away.
As we neared the wreck, and were standing by the mizzen shrouds with
our glasses, the captain came up from the cabin. He looked up with
astonishment to the sails and the direction of the vessel’s head, and
in a voice of suppressed passion said, as he turned to the mate, ‘What
is the meaning of this, Mr. Wyllie? Who has dared to alter the ship’s
course without my leave, when you knew very well that we shall hardly
be in time for the market, use what expedition we may?’ The young man
was confused by this unexpected challenge, and stammered out something
about Gemmel having persuaded him. ‘It was me, sir,’ respectfully
answered the old sailor, wishing to avert the storm from the mate;
‘I thought you wouldn’t have the heart to leave the wreck, and these
people to perish, without lending a hand to save them! We should be
neither Christians nor true seamen to desert her, and----’
‘Damn you and the wreck, you old canting rascal! Do you dare to stand
there and preach to me?’ thundered the captain, his fury breaking
out. ‘I’ll teach you to disobey my orders! I’ll give you something to
think of!’ and seizing a capstan-bar which lay near him he hurled it
at the steersman with all his might. The blow was effectual--one end
of it struck him across the head with such force as to sweep him in an
instant from his station at the wheel, and to dash him with violence
against the lee-bulwarks, where he lay bleeding and motionless. ‘Take
that, and be damned to you!’ exclaimed the wretch, as he seized the
helm and sang out to the men: ‘Stand by sheets and braces--hard
a-lee--let go!’ In a twinkling the yards were braced round, and the
ship, laid between six points to the wind, was flying through the water.
Meanwhile Gemmel was lying without anyone daring to assist him, for
the crew were so confounded that they seemed quite undetermined how to
act. I stepped to him, therefore, and the mate following my example,
we lifted him up. As there was no appearance of respiration, I placed
my hand to his heart, but pulsation had entirely ceased--the old man
was dead! The bar had struck him directly on the temporal bone, and had
completely fractured that part of the skull.
‘He is a murdered man, Captain Mahone!’ said I, laying down the body,
‘murdered without cause or provocation.’
‘None of your remarks, sir!’ he retorted; ‘what the devil have you to
do with it? Do you mean to stir up my men to mutiny? Or do you call
disobeying my orders no provocation? I’ll answer it to those who have a
right to ask; but till then, let me see the man who dare open his mouth
to me in this ship.’
‘I promise you,’ returned I, ‘that though you rule and tyrannise here
at present, your power shall have a termination, and you shall be
called to account for your conduct in this day’s work. Rest assured
that this blood shall be required at your hands, though you have
hitherto escaped punishment for what has stained them already.’ This
allusion to the murder of little Bill Burnet seemed to stagger him
considerably; he stopped short before me, and, while his face grew
black with suppressed wrath and fury, whispered:
‘I warn you again, young man, to busy yourself with your own matters.
Meddle not with what does not concern you; and belay your slack jaw,
or, by----! Rink Mahone will find a way to make it fast for you!’ He
then turned round, and walked forward to the forecastle.