have one chance for our lives yet. Our boat is still towing astern.
You throw yourself overboard and swim till I slide down the painter,
and cut her adrift. Come, bear a hand, and jump. Don’t you see them
hastening aft?’ and in an instant he pitched himself off the taffrail,
slid down the rope which held the boat, and cast her loose. But this
advice, however judicious, it was impossible for me to follow, for at
that moment repeated shrieks from Isabella put to flight all thoughts
for my own individual safety. I, therefore, hurried back to the cabin,
determined that if I could not rescue her along with myself, to remain
and protect her with my life. And in the nick of time I arrived. The
candles were still burning on the table, and through the smoke of the
pistols, which still filled the cabin, I beheld her struggling in the
arms of a Spanish sailor--the identical fellow who had displayed such
insolence in the early part of the evening. With one stroke of the
butt end of my pistol I fractured the cursed villain’s skull, caught
up Isabella in my arms, ran up the ladder, and had nearly gained the
side when the boatswain, attracted by her white garments, left the helm
to intercept me, and I saw the gleam of a dagger or knife of some sort
on the point of descending, when he was suddenly struck down by some
person from behind. I did not stop to discover who had done me this
good office, but hailing Wright, and clasping Isabella firmly in my
arms, I plunged into the water, followed by, at that moment, an unknown
ally. With the aid of my companion, whom I now found to be John Wyllie,
the mate, we easily managed to support our charge till the boat reached
us, when we found that the greater part of the ‘Tartar’s’ men, who also
jumped overboard, had been rescued in a similar manner.
When the morning dawned we perceived the ‘Ariadne,’ like a speck in the
horizon, and the sloop-of-war in close chase. Our attention was next
turned to our own situation, which was by no means enviable. We had
escaped, it is true, with our lives, for the present, but without a
morsel of food, or a single drop of fresh water with us in the boat.
We could at best only expect to protract existence for a few days
longer, and then yield them up ultimately in horror and misery. By an
observation taken the day before, on board the ‘Tartar,’ Mr. Wright
informed us we were to the north-east of the Bahamas, and distant about
one hundred and seventy miles from Walling’s Island, which was the
nearest land. This was a long distance, but as despair never enters the
breast of a British sailor, even in situations of the utmost extremity,
we cheered up each other, and, as no other resource was left us, we
manned our oars, and pulled away with life, trusting to the chance of
meeting with some vessel, of which there was a strong probability, as
this was the common course of our leeward traders. And our hopes were
not disappointed, for next day we fortunately fell in with a brig from
the Azores, bound for Porto Rico, on board of which we were received
with much kindness, and in five days we found ourselves safely moored
in Porto-Real harbour.
My first step on landing was to inquire for a boarding-house for
Isabella, and I had the good luck to be directed to one kept by a
respectable English family in Orange Terrace, and to this I conducted
her. My next transaction was to charter a small cutter, and to
communicate to Wright the secret of the hidden treasure, at the same
time asking him to adventure himself and his men on its recovery. I
also gave him to understand the probability of a rencontre with the
pirates, in the event of their having escaped the sloop, for I was
aware that Mahone had overheard the whole confession from my finding
him listening at the cabin door. Without hesitation the lieutenant at
once agreed to accompany me, and engaging some hands out of a vessel
newly arrived, we soon mustered a party of fourteen men, and we hired a
cutter. As it wanted only six days to the Festival of St. Jago, and the
distance across the Caribbean Sea was great enough to require all our
exertions to be there in time, we embarked and sailed that very night.
Our cutter proved a very fast vessel, and though the winds were light
and variable we made the Roccas on the evening of the sixth day. As
the Spaniard had foretold, the moon was climbing the western sky,
and pouring the fulness of her splendour with a mild and beautiful
effulgence on the untroubled deep as we slowly drifted with the current
between the Wolf Rock and the adjacent isle. All was silent and calm
over the whole desert archipelago and the vast surrounding waters,
save now and then the flight of a sea fowl awakening from its slumbers
as we passed, or the occasional roar of the jaguar faintly wafted
from the mainland. We ran the cutter into a deep and narrow creek,
moored her safe, and proceeded, well-armed, to the eastern extremity.
There we found the projecting point of land, and the old vanilla tree
exactly in the situation described--its huge, twisted trunk was still
entire, and from the end of its solitary branch, which was graced by
a few scattered leaves, the body of a man in the garb of a sailor
hung suspended in irons. The clothes had preserved the body from the
birds of prey, but the head was picked clean and bare, leaving the
eyeless and bleached skull to glitter white in the moonlight. In
perfect silence, and with something of awe on our spirits, impressed
by the solitude and dreariness of the scene, we seated ourselves
on the rocks, and, with my watch in my hand, I began to mark the
progress of the shadow. For nearly three hours we watched in this
manner, listening attentively for the slightest sound from seaward;
but everything continued hushed and still, except the creaking of the
chain as the dead man swung to and fro in the breeze. Midnight was now
drawing near, the moon, radiant and full, was careering high through
the deep blue of heaven, and the shadows of the branch and stem were
approaching each other, and towards the desired point. At length the
hand of my watch pointed to within one minute of the time. It passed
over. The branch and stem now merged into one, and threw their shadow
due east, and the first spadeful of earth had been thrown out when the
man who had been stationed to keep a look-out came running to inform
us that a boat was rapidly approaching from the east. We immediately
concluded that they must be some of the ‘Ariadne’s’ crew; and their
long and vigorous strokes, as they stretched out to the full extent
of their oars, showed that they knew the importance of every minute
that elapsed. Our implements for digging were hastily laid aside, and
we concealed ourselves among the rocks till the pirates came within
reach. In a short time the boat was run ashore, and eight armed men
came forward, partly Spaniards and partly the ship’s crew, among whom I
recognised the boatswain, and, to my surprise, Mahone, whom I had shot
and left for dead in the cabin. Without giving them time to prepare
for the assault we quitted our shelter, and sprung among them at once,
laying about with the short swords we had provided ourselves with. For
a little space the skirmish was toughly and hotly contested, for the
pirates were resolute and reckless, and fought with the desperation
of men who knew that the only chance for their lives lay in their own
exertions. In the confusion of the fray I had lost sight of Wright, and
was closely engaged with one of the Spaniards, when the voice of the
boatswain, shouting forth a horrible imprecation, sounded immediately
behind me. I turned round, and sprang aside from the sweep of his
cutlass, and, as my pistols were both empty, retreated, acting upon
the defensive, when he pulled out his, fired, and hurled the weapon at
my head. The shot passed without injuring me, but the pistol, aimed
with better effect, struck me full on the forehead. A thousand sparks
of light flashed from my eyes, I felt myself reeling, and on the point
of falling, when a cut across the shoulder stretched me at once on
the ground. When I recovered from my stupor and opened my eyes, the
morning was far advanced, the sun was shining bright overhead, and I
found myself at sea, lying on the deck of the cutter, and Wright busily
engaged in examining my wounds. From him I learned that the pirates had
been mastered after a severe conflict, in which four had been slain and
left on the island, two had escaped unobserved during the fight, and
made off with their boat, and two had been wounded, and were prisoners
on board, one of whom was Mahone. On our arrival at Porto Rico we
delivered them over to the civil power, and soon afterwards Mahone
was tried for the murder of the priest, when he was convicted on our
evidence, condemned, and executed.
Under good nursing and care I gradually recovered, and by the fall of
the season, without any further adventures, I once more landed safe in
Scotland.
Isabella is not now that destitute and unprotected orphan whom I
first saw on the middle of the western ocean, but the happy mistress
of a happy home, diffusing life and gladness on all around her. My
friend Wright has lately been placed on the list of post-captains,
and is anxiously waiting for more bustling times, when there will be
more knocking about and more hard blows and quicker promotion than
can be hoped for in piping times of peace. John Wyllie, too, has had
advancement in his line, being now master of one of the finest ships
sailing out of the Clyde, and I have the additional satisfaction of
knowing that none of the crew of the cutter have had reason to regret
their having jeopardised their lives in fighting for the ‘Pirate’s
Treasure,’ which proved to be of far greater value than the confession
of the dying Spaniard had led me to believe. Altogether that voyage was
an extraordinary one, and at this period I can look back and feel the
truths of the saying that ‘Some men are born to strange destinies.’
In this present day we have become more prosaic, and true romances of
the sea such as I have described will soon be things of the past.
VI
THE LEGEND OF WOLFSPRING
A STORY OF THE BLACK FOREST
Wolfspring Castle stood in the very heart of the Black Forest, and for
centuries had been in possession of the Barons of Wolfspring, one of
the most powerful German families of the Middle Ages, and who, even at
the present day, although living on the wreck of their former greatness
only, still keep up a semblance of dignity.
The seat of these territorial lords was a castellated Gothic mansion
built for strength and defence. It was a massive and imposing pile,
gloomy and forbidding as to its external aspects, but designed
internally with an eye to the comfort and luxury of its occupants.
Nevertheless, there were many dark, tortuous corridors and vaulted
tapestry rooms, in which there were ghostly echoes. There were also
secret stairways, concealed spring doors, and deep down in the basement
a number of gloomy dungeons, in which many a ghastly tragedy had been
enacted.
A dark grove of pine and mountain ash encompassed the castle on every
side, and threw an aspect of weirdness around the scene, and even
shut out the sunshine, which failed to penetrate to that part of the
forest’s dark depths.
The extraordinary and astounding events that are now about to be
related occurred long ago, but incredible as they may seem to the
modern sceptic, are still vouched for by those who have their homes in
the Black Forest at the present time.
At the period referred to the then Baron of Wolfspring had an only
daughter, whose ravishing beauty had caused her to become the talk of
Germany, and suitors from all parts had sought her hand. As she was
the apple of her father’s eye, however, he had carefully guarded her,
in the hope that she would remain with him, as he could not bear the
idea of her parting from him. Nevertheless, he surrounded her with
nearly everything she desired, and was constantly devising new plans
for her amusement. On reaching her twenty-first year her father made
it the occasion for a fête, such as was rarely seen even in Germany,
and preparations were made for it months before the time. Invitations
were sent out lavishly, and it was calculated that the Black Forest
would witness a gathering of beauty and bravery which would pass
down to posterity as an historical event. The lady’s birthday fell
in the winter time, but that did not prevent the invited guests from
assembling in great numbers.
The castle bells rang out a merry peal at the approach of a winter
twilight, and the warder was stationed with his retinue on the
battlements, to announce the arrival of the company who were invited
to share the amusements that reigned within the walls. The Lady
Marguerite, the baron’s only daughter, never looked more ravishing than
on this occasion. The large vaulted apartments were thrown open for
the reception of the numerous guests, and by midnight the castle was a
scene of gaiety and brilliancy, and the greatest good humour prevailed.
Suddenly it was noted that amongst the guests in the ballroom was a
very remarkable-looking man, who had not been noticed before, and who
was an utter stranger to everyone present. He attracted attention by
his dignified bearing, his handsome features, and the magnificence
of his dress. The baron was appealed to, but had to confess that he
did not know the stranger, who, on being asked for his name and rank,
politely asked that he might be allowed to remain incognito, but he
hinted that his lineage was perhaps superior to any else present,
and his wishing to remain unknown for a time was a mere whim; but,
for convenience sake, he requested that he might be addressed as
the count. As may be supposed this mysterious stranger aroused no
little curiosity, and his boast of superiority engendered some amount
of ill-feeling. It would have been contrary to all traditions of
Wolfspring hospitality for the baron to request his strange guest
to retire, especially on such an occasion, and although he had come
without retinue or following of any kind, and not one of the retainers
could give any information as to when or how he arrived, he was treated
by the host with every consideration and respect.
It soon became only too obvious, however, that the stranger’s
presence was likely to be productive of much heart-burning, if not of
actual mischief, for he bestowed all his attentions on the beautiful
Marguerite, and quite ignored the other ladies. This would probably
have led to a speedy open rupture, as some or other of the jealous
men would have been sure to have insulted him, and in that age insult
was quickly followed by blows and bloodshed. But somehow or other it
began to be whispered that the proud and uninvited guest was none
other than the king’s brother, who for certain family reasons had long
lived abroad, but his wealth, power, and possible succession to the
throne had caused him to be a very-much-talked-of personage in Germany,
although no one seemed to know anything about him. But there had been
stories of his handsome appearance and his eccentricity. As may be
supposed the mere suggestion that the unbidden guest was the mysterious
brother of the king at once silenced criticism, and there was a general
desire to pay him homage and treat him with respect.
All these flattering attentions he acknowledged with lofty dignity,
and it was obvious that he was bent on winning the good opinion of the
host’s fair daughter, and equally obvious that she was fascinated by
his brilliancy and wit; and when he casually remarked, with a sigh,
that in another half-hour he must tear himself from her, and leave
the fair scene to ride forth again on his journey, she flew to her
father and begged of him to press the count to prolong his stay for
a few days. Not wishing to deny his daughter anything, the baron
approached the count, who, however, did not seem disposed to yield,
until beautiful Marguerite herself added her persuasions to those of
her father, and then, with a gracious bow, the count expressed his
intention of accepting the invitation.
The festivities were prolonged far into the night. Outside the elements
waged war, for a terrific gale swept through the forest, bringing with
it the heaviest fall of snow that had been experienced for many years.
But the storm did not interfere with the comfort of the revellers, who
began to disperse to their respective rooms as the castle bell tolled
the hour of five.
The day had far advanced when the guests reassembled for the morning
meal. Then experiences were exchanged, and strange stories told. One
averred that he had been the victim of remarkable phenomena in his
room, another that he had heard the flapping of wings at his window,
and when, out of a kindly feeling, he arose and opened the window,
thinking that some poor storm-beaten bird was in distress, he was
greeted with eldritch laughter and shrill screams that pealed through
the forest. Others, again, said that they had heard heavenly music;
but several, who occupied apartments near those in which the count had
been placed, affirmed that they were startled by awful and unearthly
sounds proceeding from his room, and yet they were unable to define
those sounds. The more level-headed guests smiled as they heard these
fantastic stories, and were disposed to attribute them to the figments
of wine-heated brains. The mysterious count was almost the last to
put in an appearance at the breakfast table, and when he gathered the
subject of the conversation a dark smile of unutterable meaning played
round his saturnine features, which then relapsed into an expression
of the deepest melancholy. He addressed his conversation principally
to Marguerite, and talked enthusiastically of the different climes he
had visited, of the sunny regions of Italy, where the very air breathes
the fragrance of flowers, and the summer breeze sighs over a land of
sweets. When he spoke to her of those delicious countries where the
smile of the day sinks into the softer beauty of the night, and the
loveliness of heaven is never for an instant obscured, he drew sighs
of regret from the bosom of his fair auditor, and for the first time
in her life she longed to leave her home and wander in the lands of
delight of which the count drew such graphic pictures.
It soon became evident that the count was bent upon making an
impression upon the heart of Marguerite, and when a week had elapsed he
still lingered at the castle, although most of the guests had departed,
but he begged his host’s permission to be allowed to prolong his stay,
as he had never before experienced so much happiness. As the baron had
now quite come to believe he was entertaining the king’s brother, and
the probable future king, he was nothing loth that the stranger should
stay, and he even began to think that he could now reconcile himself
to the loss of his daughter, so long as there was a prospect of her
becoming a queen. For that high honour he was prepared to sacrifice
even his own feelings.
Days rolled on, and every moment increased the fervour of the
inexpressible sentiments with which the stranger had inspired
Marguerite. He never discoursed of love, but he looked it in his
language, in his manner, in the insinuating tones of his voice, and in
the slumbering softness of his smile; and when he found that he had
succeeded in impressing her, a sneer of the most diabolical meaning
spoke for an instant, and died again on his dark-featured countenance.
When he met her in the company of her father he was at once respectful
and submissive, and it was only when alone with her, in her rambles
through the forest with her favourite hounds, that he assumed the guise
of the more impassioned admirer.
As he was sitting one evening with the baron in a wainscoted apartment
of the library, the conversation happened to turn upon supernatural
agency. The stranger remained reserved and mysterious during the
discussion, but when the baron in a sneering manner denied the
existence of spirits, and satirically invoked their appearance, if
there was any truth in the many stories he had heard, the count’s eyes
seemed to glow with unearthly lustre, and his form to dilate to more
than its natural dimensions. When the conversation had ceased, to
the astonishment of everyone a chorus of celestial harmony was heard
pealing through the dark forest glade. The stranger was disturbed and
gloomy; he looked at his noble host with compassion, and something
like a tear swam in his dark eyes. After the lapse of a few seconds
the music died gently in the distance, and all was hushed as before.
The baron soon after quitted the apartment, and was followed almost
immediately by the stranger. He had not long been absent from the room
when harrowing groans were heard, as if some person was suffering the
agonies of an unusually painful death, and when the attendants and
others rushed out to ascertain the cause the baron was discovered
stretched dead in the corridor. His countenance was convulsed with
pain, and the grip of a human hand was clearly visible on his blackened
throat. The alarm was instantly given, the castle searched in every
direction, and, to the alarm and consternation of everyone, it was
found that the count had disappeared. Guests and servants alike mounted
their horses and scoured the forest in every direction, but not a trace
of the stranger could be discovered, and it was noted that the many
paths diverging from the castle were covered with the unsullied and
untrodden snow. There was no sign of either man or horse having passed.
How, then, had the count gone away? The mystery was profound, and a
strange fear fell upon the assembly.
In due course the body of the baron was committed to the earth with
all the pomp and ceremony befitting the burial of a person of his high
rank, and then those who had remained behind to pay their last respects
to the dead host dispersed to their homes, and the remembrance of the
dreadful transaction was recalled but as a thing that should be spoken
of with bated breath. Men shuddered as they referred to it, and women
became hysterical. What was the awful mystery? Would it ever be cleared
up? Who was the strange count, and how had he disappeared? He had gone
as he came; no one knew how.
After the disappearance of the stranger who had fascinated her and
won her love, the spirits of the gentle Marguerite declined. The loss
of her lover and the awfully mysterious death of her father threw the
girl into a profound melancholy, and she refused to be comforted. She
would walk early and late in the walks that he had once frequented so
that she might recall his last words, dwell on his honeyed smile, and
wander to the spot where she had once discoursed with him of love. She
avoided all society, and when alone in the solitude of her chamber she
gave vent to her affliction in tears, and the love that the pride of
maiden modesty concealed in public burst forth in the hours of privacy.
So beauteous, yet so resigned, was the fair mourner that she seemed
already an angel freed from the trammels of the world and prepared to
take her flight to heaven.
The winter slowly passed. It lingered unusually long that year, but at
length the snow melted under the warm rays of the spring sunshine, and
in a little while thereafter summer burst in all its glory, and the
great forest was resonant with a thousand glad voices of revivified
nature. Marguerite had had a seat erected in a spot commanding a
magnificent view which had more than once called forth the admiration
of the count, although he had only seen it under its winter aspects.
Here one summer day she sat wrapped in thought, when she was suddenly
startled by someone approaching. She turned round quickly, and to her
infinite surprise beheld the count, looking even handsomer and more
fascinating than when she last beheld him. He stepped gaily to her
side, and commenced an animated conversation.
‘You left me,’ exclaimed the delighted girl, ‘and I thought all
happiness was fled from me for ever; but you return, and shall we not
be happy?’
‘Happy,’ replied the stranger with a scornful burst of derision, ‘can
I ever be happy again? Can the--but excuse the agitation, my love,
and impute it to the pleasure I experience at our meeting. Oh! I have
many things to tell you; aye! and many kind words to receive. Is it
not so, sweet one? Come, tell me truly, have you been happy during my
absence? No! I see in that sunken eye, in that pallid cheek, that the
poor wanderer has at least gained some slight interest in the heart of
his beloved. I have roamed to other climes, I have seen other nations,
I have met with other women, beautiful and accomplished, but I have
met with but one angel, and she is here before me. Accept this simple
offering of my affection, dearest,’ continued the stranger, plucking a
heath-rose from its stem; ‘it is beautiful as yourself, and sweet as is
the love I bear thee.’