THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND
[Illustration]
It is not so easy to tell why discredit should be cast upon a man
because of something that his grandfather may have done amiss, but the
world, which is never overnice in its discrimination as to where to
lay the blame, is often pleased to make the innocent suffer in the
place of the guilty.
Barnaby True was a good, honest, biddable lad, as boys go, but yet he
was not ever allowed altogether to forget that his grandfather had
been that very famous pirate, Capt. William Brand, who, after so many
marvelous adventures (if one may believe the catchpenny stories and
ballads that were written about him), was murdered in Jamaica by Capt.
John Malyoe, the commander of his own consort, the _Adventure_ galley.
It has never been denied, that ever I heard, that up to the time of
Captain Brand's being commissioned against the South Sea pirates he
had always been esteemed as honest, reputable a sea captain as could
be.
When he started out upon that adventure it was with a ship, the
_Royal Sovereign_, fitted out by some of the most decent merchants of
New York. The governor himself had subscribed to the adventure, and
had himself signed Captain Brand's commission. So, if the unfortunate
man went astray, he must have had great temptation to do so, many
others behaving no better when the opportunity offered in those
far-away seas where so many rich purchases might very easily be taken
and no one the wiser.
To be sure, those stories and ballads made our captain to be a most
wicked, profane wretch; and if he were, why, God knows he suffered and
paid for it, for he laid his bones in Jamaica, and never saw his home
or his wife and daughter again after he had sailed away on the _Royal
Sovereign_ on that long misfortunate voyage, leaving them in New York
to the care of strangers.
At the time when he met his fate in Port Royal Harbor he had obtained
two vessels under his command--the _Royal Sovereign_, which was the
boat fitted out for him in New York, and the _Adventure_ galley, which
he was said to have taken somewhere in the South Seas. With these he
lay in those waters of Jamaica for over a month after his return from
the coasts of Africa, waiting for news from home, which, when it came,
was of the very blackest; for the colonial authorities were at that
time stirred up very hot against him to take him and hang him for a
pirate, so as to clear their own skirts for having to do with such a
fellow. So maybe it seemed better to our captain to hide his
ill-gotten treasure there in those far-away parts, and afterward to
try and bargain with it for his life when he should reach New York,
rather than to sail straight for the Americas with what he had earned
by his piracies, and so risk losing life and money both.
[Illustration: "Captain Malyoe Shot Captain Brand Through the Head"
_Illustration from_
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND
_by_ Howard Pyle
_Originally published in_
HARPER'S WEEKLY, _December 19, 1896_]
However that might be, the story was that Captain Brand and his
gunner, and Captain Malyoe of the _Adventure_ and the sailing master
of the _Adventure_ all went ashore together with a chest of money (no
one of them choosing to trust the other three in so nice an affair),
and buried the treasure somewhere on the beach of Port Royal
Harbor. The story then has it that they fell a-quarreling about a
future division of the money, and that, as a wind-up to the affair,
Captain Malyoe shot Captain Brand through the head, while the sailing
master of the _Adventure_ served the gunner of the _Royal Sovereign_
after the same fashion through the body, and that the murderers then
went away, leaving the two stretched out in their own blood on the
sand in the staring sun, with no one to know where the money was hid
but they two who had served their comrades so.
It is a mighty great pity that anyone should have a grandfather who
ended his days in such a sort as this, but it was no fault of Barnaby
True's, nor could he have done anything to prevent it, seeing that he
was not even born into the world at the time that his grandfather
turned pirate, and was only one year old when he so met his tragical
end. Nevertheless, the boys with whom he went to school never tired of
calling him "Pirate," and would sometimes sing for his benefit that
famous catchpenny song beginning thus:
Oh, my name was Captain Brand,
A-sailing,
And a-sailing;
Oh, my name was Captain Brand,
A-sailing free.
Oh, my name was Captain Brand,
And I sinned by sea and land,
For I broke God's just command,
A-sailing free.
'Twas a vile thing to sing at the grandson of so misfortunate a man,
and oftentimes little Barnaby True would double up his fists and would
fight his tormentors at great odds, and would sometimes go back home
with a bloody nose to have his poor mother cry over him and grieve for
him.
Not that his days were all of teasing and torment, neither; for if his
comrades did treat him so, why, then, there were other times when he
and they were as great friends as could be, and would go in swimming
together where there was a bit of sandy strand along the East River
above Fort George, and that in the most amicable fashion. Or, maybe
the very next day after he had fought so with his fellows, he would go
a-rambling with them up the Bowerie Road, perhaps to help them steal
cherries from some old Dutch farmer, forgetting in such adventure what
a thief his own grandfather had been.
Well, when Barnaby True was between sixteen and seventeen years old he
was taken into employment in the countinghouse of Mr. Roger Hartright,
the well-known West India merchant, and Barnaby's own stepfather.
It was the kindness of this good man that not only found a place for
Barnaby in the countinghouse, but advanced him so fast that against
our hero was twenty-one years old he had made four voyages as
supercargo to the West Indies in Mr. Hartright's ship, the _Belle
Helen_, and soon after he was twenty-one undertook a fifth. Nor was it
in any such subordinate position as mere supercargo that he acted, but
rather as the confidential agent of Mr. Hartright, who, having no
children of his own, was very jealous to advance our hero into a
position of trust and responsibility in the countinghouse, as though
he were indeed a son, so that even the captain of the ship had
scarcely more consideration aboard than he, young as he was in years.
As for the agents and correspondents of Mr. Hartright throughout these
parts, they also, knowing how the good man had adopted his interests,
were very polite and obliging to Master Barnaby--especially, be it
mentioned, Mr. Ambrose Greenfield, of Kingston, Jamaica, who, upon the
occasions of his visits to those parts, did all that he could to make
Barnaby's stay in that town agreeable and pleasant to him.
So much for the history of our hero to the time of the beginning of
this story, without which you shall hardly be able to understand the
purport of those most extraordinary adventures that befell him shortly
after he came of age, nor the logic of their consequence after they
had occurred.
For it was during his fifth voyage to the West Indies that the first
of those extraordinary adventures happened of which I shall have
presently to tell.
At that time he had been in Kingston for the best part of four weeks,
lodging at the house of a very decent, respectable widow, by name Mrs.
Anne Bolles, who, with three pleasant and agreeable daughters, kept a
very clean and well-served lodging house in the outskirts of the town.
One morning, as our hero sat sipping his coffee, clad only in loose
cotton drawers, a shirt, and a jacket, and with slippers upon his
feet, as is the custom in that country, where everyone endeavors to
keep as cool as may be--while he sat thus sipping his coffee Miss
Eliza, the youngest of the three daughters, came and gave him a note,
which, she said, a stranger had just handed in at the door, going away
again without waiting for a reply. You may judge of Barnaby's surprise
when he opened the note and read as follows:
MR. BARNABY TRUE.
SIR,--Though you don't know me, I know you, and I tell you
this: if you will be at Pratt's Ordinary on Harbor Street on
Friday next at eight o'clock of the evening, and will
accompany the man who shall say to you, "The _Royal
Sovereign_ is come in," you shall learn something the most
to your advantage that ever befell you. Sir, keep this note,
and show it to him who shall address these words to you, so
to certify that you are the man he seeks.
Such was the wording of the note, which was without address, and
without any superscription whatever.
The first emotion that stirred Barnaby was one of extreme and profound
amazement. Then the thought came into his mind that some witty fellow,
of whom he knew a good many in that town--and wild, waggish pranks
they were--was attempting to play off some smart jest upon him. But
all that Miss Eliza could tell him when he questioned her concerning
the messenger was that the bearer of the note was a tall, stout man,
with a red neckerchief around his neck and copper buckles to his
shoes, and that he had the appearance of a sailorman, having a great
big queue hanging down his back. But, Lord! what was such a
description as that in a busy seaport town, full of scores of men to
fit such a likeness? Accordingly, our hero put away the note into his
wallet, determining to show it to his good friend Mr. Greenfield that
evening, and to ask his advice upon it. So he did show it, and that
gentleman's opinion was the same as his--that some wag was minded to
play off a hoax upon him, and that the matter of the letter was all
nothing but smoke.
Nevertheless, though Barnaby was thus confirmed in his opinion as to
the nature of the communication he had received, he yet determined in
his own mind that he would see the business through to the end, and
would be at Pratt's Ordinary, as the note demanded, upon the day and
at the time specified therein.
Pratt's Ordinary was at that time a very fine and well-known place of
its sort, with good tobacco and the best rum that ever I tasted, and
had a garden behind it that, sloping down to the harbor front, was
planted pretty thick with palms and ferns grouped into clusters with
flowers and plants. Here were a number of little tables, some in
little grottoes, like our Vauxhall in New York, and with red and blue
and white paper lanterns hung among the foliage, whither gentlemen and
ladies used sometimes to go of an evening to sit and drink lime juice
and sugar and water (and sometimes a taste of something stronger), and
to look out across the water at the shipping in the cool of the night.
Thither, accordingly, our hero went, a little before the time
appointed in the note, and passing directly through the Ordinary and
the garden beyond, chose a table at the lower end of the garden and
close to the water's edge, where he would not be easily seen by
anyone coming into the place. Then, ordering some rum and water and a
pipe of tobacco, he composed himself to watch for the appearance of
those witty fellows whom he suspected would presently come thither to
see the end of their prank and to enjoy his confusion.
The spot was pleasant enough; for the land breeze, blowing strong and
full, set the leaves of the palm tree above his head to rattling and
clattering continually against the sky, where, the moon then being
about full, they shone every now and then like blades of steel. The
waves also were splashing up against the little landing place at the
foot of the garden, sounding very cool in the night, and sparkling all
over the harbor where the moon caught the edges of the water. A great
many vessels were lying at anchor in their ridings, with the dark,
prodigious form of a man-of-war looming up above them in the
moonlight.
There our hero sat for the best part of an hour, smoking his pipe of
tobacco and sipping his grog, and seeing not so much as a single thing
that might concern the note he had received.
It was not far from half an hour after the time appointed in the note,
when a rowboat came suddenly out of the night and pulled up to the
landing place at the foot of the garden above mentioned, and three or
four men came ashore in the darkness. Without saying a word among
themselves they chose a near-by table and, sitting down, ordered rum
and water, and began drinking their grog in silence. They might have
sat there about five minutes, when, by and by, Barnaby True became
aware that they were observing him very curiously; and then almost
immediately one, who was plainly the leader of the party, called out
to him:
"How now, messmate! Won't you come and drink a dram of rum with us?"
"Why, no," says Barnaby, answering very civilly; "I have drunk enough
already, and more would only heat my blood."
"All the same," quoth the stranger, "I think you will come and drink
with us; for, unless I am mistook, you are Mr. Barnaby True, and I am
come here to tell you that the _Royal Sovereign is come in_."
Now I may honestly say that Barnaby True was never more struck aback
in all his life than he was at hearing these words uttered in so
unexpected a manner. He had been looking to hear them under such
different circumstances that, now that his ears heard them addressed
to him, and that so seriously, by a perfect stranger, who, with
others, had thus mysteriously come ashore out of the darkness, he
could scarce believe that his ears heard aright. His heart suddenly
began beating at a tremendous rate, and had he been an older and wiser
man, I do believe he would have declined the adventure, instead of
leaping blindly, as he did, into that of which he could see neither
the beginning nor the ending. But being barely one-and-twenty years of
age, and having an adventurous disposition that would have carried him
into almost anything that possessed a smack of uncertainty or danger
about it, he contrived to say, in a pretty easy tone (though God knows
how it was put on for the occasion):
"Well, then, if that be so, and if the _Royal Sovereign_ is indeed
come in, why, I'll join you, since you are so kind as to ask me." And
therewith he went across to the other table, carrying his pipe with
him, and sat down and began smoking, with all the appearance of ease
he could assume upon the occasion.
"Well, Mr. Barnaby True," said the man who had before addressed him,
so soon as Barnaby had settled himself, speaking in a low tone of
voice, so there would be no danger of any others hearing the
words--"Well, Mr. Barnaby True--for I shall call you by your name, to
show you that though I know you, you don't know me--I am glad to see
that you are man enough to enter thus into an affair, though you can't
see to the bottom of it. For it shows me that you are a man of mettle,
and are deserving of the fortune that is to befall you to-night.
Nevertheless, first of all, I am bid to say that you must show me a
piece of paper that you have about you before we go a step farther."
"Very well," said Barnaby; "I have it here safe and sound, and see it
you shall." And thereupon and without more ado he fetched out his
wallet, opened it, and handed his interlocutor the mysterious note he
had received the day or two before. Whereupon the other, drawing to
him the candle, burning there for the convenience of those who would
smoke tobacco, began immediately reading it.
This gave Barnaby True a moment or two to look at him. He was a tall,
stout man, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck, and with
copper buckles on his shoes, so that Barnaby True could not but wonder
whether he was not the very same man who had given the note to Miss
Eliza Bolles at the door of his lodging house.
"'Tis all right and straight as it should be," the other said, after
he had so glanced his eyes over the note. "And now that the paper is
read" (suiting his action to his words), "I'll just burn it, for
safety's sake."
And so he did, twisting it up and setting it to the flame of the
candle.
"And now," he said, continuing his address, "I'll tell you what I am
here for. I was sent to ask you if you're man enough to take your life
in your own hands and to go with me in that boat down there? Say
'Yes,' and we'll start away without wasting more time, for the devil
is ashore here at Jamaica--though you don't know what that means--and
if he gets ahead of us, why, then we may whistle for what we are
after. Say 'No,' and I go away again, and I promise you you shall
never be troubled again in this sort. So now speak up plain, young
gentleman, and tell us what is your mind in this business, and whether
you will adventure any farther or not."
If our hero hesitated it was not for long. I cannot say that his
courage did not waver for a moment; but if it did, it was, I say, not
for long, and when he spoke up it was with a voice as steady as could
be.
"To be sure I'm man enough to go with you," he said; "and if you mean
me any harm I can look out for myself; and if I can't, why, here is
something can look out for me," and therewith he lifted up the flap of
his coat pocket and showed the butt of a pistol he had fetched with
him when he had set out from his lodging house that evening.
At this the other burst out a-laughing. "Come," says he, "you are
indeed of right mettle, and I like your spirit. All the same, no one
in all the world means you less ill than I, and so, if you have to use
that barker, 'twill not be upon us who are your friends, but only upon
one who is more wicked than the devil himself. So come, and let us get
away."
Thereupon he and the others, who had not spoken a single word for all
this time, rose from the table, and he having paid the scores of all,
they all went down together to the boat that still lay at the landing
place at the bottom of the garden.
Thus coming to it, our hero could see that it was a large yawl boat
manned with half a score of black men for rowers, and there were two
lanterns in the stern sheets, and three or four iron shovels.
The man who had conducted the conversation with Barnaby True for all
this time, and who was, as has been said, plainly the captain of the
party, stepped immediately down into the boat; our hero followed, and
the others followed after him; and instantly they were seated the boat
was shoved off and the black men began pulling straight out into the
harbor, and so, at some distance away, around under the stern of the
man-of-war.
Not a word was spoken after they had thus left the shore, and
presently they might all have been ghosts, for the silence of the
party. Barnaby True was too full of his own thoughts to talk--and
serious enough thoughts they were by this time, with crimps to trepan
a man at every turn, and press gangs to carry a man off so that he
might never be heard of again. As for the others, they did not seem to
choose to say anything now that they had him fairly embarked upon
their enterprise.
And so the crew pulled on in perfect silence for the best part of an
hour, the leader of the expedition directing the course of the boat
straight across the harbor, as though toward the mouth of the Rio
Cobra River. Indeed, this was their destination, as Barnaby could
after a while see, by the low point of land with a great long row of
coconut palms upon it (the appearance of which he knew very well),
which by and by began to loom up out of the milky dimness of the
moonlight. As they approached the river they found the tide was
running strong out of it, so that some distance away from the stream
it gurgled and rippled alongside the boat as the crew of black men
pulled strongly against it. Thus they came up under what was either a
point of land or an islet covered with a thick growth of mangrove
trees. But still no one spoke a single word as to their destination,
or what was the business they had in hand.
The night, now that they were close to the shore, was loud with the
noise of running tide-water, and the air was heavy with the smell of
mud and marsh, and over all the whiteness of the moonlight, with a few
stars pricking out here and there in the sky; and all so strange and
silent and mysterious that Barnaby could not divest himself of the
feeling that it was all a dream.
So, the rowers bending to the oars, the boat came slowly around from
under the clump of mangrove bushes and out into the open water again.
Instantly it did so the leader of the expedition called out in a sharp
voice, and the black men instantly lay on their oars.
Almost at the same instant Barnaby True became aware that there was
another boat coming down the river toward where they lay, now drifting
with the strong tide out into the harbor again, and he knew that it
was because of the approach of that boat that the other had called
upon his men to cease rowing.
The other boat, as well as he could see in the distance, was full of
men, some of whom appeared to be armed, for even in the dusk of the
darkness the shine of the moonlight glimmered sharply now and then on
the barrels of muskets or pistols, and in the silence that followed
after their own rowing had ceased Barnaby True could hear the chug!
chug! of the oars sounding louder and louder through the watery
stillness of the night as the boat drew nearer and nearer. But he knew
nothing of what it all meant, nor whether these others were friends or
enemies, or what was to happen next.
The oarsmen of the approaching boat did not for a moment cease their
rowing, not till they had come pretty close to Barnaby and his
companions. Then a man who sat in the stern ordered them to cease
rowing, and as they lay on their oars he stood up. As they passed by,
Barnaby True could see him very plain, the moonlight shining full upon
him--a large, stout gentleman with a round red face, and clad in a
fine laced coat of red cloth. Amidship of the boat was a box or chest
about the bigness of a middle-sized traveling trunk, but covered all
over with cakes of sand and dirt. In the act of passing, the
gentleman, still standing, pointed at it with an elegant gold-headed
cane which he held in his hand. "Are you come after this, Abraham
Dawling?" says he, and thereat his countenance broke into as evil,
malignant a grin as ever Barnaby True saw in all of his life.
The other did not immediately reply so much as a single word, but sat
as still as any stone. Then, at last, the other boat having gone by,
he suddenly appeared to regain his wits, for he bawled out after it,
"Very well, Jack Malyoe! Very well, Jack Malyoe! you've got ahead of
us this time again, but next time is the third, and then it shall be
our turn, even if William Brand must come back from hell to settle
with you."
This he shouted out as the other boat passed farther and farther
away, but to it my fine gentleman made no reply except to burst out
into a great roaring fit of laughter.
There was another man among the armed men in the stern of the passing
boat--a villainous, lean man with lantern jaws, and the top of his
head as bald as the palm of my hand. As the boat went away into the
night with the tide and the headway the oars had given it, he grinned
so that the moonlight shone white on his big teeth. Then, flourishing
a great big pistol, he said, and Barnaby could hear every word he
spoke, "Do but give me the word, Your Honor, and I'll put another
bullet through the son of a sea cook."
But the gentleman said some words to forbid him, and therewith the
boat was gone away into the night, and presently Barnaby could hear
that the men at the oars had begun rowing again, leaving them lying
there, without a single word being said for a long time.
By and by one of those in Barnaby's boat spoke up. "Where shall you go
now?" he said.
At this the leader of the expedition appeared suddenly to come back to
himself, and to find his voice again. "Go?" he roared out. "Go to the
devil! Go? Go where you choose! Go? Go back again--that's where we'll
go!" and therewith he fell a-cursing and swearing until he foamed at
the lips, as though he had gone clean crazy, while the black men began
rowing back again across the harbor as fast as ever they could lay
oars into the water.
They put Barnaby True ashore below the old custom house; but so
bewildered and shaken was he by all that had happened, and by what he
had seen, and by the names that he heard spoken, that he was scarcely
conscious of any of the familiar things among which he found himself
thus standing. And so he walked up the moonlit street toward his
lodging like one drunk or bewildered; for "John Malyoe" was the name
of the captain of the _Adventure_ galley--he who had shot Barnaby's
own grandfather--and "Abraham Dawling" was the name of the gunner of
the _Royal Sovereign_ who had been shot at the same time with the
pirate captain, and who, with him, had been left stretched out in the
staring sun by the murderers.
The whole business had occupied hardly two hours, but it was as though
that time was no part of Barnaby's life, but all a part of some other
life, so dark and strange and mysterious that it in no wise belonged
to him.
As for that box covered all over with mud, he could only guess at that
time what it contained and what the finding of it signified.
But of this our hero said nothing to anyone, nor did he tell a single
living soul what he had seen that night, but nursed it in his own
mind, where it lay so big for a while that he could think of little or
nothing else for days after.
Mr. Greenfield, Mr. Hartright's correspondent and agent in these
parts, lived in a fine brick house just out of the town, on the Mona
Road, his family consisting of a wife and two daughters--brisk, lively
young ladies with black hair and eyes, and very fine bright teeth that
shone whenever they laughed, and with a plenty to say for themselves.
Thither Barnaby True was often asked to a family dinner; and, indeed,
it was a pleasant home to visit, and to sit upon the veranda and smoke
a cigarro with the good old gentleman and look out toward the
mountains, while the young ladies laughed and talked, or played upon
the guitar and sang. And oftentimes so it was strongly upon Barnaby's
mind to speak to the good gentleman and tell him what he had beheld
that night out in the harbor; but always he would think better of it
and hold his peace, falling to thinking, and smoking away upon his
cigarro at a great rate.
A day or two before the _Belle Helen_ sailed from Kingston Mr.
Greenfield stopped Barnaby True as he was going through the office to
bid him to come to dinner that night (for there within the tropics
they breakfast at eleven o'clock and take dinner in the cool of the
evening, because of the heat, and not at midday, as we do in more
temperate latitudes). "I would have you meet," says Mr. Greenfield,
"your chief passenger for New York, and his granddaughter, for whom
the state cabin and the two staterooms are to be fitted as here
ordered [showing a letter]--Sir John Malyoe and Miss Marjorie Malyoe.
Did you ever hear tell of Capt. Jack Malyoe, Master Barnaby?"
Now I do believe that Mr. Greenfield had no notion at all that old
Captain Brand was Barnaby True's own grandfather and Capt. John Malyoe
his murderer, but when he so thrust at him the name of that man, what
with that in itself and the late adventure through which he himself
had just passed, and with his brooding upon it until it was so
prodigiously big in his mind, it was like hitting him a blow to so
fling the questions at him. Nevertheless, he was able to reply, with a
pretty straight face, that he had heard of Captain Malyoe and who he
was.
"Well," says Mr. Greenfield, "if Jack Malyoe was a desperate pirate
and a wild, reckless blade twenty years ago, why, he is Sir John
Malyoe now and the owner of a fine estate in Devonshire. Well, Master
Barnaby, when one is a baronet and come into the inheritance of a fine
estate (though I do hear it is vastly cumbered with debts), the world
will wink its eye to much that he may have done twenty years ago. I do
hear say, though, that his own kin still turn the cold shoulder to
him."
To this address Barnaby answered nothing, but sat smoking away at his
cigarro at a great rate.
And so that night Barnaby True came face to face for the first time
with the man who murdered his own grandfather--the greatest beast of a
man that ever he met in all of his life.
That time in the harbor he had seen Sir John Malyoe at a distance and
in the darkness; now that he beheld him near by it seemed to him that
he had never looked at a more evil face in all his life. Not that the
man was altogether ugly, for he had a good nose and a fine double
chin; but his eyes stood out like balls and were red and watery, and
he winked them continually, as though they were always smarting; and
his lips were thick and purple-red, and his fat, red cheeks were
mottled here and there with little clots of purple veins; and when he
spoke his voice rattled so in his throat that it made one wish to
clear one's own throat to listen to him. So, what with a pair of fat,
white hands, and that hoarse voice, and his swollen face, and his
thick lips sticking out, it seemed to Barnaby True he had never seen a
countenance so distasteful to him as that one into which he then
looked.
But if Sir John Malyoe was so displeasing to our hero's taste, why,
the granddaughter, even this first time he beheld her, seemed to him
to be the most beautiful, lovely young lady that ever he saw. She had
a thin, fair skin, red lips, and yellow hair--though it was then
powdered pretty white for the occasion--and the bluest eyes that
Barnaby beheld in all of his life. A sweet, timid creature, who seemed
not to dare so much as to speak a word for herself without looking to
Sir John for leave to do so, and would shrink and shudder whenever he
would speak of a sudden to her or direct a sudden glance upon her.
When she did speak, it was in so low a voice that one had to bend his
head to hear her, and even if she smiled would catch herself and look
up as though to see if she had leave to be cheerful.
As for Sir John, he sat at dinner like a pig, and gobbled and ate and
drank, smacking his lips all the while, but with hardly a word to
either her or Mrs. Greenfield or to Barnaby True; but with a sour,
sullen air, as though he would say, "Your damned victuals and drink
are no better than they should be, but I must eat 'em or nothing." A
great bloated beast of a man!
Only after dinner was over and the young lady and the two misses sat
off in a corner together did Barnaby hear her talk with any ease.
Then, to be sure, her tongue became loose, and she prattled away at a
great rate, though hardly above her breath, until of a sudden her
grandfather called out, in his hoarse, rattling voice, that it was
time to go. Whereupon she stopped short in what she was saying and
jumped up from her chair, looking as frightened as though she had been
caught in something amiss, and was to be punished for it.
Barnaby True and Mr. Greenfield both went out to see the two into
their coach, where Sir John's man stood holding the lantern. And who
should he be, to be sure, but that same lean villain with bald head
who had offered to shoot the leader of our hero's expedition out on
the harbor that night! For, one of the circles of light from the
lantern shining up into his face, Barnaby True knew him the moment he
clapped eyes upon him. Though he could not have recognized our hero,
he grinned at him in the most impudent, familiar fashion, and never so
much as touched his hat either to him or to Mr. Greenfield; but as
soon as his master and his young mistress had entered the coach,
banged to the door and scrambled up on the seat alongside the driver,
and so away without a word, but with another impudent grin, this time
favoring both Barnaby and the old gentleman.
Such were these two, master and man, and what Barnaby saw of them then
was only confirmed by further observation--the most hateful couple he
ever knew; though, God knows, what they afterward suffered should wipe
out all complaint against them.
The next day Sir John Malyoe's belongings began to come aboard the
_Belle Helen_, and in the afternoon that same lean, villainous
manservant comes skipping across the gangplank as nimble as a goat,
with two black men behind him lugging a great sea chest. "What!" he
cried out, "and so you is the supercargo, is you? Why, I thought you
was more account when I saw you last night a-sitting talking with His
Honor like his equal. Well, no matter; 'tis something to have a brisk,
genteel young fellow for a supercargo. So come, my hearty, lend a
hand, will you, and help me set His Honor's cabin to rights."
What a speech was this to endure from such a fellow, to be sure! and
Barnaby so high in his own esteem, and holding himself a gentleman!
Well, what with his distaste for the villain, and what with such
odious familiarity, you can guess into what temper so impudent an
address must have cast him. "You'll find the steward in yonder," he
said, "and he'll show you the cabin," and therewith turned and walked
away with prodigious dignity, leaving the other standing where he was.
As he entered his own cabin he could not but see, out of the tail of
his eye, that the fellow was still standing where he had left him,
regarding him with a most evil, malevolent countenance, so that he had
the satisfaction of knowing that he had made one enemy during that
voyage who was not very likely to forgive or forget what he must
regard as a slight put upon him.
The next day Sir John Malyoe himself came aboard, accompanied by his
granddaughter, and followed by this man, and he followed again by four
black men, who carried among them two trunks, not large in size, but
prodigious heavy in weight, and toward which Sir John and his follower
devoted the utmost solicitude and care to see that they were properly
carried into the state cabin he was to occupy. Barnaby True was
standing in the great cabin as they passed close by him; but though
Sir John Malyoe looked hard at him and straight in the face, he never
so much as spoke a single word, or showed by a look or a sign that he
knew who our hero was. At this the serving man, who saw it all with
eyes as quick as a cat's, fell to grinning and chuckling to see
Barnaby in his turn so slighted.
The young lady, who also saw it all, flushed up red, then in the
instant of passing looked straight at our hero, and bowed and smiled
at him with a most sweet and gracious affability, then the next moment
recovering herself, as though mightily frightened at what she had
done.
The same day the _Belle Helen_ sailed, with as beautiful, sweet
weather as ever a body could wish for.
There were only two other passengers aboard, the Rev. Simon Styles,
the master of a flourishing academy in Spanish Town, and his wife, a
good, worthy old couple, but very quiet, and would sit in the great
cabin by the hour together reading, so that, what with Sir John Malyoe
staying all the time in his own cabin with those two trunks he held so
precious, it fell upon Barnaby True in great part to show attention to
the young lady; and glad enough he was of the opportunity, as anyone
may guess. For when you consider a brisk, lively young man of
one-and-twenty and a sweet, beautiful miss of seventeen so thrown
together day after day for two weeks, the weather being very fair, as
I have said, and the ship tossing and bowling along before a fine
humming breeze that sent white caps all over the sea, and with nothing
to do but sit and look at that blue sea and the bright sky overhead,
it is not hard to suppose what was to befall, and what pleasure it was
to Barnaby True to show attention to her.
But, oh! those days when a man is young, and, whether wisely or no,
fallen in love! How often during that voyage did our hero lie awake in
his berth at night, tossing this way and that without sleep--not that
he wanted to sleep if he could, but would rather lie so awake thinking
about her and staring into the darkness!
Poor fool! He might have known that the end must come to such a fool's
paradise before very long. For who was he to look up to Sir John
Malyoe's granddaughter, he, the supercargo of a merchant ship, and she
the granddaughter of a baronet.
Nevertheless, things went along very smooth and pleasant, until one
evening, when all came of a sudden to an end. At that time he and the
young lady had been standing for a long while together, leaning over
the rail and looking out across the water through the dusk toward the
westward, where the sky was still of a lingering brightness. She had
been mightily quiet and dull all that evening, but now of a sudden she
began, without any preface whatever, to tell Barnaby about herself and
her affairs. She said that she and her grandfather were going to New
York that they might take passage thence to Boston town, there to meet
her cousin Captain Malyoe, who was stationed in garrison at that
place. Then she went on to say that Captain Malyoe was the next heir
to the Devonshire estate, and that she and he were to be married in
the fall.
But, poor Barnaby! what a fool was he, to be sure! Methinks when she
first began to speak about Captain Malyoe he knew what was coming. But
now that she had told him, he could say nothing, but stood there
staring across the ocean, his breath coming hot and dry as ashes in
his throat. She, poor thing, went on to say, in a very low voice, that
she had liked him from the very first moment she had seen him, and had
been very happy for these days, and would always think of him as a
dear friend who had been very kind to her, who had so little pleasure
in life, and so would always remember him.
Then they were both silent, until at last Barnaby made shift to say,
though in a hoarse and croaking voice, that Captain Malyoe must be a
very happy man, and that if he were in Captain Malyoe's place he would
be the happiest man in the world. Thus, having spoken, and so found
his tongue, he went on to tell her, with his head all in a whirl, that
he, too, loved her, and that what she had told him struck him to the
heart, and made him the most miserable, unhappy wretch in the whole
world.
She was not angry at what he said, nor did she turn to look at him,
but only said, in a low voice, he should not talk so, for that it
could only be a pain to them both to speak of such things, and that
whether she would or no, she must do everything as her grandfather
bade her, for that he was indeed a terrible man.
To this poor Barnaby could only repeat that he loved her with all his
heart, that he had hoped for nothing in his love, but that he was now
the most miserable man in the world.
It was at this moment, so tragic for him, that some one who had been
hiding nigh them all the while suddenly moved away, and Barnaby True
could see in the gathering darkness that it was that villain
manservant of Sir John Malyoe's and knew that he must have overheard
all that had been said.
The man went straight to the great cabin, and poor Barnaby, his brain
all atingle, stood looking after him, feeling that now indeed the last
drop of bitterness had been added to his trouble to have such a wretch
overhear what he had said.
The young lady could not have seen the fellow, for she continued
leaning over the rail, and Barnaby True, standing at her side, not
moving, but in such a tumult of many passions that he was like one
bewildered, and his heart beating as though to smother him.
So they stood for I know not how long when, of a sudden, Sir John
Malyoe comes running out of the cabin, without his hat, but carrying
his gold-headed cane, and so straight across the deck to where Barnaby
and the young lady stood, that spying wretch close at his heels,
grinning like an imp.
"You hussy!" bawled out Sir John, so soon as he had come pretty near
them, and in so loud a voice that all on deck might have heard the
words; and as he spoke he waved his cane back and forth as though he
would have struck the young lady, who, shrinking back almost upon the
deck, crouched as though to escape such a blow. "You hussy!" he bawled
out with vile oaths, too horrible here to be set down. "What do you do
here with this Yankee supercargo, not fit for a gentlewoman to wipe
her feet upon? Get to your cabin, you hussy" (only it was something
worse he called her this time), "before I lay this cane across your
shoulders!"
What with the whirling of Barnaby's brains and the passion into which
he was already melted, what with his despair and his love, and his
anger at this address, a man gone mad could scarcely be less
accountable for his actions than was he at that moment. Hardly knowing
what he did, he put his hand against Sir John Malyoe's breast and
thrust him violently back, crying out upon him in a great, loud,
hoarse voice for threatening a young lady, and saying that for a
farthing he would wrench the stick out of his hand and throw it
overboard.
Sir John went staggering back with the push Barnaby gave him, and then
caught himself up again. Then, with a great bellow, ran roaring at our
hero, whirling his cane about, and I do believe would have struck him
(and God knows then what might have happened) had not his manservant
caught him and held him back.
"Keep back!" cried out our hero, still mighty hoarse. "Keep back! If
you strike me with that stick I'll fling you overboard!"
By this time, what with the sound of loud voices and the stamping of
feet, some of the crew and others aboard were hurrying up, and the
next moment Captain Manly and the first mate, Mr. Freesden, came
running out of the cabin. But Barnaby, who was by this fairly set
agoing, could not now stop himself.
"And who are you, anyhow," he cried out, "to threaten to strike me and
to insult me, who am as good as you? You dare not strike me! You may
shoot a man from behind, as you shot poor Captain Brand on the Rio
Cobra River, but you won't dare strike me face to face. I know who you
are and what you are!"
By this time Sir John Malyoe had ceased to endeavor to strike him, but
stood stock-still, his great bulging eyes staring as though they would
pop out of his head.
"What's all this?" cries Captain Manly, bustling up to them with Mr.
Freesden. "What does all this mean?"
But, as I have said, our hero was too far gone now to contain himself
until all that he had to say was out.
"The damned villain insulted me and insulted the young lady," he
cried out, panting in the extremity of his passion, "and then he
threatened to strike me with his cane. But I know who he is and what
he is. I know what he's got in his cabin in those two trunks, and
where he found it, and whom it belongs to. He found it on the shores
of the Rio Cobra River, and I have only to open my mouth and tell what
I know about it."
At this Captain Manly clapped his hand upon our hero's shoulder and
fell to shaking him so that he could scarcely stand, calling out to
him the while to be silent. "What do you mean?" he cried. "An officer
of this ship to quarrel with a passenger of mine! Go straight to your
cabin, and stay there till I give you leave to come out again."
At this Master Barnaby came somewhat back to himself and into his wits
again with a jump. "But he threatened to strike me with his cane,
Captain," he cried out, "and that I won't stand from any man!"
"No matter what he did," said Captain Manly, very sternly. "Go to your
cabin, as I bid you, and stay there till I tell you to come out again,
and when we get to New York I'll take pains to tell your stepfather of
how you have behaved. I'll have no such rioting as this aboard my
ship."
Barnaby True looked around him, but the young lady was gone. Nor, in
the blindness of his frenzy, had he seen when she had gone nor whither
she went. As for Sir John Malyoe, he stood in the light of a lantern,
his face gone as white as ashes, and I do believe if a look could
kill, the dreadful malevolent stare he fixed upon Barnaby True would
have slain him where he stood.
After Captain Manly had so shaken some wits into poor Barnaby he,
unhappy wretch, went to his cabin, as he was bidden to do, and there,
shutting the door upon himself, and flinging himself down, all dressed
as he was, upon his berth, yielded himself over to the profoundest
passion of humiliation and despair.
There he lay for I know not how long, staring into the darkness,
until by and by, in spite of his suffering and his despair, he dozed
off into a loose sleep, that was more like waking than sleep, being
possessed continually by the most vivid and distasteful dreams, from
which he would awaken only to doze off and to dream again.
It was from the midst of one of these extravagant dreams that he was
suddenly aroused by the noise of a pistol shot, and then the noise of
another and another, and then a great bump and a grinding jar, and
then the sound of many footsteps running across the deck and down into
the great cabin. Then came a tremendous uproar of voices in the great
cabin, the struggling as of men's bodies being tossed about, striking
violently against the partitions and bulkheads. At the same instant
arose a screaming of women's voices, and one voice, and that Sir John
Malyoe's, crying out as in the greatest extremity: "You villains! You
damned villains!" and with the sudden detonation of a pistol fired
into the close space of the great cabin.
Barnaby was out in the middle of his cabin in a moment, and taking
only time enough to snatch down one of the pistols that hung at the
head of his berth, flung out into the great cabin, to find it as black
as night, the lantern slung there having been either blown out or
dashed out into darkness. The prodigiously dark space was full of
uproar, the hubbub and confusion pierced through and through by that
keen sound of women's voices screaming, one in the cabin and the other
in the stateroom beyond. Almost immediately Barnaby pitched headlong
over two or three struggling men scuffling together upon the deck,
falling with a great clatter and the loss of his pistol, which,
however, he regained almost immediately.
What all the uproar meant he could not tell, but he presently heard
Captain Manly's voice from somewhere suddenly calling out, "You bloody
pirate, would you choke me to death?" wherewith some notion of what
had happened came to him like a flash, and that they had been attacked
in the night by pirates.
Looking toward the companionway, he saw, outlined against the darkness
of the night without, the blacker form of a man's figure, standing
still and motionless as a statue in the midst of all this hubbub, and
so by some instinct he knew in a moment that that must be the master
maker of all this devil's brew. Therewith, still kneeling upon the
deck, he covered the bosom of that shadowy figure point-blank, as he
thought, with his pistol, and instantly pulled the trigger.
In the flash of red light, and in the instant stunning report of the
pistol shot, Barnaby saw, as stamped upon the blackness, a broad, flat
face with fishy eyes, a lean, bony forehead with what appeared to be a
great blotch of blood upon the side, a cocked hat trimmed with gold
lace, a red scarf across the breast, and the gleam of brass buttons.
Then the darkness, very thick and black, swallowed everything again.
But in the instant Sir John Malyoe called out, in a great loud voice:
"My God! 'Tis William Brand!" Therewith came the sound of some one
falling heavily down.
The next moment, Barnaby's sight coming back to him again in the
darkness, he beheld that dark and motionless figure still standing
exactly where it had stood before, and so knew either that he had
missed it or else that it was of so supernatural a sort that a leaden
bullet might do it no harm. Though if it was indeed an apparition that
Barnaby beheld in that moment, there is this to say, that he saw it as
plain as ever he saw a living man in all of his life.
This was the last our hero knew, for the next moment somebody--whether
by accident or design he never knew--struck him such a terrible
violent blow upon the side of the head that he saw forty thousand
stars flash before his eyeballs, and then, with a great humming in his
head, swooned dead away.
When Barnaby True came back to his senses again it was to find himself
being cared for with great skill and nicety, his head bathed with
cold water, and a bandage being bound about it as carefully as though
a chirurgeon was attending to him.
He could not immediately recall what had happened to him, nor until he
had opened his eyes to find himself in a strange cabin, extremely well
fitted and painted with white and gold, the light of a lantern shining
in his eyes, together with the gray of the early daylight through the
dead-eye. Two men were bending over him--one, a negro in a striped
shirt, with a yellow handkerchief around his head and silver earrings
in his ears; the other, a white man, clad in a strange outlandish
dress of a foreign make, and with great mustachios hanging down, and
with gold earrings in his ears.
It was the latter who was attending to Barnaby's hurt with such
extreme care and gentleness.
All this Barnaby saw with his first clear consciousness after his
swoon. Then remembering what had befallen him, and his head beating as
though it would split asunder, he shut his eyes again, contriving with
great effort to keep himself from groaning aloud, and wondering as to
what sort of pirates these could be who would first knock a man in the
head so terrible a blow as that which he had suffered, and then take
such care to fetch him back to life again, and to make him easy and
comfortable.
Nor did he open his eyes again, but lay there gathering his wits
together and wondering thus until the bandage was properly tied about
his head and sewed together. Then once more he opened his eyes, and
looked up to ask where he was.
Either they who were attending to him did not choose to reply, or else
they could not speak English, for they made no answer, excepting by
signs; for the white man, seeing that he was now able to speak, and so
was come back into his senses again, nodded his head three or four
times, and smiled with a grin of his white teeth, and then pointed, as
though toward a saloon beyond. At the same time the negro held up our
hero's coat and beckoned for him to put it on, so that Barnaby,
seeing that it was required of him to meet some one without, arose,
though with a good deal of effort, and permitted the negro to help him
on with his coat, still feeling mightily dizzy and uncertain upon his
legs, his head beating fit to split, and the vessel rolling and
pitching at a great rate, as though upon a heavy ground swell.
So, still sick and dizzy, he went out into what was indeed a fine
saloon beyond, painted in white and gilt like the cabin he had just
quitted, and fitted in the nicest fashion, a mahogany table, polished
very bright, extending the length of the room, and a quantity of
bottles, together with glasses of clear crystal, arranged in a hanging
rack above.
Here at the table a man was sitting with his back to our hero, clad in
a rough pea-jacket, and with a red handkerchief tied around his
throat, his feet stretched out before him, and he smoking a pipe of
tobacco with all the ease and comfort in the world.
As Barnaby came in he turned round, and, to the profound astonishment
of our hero, presented toward him in the light of the lantern, the
dawn shining pretty strong through the skylight, the face of that very
man who had conducted the mysterious expedition that night across
Kingston Harbor to the Rio Cobra River.
This man looked steadily at Barnaby True for a moment or two, and then
burst out laughing; and, indeed, Barnaby, standing there with the
bandage about his head, must have looked a very droll picture of that
astonishment he felt so profoundly at finding who was this pirate into
whose hands he had fallen.
"Well," says the other, "and so you be up at last, and no great harm
done, I'll be bound. And how does your head feel by now, my young
master?"
To this Barnaby made no reply, but, what with wonder and the dizziness
of his head, seated himself at the table over against the speaker, who
pushed a bottle of rum toward him, together with a glass from the
swinging shelf above.
He watched Barnaby fill his glass, and so soon as he had done so began
immediately by saying: "I do suppose you think you were treated
mightily ill to be so handled last night. Well, so you were treated
ill enough--though who hit you that crack upon the head I know no more
than a child unborn. Well, I am sorry for the way you were handled,
but there is this much to say, and of that you may believe me, that
nothing was meant to you but kindness, and before you are through with
us all you will believe that well enough."
Here he helped himself to a taste of grog, and sucking in his lips,
went on again with what he had to say. "Do you remember," said he,
"that expedition of ours in Kingston Harbor, and how we were all of us
balked that night?"
"Why, yes," said Barnaby True, "nor am I likely to forget it."
"And do you remember what I said to that villain, Jack Malyoe, that
night as his boat went by us?"
"As to that," said Barnaby True, "I do not know that I can say yes or
no, but if you will tell me, I will maybe answer you in kind."
"Why, I mean this," said the other. "I said that the villain had got
the better of us once again, but that next time it would be our turn,
even if William Brand himself had to come back from hell to put the
business through."
"I remember something of the sort," said Barnaby, "now that you speak
of it, but still I am all in the dark as to what you are driving at."
The other looked at him very cunningly for a little while, his head on
one side, and his eyes half shut. Then, as if satisfied, he suddenly
burst out laughing. "Look hither," said he, "and I'll show you
something," and therewith, moving to one side, disclosed a couple of
traveling cases or small trunks with brass studs, so exactly like
those that Sir John Malyoe had fetched aboard at Jamaica that
Barnaby, putting this and that together, knew that they must be the
same.
Our hero had a strong enough suspicion as to what those two cases
contained, and his suspicions had become a certainty when he saw Sir
John Malyoe struck all white at being threatened about them, and his
face lowering so malevolently as to look murder had he dared do it.
But, Lord! what were suspicions or even certainty to what Barnaby
True's two eyes beheld when that man lifted the lids of the two
cases--the locks thereof having already been forced--and, flinging
back first one lid and then the other, displayed to Barnaby's
astonished sight a great treasure of gold and silver! Most of it tied
up in leathern bags, to be sure, but many of the coins, big and
little, yellow and white, lying loose and scattered about like so many
beans, brimming the cases to the very top.
Barnaby sat dumb-struck at what he beheld; as to whether he breathed
or no, I cannot tell; but this I know, that he sat staring at that
marvelous treasure like a man in a trance, until, after a few seconds
of this golden display, the other banged down the lids again and burst
out laughing, whereupon he came back to himself with a jump.
"Well, and what do you think of that?" said the other. "Is it not
enough for a man to turn pirate for? But," he continued, "it is not
for the sake of showing you this that I have been waiting for you here
so long a while, but to tell you that you are not the only passenger
aboard, but that there is another, whom I am to confide to your care
and attention, according to orders I have received; so, if you are
ready, Master Barnaby, I'll fetch her in directly." He waited for a
moment, as though for Barnaby to speak, but our hero not replying, he
arose and, putting away the bottle of rum and the glasses, crossed the
saloon to a door like that from which Barnaby had come a little while
before. This he opened, and after a moment's delay and a few words
spoken to some one within, ushered thence a young lady, who came out
very slowly into the saloon where Barnaby still sat at the table.
It was Miss Marjorie Malyoe, very white, and looking as though stunned
or bewildered by all that had befallen her.
Barnaby True could never tell whether the amazing strange voyage that
followed was of long or of short duration; whether it occupied three
days or ten days. For conceive, if you choose, two people of flesh and
blood moving and living continually in all the circumstances and
surroundings as of a nightmare dream, yet they two so happy together
that all the universe beside was of no moment to them! How was anyone
to tell whether in such circumstances any time appeared to be long or
short? Does a dream appear to be long or to be short?
The vessel in which they sailed was a brigantine of good size and
build, but manned by a considerable crew, the most strange and
outlandish in their appearance that Barnaby had ever beheld--some
white, some yellow, some black, and all tricked out with gay colors,
and gold earrings in their ears, and some with great long mustachios,
and others with handkerchiefs tied around their heads, and all talking
a language together of which Barnaby True could understand not a
single word, but which might have been Portuguese from one or two
phrases he caught. Nor did this strange, mysterious crew, of God knows
what sort of men, seem to pay any attention whatever to Barnaby or to
the young lady. They might now and then have looked at him and her out
of the corners of their yellow eyes, but that was all; otherwise they
were indeed like the creatures of a nightmare dream. Only he who was
the captain of this outlandish crew would maybe speak to Barnaby a few
words as to the weather or what not when he would come down into the
saloon to mix a glass of grog or to light a pipe of tobacco, and then
to go on deck again about his business. Otherwise our hero and the
young lady were left to themselves, to do as they pleased, with no one
to interfere with them.
[Illustration: "She Would Sit Quite Still, Permitting Barnaby to Gaze"
_Illustration from_
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND
_by_ Howard Pyle
_Originally published in_
HARPER'S WEEKLY, _December 19, 1896_]
As for her, she at no time showed any great sign of terror or of fear,
only for a little while was singularly numb and quiet, as though dazed
with what had happened to her. Indeed, methinks that wild beast, her
grandfather, had so crushed her spirit by his tyranny and his violence
that nothing that happened to her might seem sharp and keen, as it
does to others of an ordinary sort.
But this was only at first, for afterward her face began to grow
singularly clear, as with a white light, and she would sit quite
still, permitting Barnaby to gaze, I know not how long, into her eyes,
her face so transfigured and her lips smiling, and they, as it were,
neither of them breathing, but hearing, as in another far-distant
place, the outlandish jargon of the crew talking together in the warm,
bright sunlight, or the sound of creaking block and tackle as they
hauled upon the sheets.
Is it, then, any wonder that Barnaby True could never remember whether
such a voyage as this was long or short?
It was as though they might have sailed so upon that wonderful voyage
forever. You may guess how amazed was Barnaby True when, coming upon
deck one morning, he found the brigantine riding upon an even keel, at
anchor off Staten Island, a small village on the shore, and the
well-known roofs and chimneys of New York town in plain sight across
the water.
'Twas the last place in the world he had expected to see.
And, indeed, it did seem strange to lie there alongside Staten Island
all that day, with New York town so nigh at hand and yet so impossible
to reach. For whether he desired to escape or no, Barnaby True could
not but observe that both he and the young lady were so closely
watched that they might as well have been prisoners, tied hand and
foot and laid in the hold, so far as any hope of getting away was
concerned.
All that day there was a deal of mysterious coming and going aboard
the brigantine, and in the afternoon a sailboat went up to the town,
carrying the captain, and a great load covered over with a tarpaulin
in the stern. What was so taken up to the town Barnaby did not then
guess, but the boat did not return again till about sundown.
For the sun was just dropping below the water when the captain came
aboard once more and, finding Barnaby on deck, bade him come down into
the saloon, where they found the young lady sitting, the broad light
of the evening shining in through the skylight, and making it all
pretty bright within.
The captain commanded Barnaby to be seated, for he had something of
moment to say to him; whereupon, as soon as Barnaby had taken his
place alongside the young lady, he began very seriously, with a
preface somewhat thus: "Though you may think me the captain of this
brigantine, young gentleman, I am not really so, but am under orders,
and so have only carried out those orders of a superior in all these
things that I have done." Having so begun, he went on to say that
there was one thing yet remaining for him to do, and that the greatest
thing of all. He said that Barnaby and the young lady had not been
fetched away from the _Belle Helen_ as they were by any mere chance of
accident, but that 'twas all a plan laid by a head wiser than his, and
carried out by one whom he must obey in all things. He said that he
hoped that both Barnaby and the young lady would perform willingly
what they would be now called upon to do, but that whether they did it
willingly or no, they must, for that those were the orders of one who
was not to be disobeyed.
You may guess how our hero held his breath at all this; but whatever
might have been his expectations, the very wildest of them all did not
reach to that which was demanded of him. "My orders are these," said
the other, continuing: "I am to take you and the young lady ashore,
and to see that you are married before I quit you; and to that end a
very good, decent, honest minister who lives ashore yonder in the
village was chosen and hath been spoken to and is now, no doubt,
waiting for you to come. Such are my orders, and this is the last
thing I am set to do; so now I will leave you alone together for five
minutes to talk it over, but be quick about it, for whether willing or
not, this thing must be done."
Thereupon he went away, as he had promised, leaving those two alone
together, Barnaby like one turned into stone, and the young lady, her
face turned away, flaming as red as fire in the fading light.
Nor can I tell what Barnaby said to her, nor what words he used, but
only, all in a tumult, with neither beginning nor end he told her that
God knew he loved her, and that with all his heart and soul, and that
there was nothing in all the world for him but her; but, nevertheless,
if she would not have it as had been ordered, and if she were not
willing to marry him as she was bidden to do, he would rather die than
lend himself to forcing her to do such a thing against her will.
Nevertheless, he told her she must speak up and tell him yes or no,
and that God knew he would give all the world if she would say "yes."
All this and more he said in such a tumult of words that there was no
order in their speaking, and she sitting there, her bosom rising and
falling as though her breath stifled her. Nor may I tell what she
replied to him, only this, that she said she would marry him. At this
he took her into his arms and set his lips to hers, his heart all
melting away in his bosom.
So presently came the captain back into the saloon again, to find
Barnaby sitting there holding her hand, she with her face turned away,
and his heart beating like a trip hammer, and so saw that all was
settled as he would have it. Wherewith he wished them both joy, and
gave Barnaby his hand.
The yawlboat belonging to the brigantine was ready and waiting
alongside when they came upon deck, and immediately they descended to
it and took their seats. So they landed, and in a little while were
walking up the village street in the darkness, she clinging to his
arm as though she would swoon, and the captain of the brigantine and
two other men from aboard following after them. And so to the
minister's house, finding him waiting for them, smoking his pipe in
the warm evening, and walking up and down in front of his own door. He
immediately conducted them into the house, where, his wife having
fetched a candle, and two others of the village folk being present,
the good man having asked several questions as to their names and
their age and where they were from, the ceremony was performed, and
the certificate duly signed by those present--excepting the men who
had come ashore from the brigantine, and who refused to set their
hands to any paper.
The same sailboat that had taken the captain up to the town in the
afternoon was waiting for them at the landing place, whence, the
captain, having wished them Godspeed, and having shaken Barnaby very
heartily by the hand, they pushed off, and, coming about, ran away
with the slant of the wind, dropping the shore and those strange
beings alike behind them into the night.
As they sped away through the darkness they could hear the creaking of
the sails being hoisted aboard of the brigantine, and so knew that she
was about to put to sea once more. Nor did Barnaby True ever set eyes
upon those beings again, nor did anyone else that I ever heard tell
of.
It was nigh midnight when they made Mr. Hartright's wharf at the foot
of Wall Street, and so the streets were all dark and silent and
deserted as they walked up to Barnaby's home.
You may conceive of the wonder and amazement of Barnaby's dear
stepfather when, clad in a dressing gown and carrying a lighted candle
in his hand, he unlocked and unbarred the door, and so saw who it was
had aroused him at such an hour of the night, and the young and
beautiful lady whom Barnaby had fetched with him.
The first thought of the good man was that the _Belle Helen_ had come
into port; nor did Barnaby undeceive him as he led the way into the
house, but waited until they were all safe and sound in privity
together before he should unfold his strange and wonderful story.
"This was left for you by two foreign sailors this afternoon,
Barnaby," the good old man said, as he led the way through the hall,
holding up the candle at the same time, so that Barnaby might see an
object that stood against the wainscoting by the door of the dining
room.
Nor could Barnaby refrain from crying out with amazement when he saw
that it was one of the two chests of treasure that Sir John Malyoe had
fetched from Jamaica, and which the pirates had taken from the _Belle
Helen_. As for Mr. Hartright, he guessed no more what was in it than
the man in the moon.
The next day but one brought the _Belle Helen_ herself into port, with
the terrible news not only of having been attacked at night by
pirates, but also that Sir John Malyoe was dead. For whether it was
the sudden shock of the sight of his old captain's face--whom he
himself had murdered and thought dead and buried--flashing so out
against the darkness, or whether it was the strain of passion that
overset his brains, certain it is that when the pirates left the
_Belle Helen_, carrying with them the young lady and Barnaby and the
traveling trunks, those left aboard the _Belle Helen_ found Sir John
Malyoe lying in a fit upon the floor, frothing at the mouth and black
in the face, as though he had been choked, and so took him away to his
berth, where, the next morning about ten o'clock, he died, without
once having opened his eyes or spoken a single word.
As for the villain manservant, no one ever saw him afterward; though
whether he jumped overboard, or whether the pirates who so attacked
the ship had carried him away bodily, who shall say?
Mr. Hartright, after he had heard Barnaby's story, had been very
uncertain as to the ownership of the chest of treasure that had been
left by those men for Barnaby, but the news of the death of Sir John
Malyoe made the matter very easy for him to decide. For surely if
that treasure did not belong to Barnaby, there could be no doubt that
it must belong to his wife, she being Sir John Malyoe's legal heir.
And so it was that that great fortune (in actual computation amounting
to upward of sixty-three thousand pounds) came to Barnaby True, the
grandson of that famous pirate, William Brand; the English estate in
Devonshire, in default of male issue of Sir John Malyoe, descended to
Captain Malyoe, whom the young lady was to have married.
As for the other case of treasure, it was never heard of again, nor
could Barnaby ever guess whether it was divided as booty among the
pirates, or whether they had carried it away with them to some strange
and foreign land, there to share it among themselves.
And so the ending of the story, with only this to observe, that
whether that strange appearance of Captain Brand's face by the light
of the pistol was a ghostly and spiritual appearance, or whether he
was present in flesh and blood, there is only to say that he was never
heard of again; nor had he ever been heard of till that time since the
day he was so shot from behind by Capt. John Malyoe on the banks of
the Rio Cobra River in the year 1733.