THE SLAVER
Robert spent more days in New York, and they were all pleasant. His
own handsome face and winning manner would have made his way anywhere,
but it became known universally that a great interest was taken in him
by Mr. Benjamin Hardy, who was a great figure in the city, a man not
to be turned lightly into an enemy. It also seemed that some mystery
enveloped him--mystery always attracts--and the lofty and noble figure
of the young Onondaga, who was nearly always by his side, heightened
the romantic charm he had for all those with whom he came in
contact. Both Hardy and Willet urged him to go wherever he was asked
by the great, and clothes fitted to such occasions were provided
promptly.
"I am not able to pay for these," said Robert to Willet when he was
being measured for the first of his fine raiment.
"Don't trouble yourself about it," said the hunter, smiling, "I have
sufficient to meet the bills, and I shall see that all your tailors
are reimbursed duly. Some one must always look after a man of
fashion."
"I wish I knew more than I do," said Robert in troubled tones,
"because I've a notion that the money with which you will pay my
tailor comes from the till of Master Benjamin Hardy. It's uncommon
strange that he does so much for me. I'm very grateful, but surely
there must be some motive behind it."
He glanced at Willet to see how he took his words, but the hunter
merely smiled, and Robert knew that the smile was a mask through which
he could not penetrate.
"Take the goods the gods provide thee," said the hunter.
"I will," said Robert, cheerfully, "since it seems I can't do anything
else."
And he did. His response to New York continued to be as vigorous as it
had been to Quebec, and while New York lacked some of the brilliancy,
some of the ultimate finish that, to his mind, had distinguished
Quebec, it was more solid, there was more of an atmosphere of
resource, and it was all vastly interesting. Charteris proved himself
a right true friend, and he opened for him whatever doors he cared to
enter that Mr. Hardy may have left unlocked. He was also thrown much
with Grosvenor, and the instinctive friendship between the two ripened
fast.
On the fifth day of his stay in New York a letter came out of the
wilderness from Wilton at Fort Refuge. It had been brought by an
Oneida runner to Albany, and was sent thence by post to New York.
Wilton wrote that time would pass rather heavily with them in the
little fortress, if the hostile Indians allowed it. Small bands now
infested that region, and the soldiers were continually making marches
against them. The strange man, whom they called Black Rifle, was of
vast help, guiding them and saving them from ambush.
Wilton wrote that he missed Philadelphia, which was certainly the
finest city outside of Europe, but he hoped to go back to it, seasoned
and improved by life in the woods. New York, where he supposed Robert
now to be, was an attractive town, in truth, a great port, but it had
not the wealth and cultivation of Philadelphia, as he hoped to show
Robert some day. Meanwhile he wished him well.
Robert smiled. He had pleasant memories of Wilton, Colden, Carson and
the others, and while he was making new friends he did not commit the
crime of forgetting old ones. It was his hope that he should meet them
all again, not merely after the war, but long before.
In his comings and goings among the great of their day Robert kept a
keen eye for the vision of St. Luc. He half hoped, half feared that
some time in the twilight or the full dusk of the night he would see
in some narrow street the tall figure wrapped in its great cloak. But
the chevalier did not appear, and Robert felt that he had not really
come as a spy upon the English army and its preparations. He must have
gone, days since.
He met Adrian Van Zoon three times, that is, he was in the same room
with him, although they spoke together only once. The merchant had in
his presence an air of detachment. He seemed to be one who continually
carried a burden, and a stripling just from the woods could not long
have a place, either favorable or unfavorable, in his memory. Robert
began to wonder if St. Luc had net been mistaken. What could a man
born and bred in France, and only in recent years an inhabitant of
Canada, know of Adrian Van Zoon of New York? What, above all, could he
know that would cause him to warn Robert against him? But this, like
all his other questions, disappeared in the enjoyments of the
moment. Nature, which had been so kind in giving to him a vivid
imagination, had also given with it an intense appreciation. He liked
nearly everything, and nearly everybody, he could see a rosy mist
where the ordinary man saw only a cloud, and just now New York was so
kind to him that he loved it all.
A week in the city and he attended a brilliant ball given by William
Walton in the Walton mansion, in Franklin Square, then the most
elaborate and costly home in North America. It was like a great
English country house, with massive brick walls and woodwork, all
imported and beautifully carved. The staircase in particular made of
dark ebony was the wonder of its day, and, in truth, the whole
interior was like that of a palace, instead of a private residence, at
that time, in America.
Robert enjoyed himself hugely. He realized anew how close was the
blood relationship among all those important families, and he was
already familiar with their names. The powerful sponsorship of Mr.
Hardy had caused them to take him in as one of their number, and for
that reason he liked them all the more. He was worldly wise enough
already to know that we are more apt to call a social circle snobbish
when we do not belong to it. Now, he was a welcome visitor at the best
houses in New York, and all was rose to him.
Adrian Van Zoon, who had not only wealth but strong connections, was
there, but, as on recent occasions he took no notice of Robert, until
late in the evening when the guests were dancing the latest Paris and
London dances in the great drawing-room. Robert was resting for a
little space and as he leaned against the wall the merchant drew near
him and addressed him with much courtesy.
"I fear, Mr. Lennox," he said, "that I have spoken to you rather
brusquely, for which I offer many apologies. It was due, perhaps, to
the commercial rivalries of myself and Mr. Hardy, in whose house you
are staying. It was but natural for me to associate you with him."
"I wish to be linked with him," said Robert, coldly. "I have a great
liking and respect for Mr. Hardy."
Mynheer Van Zoon laughed and seemed not at all offended.
"The answer of a lad, and a proper one for a lad," he said. "'Tis well
to be loyal to one's friends, and I must admit, too, that Mr. Hardy is
a man of many high qualities, a fact that a rivalry in business
extending over many years, has proved to me. He and I cannot become
friends, but I do respect him."
He had imparted some warmth to his tone, and his manner bore the
appearance of geniality. Robert, so susceptible to courtesy in others,
began to find him less repellent. He rejoined in the same polite
manner, and Mynheer Van Zoon talked to him a little while as a busy
man of middle age would speak to a youth. He asked him of his
experiences at Quebec, of which he had heard some rumor, and Robert,
out of the fullness of his mind, spoke freely on that subject.
"Is it true," asked Mynheer Van Zoon, "that David Willet in a duel
with swords slew a famous bravo?"
"It's quite true," replied Robert. "I was there, and saw it with my
own eyes. Pierre Boucher was the man's name, and never was a death
more deserved."
"Willet is a marvel with the sword."
"You knew him in his youth, Mynheer Van Zoon?"
"I did not say that. It is possible that I was thinking of some one
who had talked to me about him. But, whatever thought may have been in
my mind, David Willet and I are not likely to tread the same path. I
repeat, Master Lennox, that although my manner may have seemed to you
somewhat brusque in the past, I wish you well. Do you remain much
longer in New York?"
"Only a few days, I think."
"And you still find much of interest to see?"
"Enough to occupy the remainder of my time. I wish to see a bit of
Long Island, but tomorrow I go to Paulus Hook to find one Nicholas
Suydam and to carry him a message from Colonel William Johnson, which
has but lately come to me in the post. I suppose it will be easy to
get passage across the Hudson."
"Plenty of watermen will take you for a fare, but if you are familiar
with the oars yourself it would be fine exercise for a strong youth
like you to row over and then back again."
"It's a good suggestion, as I do row, and I think I'll adopt it."
Mynheer Van Zoon passed on a moment or two later, and Robert, with his
extraordinary susceptibility to a friendly manner, felt a pleasant
impression. Surely St. Luc, who at least was an official enemy, did
not know the truth about Van Zoon! And if the Frenchman did happen to
be right, what did he have to fear in New York, surrounded by friends?
The evening progressed, but Mynheer Van Zoon left early, and then in
the pleasures of the hour, surrounded by youth and brightness, Robert
forgot him, too. A banquet was served late, and there was such a
display of silver and gold plate that the British officers themselves
opened their eyes and later wrote letters to England, telling of the
amazing prosperity and wealth of New York, as proven by what they had
seen in the Walton and other houses.
Robert did not go back to the home of Mr. Hardy, until a very late
hour, and he slept late the next day. When he rose he found that all
except himself had gone forth for one purpose or another, but it
suited his own plan well, as he could now take the letter of Colonel
William Johnson to his friend, Master Nicholas Suydam, in Paulus
Hook. It was another dark, gloomy day, but clouds and cold had little
effect on his spirits, and when he walked along the shore of the North
River, looking for a boat, he met the chaff of the watermen with
humorous remarks of his own. They discouraged his plan to row himself
across, but being proud of his skill he clung to it, and, having
deposited two golden guineas as security for its return, he selected a
small but strong boat and rowed into the stream.
A sharp wind was blowing in from the sea, but he was able to manage
his little craft with ease, and, being used to rough water, he enjoyed
the rise and dip of the waves. A third of the way out and he paused
and looked back at New York, the steeple of St. George's showing
above the line of houses. He could distinguish from the mass other
buildings that he knew, and his heart suddenly swelled with affection
for this town, in which he had received such a warm welcome. He would
certainly live here, when the wars were over, and he could settle down
to his career.
Then he turned his eyes to the inner bay, where he saw the usual
amount of shipping, sloops, schooners, brigs and every other kind of
vessel known to the times. Behind them rose the high wooded shores of
Staten Island, and through the channel between it and Long Island
Robert saw other ships coming in. Truly, it was a noble bay,
apparently made for the creation of a great port, and already busy man
was putting it to its appointed use. Then he looked up the Hudson at
the lofty Palisades, the precipitous shores facing them, and his eyes
came back to the stream. Several vessels under full sail were steering
for the mouth of the Hudson, but he looked longest at a schooner,
painted a dark color, and very trim in her lines. He saw two men
standing on her decks, and two or three others visible in her rigging.
Evidently she was a neat and speedy craft, but he was not there to
waste his time looking at schooners. The letter of Colonel William
Johnson to Master Nicholas Suydam in Paulus Hook must be delivered,
and, taking up his oars, he rowed vigorously toward the hamlet on the
Jersey shore.
When he was about two-thirds of the way across he paused to look back
again, but the air was so heavy with wintry mists that New York did
not show at all. He was about to resume the oars once more when the
sound of creaking cordage caused him to look northward. Then he
shouted in alarm. The dark schooner was bearing down directly upon
him, and was coming very swiftly. A man on the deck whom he took to be
the captain shouted at him, but when Robert, pulling hard, shot his
boat ahead, it seemed to him that the schooner changed her course
also.
It was the last impression he had of the incident, as the prow of the
schooner struck his boat and clove it in twain. He jumped
instinctively, but his head received a glancing blow, and he did not
remember anything more until he awoke in a very dark and close
place. His head ached abominably, and when he strove to raise a hand
to it he found that he could not do so. He thought at first that it
was due to weakness, a sort of temporary paralysis, coming from the
blow that he dimly remembered, but he realized presently that his
hands were bound, tied tightly to his sides.
He moved his body a little, and it struck against wood on either
side. His feet also were bound, and he became conscious of a swaying
motion. He was in a ship's bunk and he was a prisoner of somebody. He
was filled with a fierce and consuming rage. He had no doubt that he
was on the schooner that had run him down, nor did he doubt either
that he had been run down purposely. Then he lay still and by long
staring was able to make out a low swaying roof above him and very
narrow walls. It was a strait, confined place, and it was certainly
deep down in the schooner's hold. A feeling of horrible despair seized
him. The darkness, his aching head, and his bound hands and feet
filled him with the worst forebodings. Nor did he have any way of
estimating time. He might have been lying in the bunk at least a week,
and he might now be far out at sea.
In misfortune, the intelligent and imaginative suffer most because
they see and feel everything, and also foresee further misfortunes to
come. Robert's present position brought to him in a glittering train
all that he had lost. Having a keen social sense his life in New York
had been one of continuing charm. Now the balls and receptions that
he had attended at great houses came back to him, even more brilliant
and vivid than their original colors had been. He remembered the many
beautiful women he had seen, in their dresses of silk or satin, with
their rosy faces and powdered hair, and the great merchants and feudal
landowners, and the British and American officers in their bright new
uniforms, talking proudly of the honors they expected to win.
Then that splendid dream was gone, vanishing like a mist before a
wind, and he was back in the swaying darkness of the bunk, hands and
feet bound, and head aching. All things are relative. He felt now if
only the cruel cords were taken off his wrists and ankles he could be
happy. Then he would be able to sit up, move his limbs, and his head
would stop aching. He called all the powers of his will to his
aid. Since he could not move he would not cause himself any increase
of pain by striving to do so. He commanded his body to lie still and
compose itself and it obeyed. In a little while his head ceased to
ache so fiercely, and the cords did not bite so deep.
Then he took thought. He was still sure that he was on board the
schooner that had run him down. He remembered the warning of St. Luc
against Adrian Van Zoon, and Adrian Van Zoon's suggestion that he row
his own boat across to Paulus Hook. But it seemed incredible. A
merchant, a rich man of high standing in New York, could not plan his
murder. Where was the motive? And, if such a motive did exist, a man
of Van Zoon's standing could not afford to take so great a risk. In
spite of St. Luc and his faith in him he dismissed it as an
impossibility. If Van Zoon had wished his death he would not have
been taken out of the river. He must seek elsewhere the reason of his
present state.
He listened attentively, and it seemed to him that the creaking and
groaning of the cordage increased. Once or twice he thought he heard
footsteps over his head, but he concluded that it was merely the
imagination. Then, after an interminable period of waiting, the door
to the room opened and a man carrying a ship's lantern entered,
followed closely by another. Robert was able to turn on his side and
stare at them.
The one who carried the lantern was short, very dark, and had gold
rings in his ears. Robert judged him to be a Portuguese. But his
attention quickly passed to the man behind him, who was much taller,
rather spare, his face clean shaven, his hard blue eyes set close
together. Robert knew instinctively that he was master of the ship.
"Hold up the lantern, Miguel," the tall man said, "and let's have a
look at him."
The Portuguese obeyed.
Then Robert felt the hard blue eyes fastened upon him, but he raised
himself as much as he could and gave back the gaze fearlessly.
"Well, how's our sailorman?" said the captain, laughing, and his
laughter was hideous to the prisoner.
"I don't understand you," said Robert.
"My meaning is plain enough, I take it."
"I demand that you set me free at once and restore me to my friends in
New York."
The tall man laughed until he held his sides, and the short man
laughed with him, laugh for laugh. Their laughter so filled Robert
with loathing and hate that he would have attacked them both had he
been unbound.
"Come now, Peter," said the captain at last. "Enough of your grand
manner. You carry it well for a common sailor, and old Nick himself
knows where you got your fine clothes, but here you are back among
your old comrades, and you ought to be glad to see 'em."
"What do you mean?" asked the astonished Robert.
"Now, don't look so surprised. You can keep up a play too long. You
know as well as we do that you're plain Peter Smith, an able young
sailorman, when you're willing, who deserted us in Baltimore three
months ago, and you with a year yet to serve. And here's your
particular comrade, Miguel, so glad to see you. When we ran your boat
down, all your own fault, too, Miguel jumped overboard, and he didn't
dream that the lad he was risking his life to save was his old
chum. Oh, 'twas a pretty reunion! And now, Peter, thank Miguel for
bringing you back to life and to us."
A singular spirit seized Robert. He saw that he was at the mercy of
these men, who utterly without scruple wished for some reason to hold
him. He could be a player too, and perhaps more was to be won by being
a player.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I was tempted by the follies of the land,
and I've had enough of 'em. If you'll overlook it and let the past be
buried, captain, you'll have no better seaman than Peter Smith.
You've always been a just but kind man, and so I throw myself on your
mercy."
The captain and Miguel exchanged astonished glances.
"I know you'll do it, captain," Robert went on in his most winning
tones, "because, as I've just said, you've always been a kind man,
especially kind to me. I suppose when I first signed with you that I
was as ignorant and awkward a land lubber as you ever saw. But your
patient teaching has made me a real sailor. Release me now, and I
think that in a few hours I will be fit to go to work again."
"Cut the lashings, Miguel," said the captain.
Miguel's sharp knife quickly severed them, and Robert sat up in the
bunk. When the blood began to flow freely in the veins, cut off
hitherto, he felt stinging pains at first, but presently heavenly
relief came. The captain and Miguel stood looking at him.
"Peter," said the captain, "you were always a lad of spirit, and I'm
glad to get you back, particularly as we have such a long voyage ahead
of us. One doesn't go to the coast of Africa, gather a cargo of slaves
and get back in a day."
In spite of himself Robert could not repress a shudder of horror. A
slaver and he a prisoner on board her! He might be gone a year or
more. Never was a lad in worse case, but somewhere in him was a spark
of hope that refused to be extinguished. He gave a more imperious
summons than ever to his will, and it returned to his aid.
"You've been kind to Peter Smith. Few captains would forgive what I've
done, but I'll try to make it up to you. How long are we out from New
York?" he said.
"It might be an hour or it might be a day or what's more likely it
might be two days. You see, Peter, a lad who gets a crack on the head
like yours lies still and asleep for a long time. Besides, it don't
make any difference to you how long we've been out. So, just you stay
in your bunk a little while longer, and Miguel will bring you
something to eat and drink."
"Thank you, captain. You're almost a father to me."
"That's a good lad, Peter. I am your father, I'm the father of all my
crew, and don't forget that a father sometimes has to punish his
children, so just you stay in your bunk till you're bid to come out of
it."
"Thank you, captain. I wouldn't think of disobeying you. Besides, I'm
too weak to move yet."
The captain and Miguel went out, and Robert heard them fastening the
door on the outside. Then the darkness shut him in again, and he lay
back in his bunk. The spark of hope somewhere in his mind had grown a
little larger. His head had ceased to ache and his limbs were
free. The physical difference made a mental difference yet
greater. Although there seemed to be absolutely no way out, he would
find one.
The door was opened again, and Miguel, bearing the ship's lantern in
one hand and a plate of food in the other, came in. It was rough food
such as was served on rough ships, but Robert sat up and looked at it
hungrily. Miguel grinned, and laughed until the gold hoops in his ears
shook.
"You, Peter Smith," he said. "Me terrible glad to see you again. Miss
my old comrade. Mourn for him, and then when find him jump into the
cold river to save him."
"It's true," said Robert, "it was a long and painful parting, but here
we are, shipmates again. It was good of you, Miguel, to risk your life
to save me, and now that we've had so many polite interchanges,
suppose you save me from starving to death and pass that plate of
food."
"With ver' good will, Peter. Eat, eat with the great heartiness,
because we have ver', ver' hard work before us and for a long
time. The captain will want you to do as much work in t'ree mont' as
t'ree men do, so you can make up the t'ree mont' you have lost."
"Tell him I'm ready. I've already confessed all my sins to him."
"He won't let you work as sailor at first. He make you help me in the
cook's galley."
"I'm willing to do that too. You know I can cook. You'll remember,
Miguel, how I helped you in the Mediterranean, and how I did almost
all your work that time you were sick, when we were cruising down to
the Brazils?"
Miguel grinned.
"You have the great courage, you Peter," he said. "You always
have. Feel better now?"
"A lot, Miguel. The bread was hard, I suppose, and better potatoes
have been grown, but I didn't notice the difference. That was good
water, too. I've always thought that water was a fine drink. And now,
Miguel, hunger and thirst being satisfied, I'll get up and stretch my
limbs a while. Then I'll be ready to go to work."
"I tell you when the captain wants you. Maybe an hour from now, maybe
two hours."
He took his lantern and the empty plate and withdrew, but Robert heard
him fastening the door on the outside again. Evidently they did not
yet wholly trust the good intentions of Peter Smith, the deserter,
whom they had recaptured in the Hudson. But the spark of hope lodged
somewhere in the mind of Peter Smith was still growing and
glowing. The removal of the bonds from his wrist and ankles had
brought back a full and free circulation, and the food and water had
already restored strength to one so young and strong. He stood up,
flexed his muscles and took deep breaths.
He had no familiarity with the sea, but he was used to navigation in
canoes and boats on large and small lakes in the roughest kind of
weather, and the rocking of the schooner, which continued, did not
make him seasick, despite the close foul air of the little room in
which he was locked. He still heard the creaking of cordage and now he
heard the tumbling of waves too, indicating that the weather was
rough. He tried to judge by these sounds how fast the schooner was
moving, but he could make nothing of it. Then he strained his memory
to see if he could discover in any manner how long he had been on the
vessel, but the period of his unconsciousness remained a mystery,
which he could not unveil by a single second.
Long stay in the room enabled him to penetrate its dusk a little, and
he saw that its light and air came in normal times from a single small
porthole, closed now. Nevertheless a few wisps of mist entered the
tiny crevices, and he inferred the vessel was in a heavy fog. He was
glad of it, because he believed the schooner would move slowly at such
a time, and anything that impeded the long African journey was to his
advantage.
A period which seemed to be six hours but which he afterward knew to
be only one, passed, and his door swung back for the third time. The
face of Miguel appeared in the opening and again he grinned, until his
mouth formed a mighty slash across his face.
"You come on deck now, you Peter," he said, "captain wants you."
Robert's heart gave a mighty beat. Only those who have been shut up in
the dark know what it is to come out into the light. That alone was
sufficient to give him a fresh store of courage and hope. So he
followed Miguel up a narrow ladder and emerged upon the deck. As he
had inferred, the schooner was in a heavy fog, with scarcely any wind
and the sails hanging dead.
The captain stood near the mast, gazing into the fog. He looked
taller and more evil than ever, and Robert saw the outline of a pistol
beneath his heavy pea jacket. Several other men of various
nationalities stood about the deck, and they gave Robert malicious
smiles. Forward he saw a twelve pound brass cannon, a deadly and
dangerous looking piece. It was extremely cold on deck, too, the raw
fog seeming to be so much liquid ice, but, though Robert shivered, he
liked it. Any kind of fresh air was heaven after that stuffy little
cabin.
"How are you feeling, Peter?" asked the captain, although there was no
note of sympathy in his voice.
"Very well, sir, thank you," replied Robert, "and again I wish to make
my apologies for deserting, but the temptations of New York are very
strong, sir. The city went to my head."
"So it seems. We missed you on the voyage to Boston and back, but we
have you now. Doubtless Miguel has told you that you are to help him a
couple of days in his galley, and you'll stay there close. If you come
out before I give the word it's a belaying pin for you. But when I do
give the word you'll go back to your work as one of the cleverest
sailormen I ever had. You'll remember how you used to go out on the
spars in the iciest and slipperiest weather. None so clever at it as
you, Peter, and I'll soon see that you have the chance to show again
to all the men that you're the best sailor aboard ship."
Robert shivered mentally. He divined the plan of this villain, who
would send him in the icy rigging to sure death. He, an untrained
sailor, could not keep his footing there in a storm, and it could be
said that it was an accident, as it would be in the fulfilment though
not in the intent. But he divined something else that stopped the
mental shudder and that gave him renewed hope. Why should the captain
threaten him with a belaying pin if he did not stay in the cook's
galley for two days? To Robert's mind but one reason appeared, and it
was the fear that he should be seen on deck. And that fear existed
because they were yet close to land. It was all so clear to him that
he never doubted and again his heart leaped. He was bareheaded, but he
touched the place where his cap brim should have been and replied:
"I'll remember, captain."
"See that you do," said the man in level tones, instinct nevertheless
with hardness and cruelty.
Robert touched his forehead again and turned away with Miguel,
descending to the cook's galley, resolved upon some daring trial, he
did not yet know what. Here the Portuguese set him to work at once,
scouring pots and kettles and pans, and he toiled without complaint
until his arms ached. Miguel at last began to talk. He seemed to
suffer from the lack of companionship, and Robert divined that he was
the only Portuguese on board.
"Good helper, you Peter," he said. "It no light job to cook for twenty
men, and all of them hungry all the time."
"Have we our full crew on board, Miguel?"
"Yes, twenty men and four more, and plenty guns, plenty powder and
ball. Fine cannon, too."
Robert judged that the slaver would be well armed and well manned, but
he decided to ask no more questions at present, fearing to arouse the
suspicions of Miguel, and he worked on with shut lips. The Portuguese
himself talked--it seemed that he had to do so, as the longing for
companionship overcame him--but he did not tell the name of the
schooner or its captain. He merely chattered of former voyages and of
the ports he had been in, invariably addressing his helper as Peter,
and speaking of him as if he had been his comrade.
Robert, while apparently absorbed in his tasks, listened attentively
to all that he might hear from above He knew that the fog was as thick
as ever, and that the ship was merely moving up and down with the
swells. She might be anchored in comparatively shallow water. Now he
was absolutely sure that they were somewhere near the coast, and the
coast meant hope and a chance.
Dinner, rude but plentiful, was served for the sailors and food
somewhat more delicate for the captain in his cabin.
Robert himself attended to the captain, and he could see enough now to
know that the dark had come. He inferred there would be no objection
to his going upon deck in the night, but he made no such suggestion.
Instead he waited upon the tall man with a care and deftness that made
that somber master grin.
"I believe absence has really improved you, Peter," he said. "I
haven't been waited on so well in a long time."
"Thank you, sir," said Robert.
Secretly he was burning with humiliation. It hurt his pride terribly
to serve a rough sea captain in such a manner, but he had no choice
and he resolved that if the chance came he would pay the debt. When
the dinner or supper, whichever it might be called, was over, he went
back to the galley and cheerfully began to clear away, and to wash and
wipe dishes. Miguel gave him a compliment, saying that he had improved
since their latest voyage and Robert thanked him duly.
When all the work was done he crawled into a bunk just over the cook's
and in any other situation would have fallen asleep at once. But his
nerves were on edge, and he was not sleepy in the least. Miguel,
without taking off his clothes, lay down in the bunk beneath him, and
Robert soon heard him snoring. He also heard new sounds from above, a
whistle and a shriek and a roar combined that he did not recognize at
first, but which a little thought told him to be a growing wind and
the crash of the waves. The schooner began to dip and rise
violently. He was dizzy for a little while, but he soon recovered. A
storm! The knowledge gave him pleasure. He did not know why, but he
felt that it, too, contributed hope and a chance.
The roar of the storm increased, but Miguel, who had probably spent
nearly all his life at sea, continued to sleep soundly. Robert was
never in his life more thoroughly awake.
He sat up in his bunk, and now and then he heard the sound of voices
and of footsteps overhead, but soon they were lost entirely in the
incessant shrieking of the wind and the continuous thunder of the
great waves against the side of the schooner. In truth, it was a
storm, one of great fury. He knew that the ship although stripped to
the utmost, must be driving fast, but in what direction he had no
idea. He would have given much to know.
The tumult grew and by and by he heard orders shouted through a
trumpet. He could stand it no longer, and, leaping down, he seized the
Portuguese by the shoulder and shook him.
"Up, Miguel," he cried. "A great storm is upon us!"
The cook opened his eyes sleepily, and then sprang up, a look of alarm
on his face. While the eyes of the Portuguese were filled with fear,
he also seemed to be in a daze. It was apparent to Robert that he was
a heavy sleeper, and his long black hair falling about his forehead he
stared wildly. His aspect made an appeal to Robert's sense of humor,
even in those tense moments.
"My judgment tells me, Miguel," he shouted--he was compelled to raise
his voice to a high pitch owing to the tremendous clatter
overhead--"that there is a great storm, and the schooner is in danger!
And you know, too, that your old comrade, Peter Smith, who has sailed
the seas with you so long, is likely to be right in his opinions!"
The gaze of Miguel became less wild, but he looked at Robert with awe
and then with superstition.
"You have brought us bad luck," he exclaimed. "An evil day for us
when you came aboard."
Robert laughed. A fanciful humor seized him.
"But this is my place," he said. "I, Peter Smith, belong on board this
schooner and you know, Miguel, that you and the captain insisted on my
coming back."
"We go on deck!" cried the cook, now thoroughly alarmed by the uproar,
which always increased. He rushed up the ladder and Robert followed
him, to be blown completely off his feet when he reached the deck. But
he snatched at the woodwork, held fast, and regained an upright
position. The captain stood not far away, holding to a rope, but he
was so deeply engrossed in directing his men that he paid no attention
to Robert.
The youth cleared the mist and spray from his eyes and took a
comprehensive look. The aspect of sea and sky was enough to strike
almost any one with terror, but upon this occasion he was an
exception. He had never looked upon a wilder world, but in its very
wildness lay his hope. The icy spars from which he would slip to
plunge to his death in the chilling sea were gone, and so was far
Africa, and the slaver's hunt. He was not a seaman, his experience had
been with lakes, but one could reason from lakes to the universal
ocean, and he knew that the schooner was in a fight for life. And
involved in it was his fight for freedom.
The wind, cold as death, and sharp as a sword, blew out of the
northeast, and the schooner, heeled far over, was driving fast before
it, in spite of every effort of a capable captain and crew. The ship
rose and fell violently with the huge swells, and water that stung
like an icy sleet swept over her continually. Looking to the westward
Robert saw something that caused his heart to throb violently. It was
a dim low line, but he knew it to be land.
What land it was he had no idea, nor did he at the moment care, but
there lay freedom. Rows of breakers opening their strong teeth for the
ship might stretch between, but better the breakers than the slaver's
deck and the man hunt in the slimy African lagoons. For him the icy
wind was the breath of life, and he soon ceased to shiver. But he
became conscious of chattering teeth near him and he saw Miguel, his
face a reproduction of terror in all its aspects.
"We go!" shouted the Portuguese. "The storm drive the ship on the
breakers and she break to pieces, and all of us lost!"
Robert's fantastic spirit was again strong upon him.
"Then let us go!" he shouted back. "Better this clean, cold coast than
the fever swamps of Africa! Hold fast, Miguel, and we'll ride in
together!"
The superstitious awe of the Portuguese deepened, and he drew away
from Robert. In the moment of terrible storm and approaching death
this could be no mortal youth who showed not fear, but instead a joy
that was near to exaltation. Then and there he was convinced that when
they had seized him and brought him aboard they had made their own
doom certain.
"In twenty minutes, we strike!" cried Miguel. "Ah, how the wind rise!
Many a year since I see such a storm!"
Spars snapped and were carried away in the foaming sea. Then the mast
went, and the crew began to launch the boats. Robert rushed to the
captain's cabin. When he served the man there he had not failed to
observe what the room contained, and now he snatched from the wall a
huge greatcoat, a belt containing a brace of pistols in a holster with
ammunition, and a small sword. He did not know why he took the sword,
but it was probably some trick of the fancy and he buckled it on with
the rest. Then he returned to the deck, where he could barely hold his
footing, the schooner had heeled so far over, and so powerful was the
wind and the driving of the spray. One of the boats had been launched
under the command of the second mate, but she was overturned almost
instantly, and all on board her were lost. Robert was just in time to
see a head bob once or twice on the surface of the sea, and then
disappear.
A second boat commanded by the first mate was lowered and seven or
eight men managed to get into it, rowing with all their might toward
an opening that appeared in the white line of foam. A third which
could take the remainder of the crew was made ready and the captain
himself would be in charge of it.
It was launched successfully and the men dropped into it, one by one,
but very fast. Miguel swung down and into a place. Robert advanced for
the same purpose, but the captain, who was still poised on the rail of
the ship, took notice of him for the first time.
"No! No, Peter!" he shouted, and even in the roar of the wind Robert
observed the grim humor in his voice. "You've been a good and faithful
sailorman, and we leave you in charge of the ship! It's a great
promotion and honor for you, Peter, but you deserve it! Handle her
well because she's a good schooner and answers kindly to a kind hand!
Now, farewell, Peter, and a long and happy voyage to you!"
A leveled pistol enforced his command to stop, and the next moment he
slid down a rope and into the boat. A sailor cut the rope and they
pulled quickly away, leaving Robert alone on the schooner. His
exultation turned to despair for a moment, and then his courage came
back. Tayoga in his place would not give up. He would pray to his
Manitou, who was Robert's God, and put complete faith in His wisdom
and mercy. Moreover, he was quit of all that hateful crew. The ship
of the slavers was beneath his feet, but the slavers themselves were
gone.
As he looked, he saw the second boat overturn, and he thought he heard
the wild cry of those about to be lost, but he felt neither pity nor
sympathy. A stern God, stern to such as they, had called them to
account. The captain's boat had disappeared in the mist and spray.
Robert, with the huge greatcoat wrapped about him clung to the stump
of the mast, which long since had been blown overboard, and watched
the white line of the breakers rapidly coming nearer, as they reached
out their teeth for the schooner. He knew that he could do nothing
more for himself until the ship struck. Then, with some happy chance
aiding him, he would drop into the sea and make a desperate try for
the land. He would throw off the greatcoat when he leaped, but
meanwhile he kept it on, because one would freeze without it in the
icy wind.
He heard presently the roaring of the breakers mingled with the
roaring of the wind, and, shutting his eyes, he prayed for a miracle.
He felt the foam beating upon his face, and believing it must come
from the rocks, he clung with all his might to the stump of the mast,
because the shock must occur within a few moments. He felt the
schooner shivering under him, and rising and falling heavily, and then
he opened his eyes to see where best to leap when the shock did come.
He beheld the thick white foam to right and left, but he had not
prayed in vain. The miracle had happened. Here was a narrow opening
in the breakers, and, with but one chance in a hundred to guide it,
the schooner had driven directly through, ceasing almost at once to
rock so violently. But there was enough power left in the waves even
behind the rocks to send the schooner upon a sandy beach, where she
must soon break up.
But Robert was saved. He knew it and he murmured devout thanks. When
the schooner struck in the sand he was thrown roughly forward, but he
managed to regain his feet for an instant, and he leaped outward as
far as he could, forgetting to take off his greatcoat. A returning
wave threw him down and passed over his head, but exerting all his
will, and all his strength he rose when it had passed, and ran for the
land as hard as he could. The wave returned, picked him up, and
hurried him on his way. When it started back again its force was too
much spent and the water was too shallow to have much effect on
Robert. He continued running through the yielding sand, and, when the
wave came in again and snatched at him, it was not able to touch his
feet.
He reached weeds, then bushes, and clutched them with both hands, lest
some wave higher and more daring than all the rest should yet come for
him and seize him. But, in a moment, he let them go, knowing that he
was safe, and laughing rather giddily, sank down in a faint.