DOCTOR AND PRIEST.
"But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilots' cheer;
My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.
"The pilot and the pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast;
Dear Lord in heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast."
While Captain Brand and Don Ignacio Sanchez walked pleasantly along the
pebbly shore of the clear blue inlet to the Tiger's Trap, let us, too,
saunter amid the habitations which sheltered the pirate's haunt.
Apart from the mat sheds of the shelly cove of the basin, where the
"Centipede" and "Panchita" were anchored, there was a nest of red-tiled
buildings which served the crew of the former vessel for a dwelling when
in port. It was pleasantly situated on a little sandy plateau, within a
stone's-throw of the water, and shaded by a cluster of palm-trees; while
in the rear was a dense jungle of canes and bushes, through which led
numerous paths to a small lagoon beyond. The buildings were of one
story, constructed of loose stones, the holes plastered with yellow
clay, with broad, projecting eaves extending over roughly-built piazzas.
They stood in a double row, leaving a stone pavement yard between, where
one or two cocoa-nut-trees lifted their slim trunks like sentinels on
guard. Two of the largest of these huts were mere shells inside, and
used for mess-rooms, exposing the unhewn girders and roof above, but all
whitewashed and tolerably clean. The floors were of rough mahogany
boards, or heavy dark planks, and no doubt part of the cargo of some
Honduras trader who had fallen into the pirates' hands. Around the sides
of these mess-rooms were arranged small tables and canvas camp-stools,
with eating utensils of every variety of pattern and value, from stray
sets of French porcelain to common delf crockery. A large open chimney
stood a little way off, where was a kitchen, in which the cookery was
carried on, under the superintendence of a couple of old negroes. Beyond
the mess-rooms were the sheds used for sleeping apartments, with lots of
hammocks of canvas and straw braid hanging by their clews from the
beams, quite like the berth-deck of a ship of war. Bags and sea-chests
stood out from the walls, with bits of mirrors here and there, some with
the glasses cracked, and others in square or round gilt frames. All,
however, was arranged with a certain degree of order, and the floor was
clean and well scrubbed. Another detached building, much smaller than
the rest, was divided by a board partition into two rooms. The first was
used for a storeroom, and was filled with bread in barrels, bags of
coffee and sugar, hams, dried fruits, beans, salt meats, and what not,
but every thing in abundance, and apparently the very best the market of
the high seas could produce. A strong door protected this repository,
with a wrought iron bar and padlock. The other portion of the building
was more habitable. There were chairs and tables; a couple of upright
bookcases with glass doors, one filled with books, odd numbers of
magazines, and old newspapers, and the other containing a multitude of
vials, pots, and bottles of medicine--a small apothecary's shop, in
fact, together with two or three cases of surgical instruments. Two
elegant bureaus, with rosewood doors and mouldings, like those furnished
passenger ships to the East Indies, stood against the wall at either
side; and near to each, in opposite corners, were low iron bedsteads,
without mattresses or bedding, and merely stretched with dressed and
embossed leather. For pillows were Chinese heel stools, and as for
covering, the climate dispensed with it altogether. Hanging against the
wall were a couple of brace of pistols and two or three muskets, and on
the table stood a square case-bottle of gin, some glasses, and a
richly-bound breviary clasped with a heavy gold strap; but in no other
part of these huts were fire-arms ever allowed, and very rarely was
liquor served out in more than the usual daily half-gill allowance.
Seated at the table in the last room we have described were two men.
One, the shorter of the two, was dressed in a long, loose bombazine
cassock, girded about his waist by a white rope, which fell in knotted
ends over his knees. Around his open neck was hung a string of black
ebony beads, hooked on to a heavy gold cross, which rested on his
capacious breast, and which the wearer was continually feeling, and
occasionally pressing to his lips. His face was dark and sensual--thick,
unctuous lips, a flat nose, and large black eyes--while a glossy fringe
of raven hair went like a thick curtain all around his head, only
leaving a bluish-white round patch on the shaved crown. This individual
was the Padre Ricardo, who, for some good reasons best known to himself,
had left his clerical duties in his native city of Vera Cruz and taken
service with Captain Brand. One of the reasons for leaving--and rather
abruptly, too--was for thrusting a cuchillo into the heart of his own
father, who had reported him to his superior for his monstrous
licentiousness. The padre, however, always declared that he was
actuated entirely by filial duty in killing his old parent, to save him
the pain and disgrace which would have followed the exposure of his son!
He still clung, though excommunicated, to the priestly calling, and
prided himself upon his fasts and vigils, never omitting the smallest
forms or penances, and saying mass from Ave Maria in the early morning
to Angelus at vesper time in the evening. For Captain Brand he was ready
to shrive a dying pirate--and pretty busy he was, too, at times--or hear
the confession of one with a troubled conscience in sound health; which,
if important to the safety or well-being of the fraternity, he took a
quiet opportunity of imparting to his superior in command. In these
pursuits he not only made himself useful to Captain Brand, but he became
more or less his confidant and adviser, and seemed to maintain his
influence by ghostly advice over the superstitious feelings of the men.
The padre, however, utterly detested the sea, and never touched his soft
feet in the water if he could by any possibility avoid it; but since he
had plenty to eat and drink on the island, and no end of prayers for his
amusement when in charge of the haunt--as he was--to look out for the
people who were left when the "Centipede" sailed on a cruise, he thus
passed the time in a delightfully agreeable manner.
The companion who sat opposite to the padre was a tall, gaunt,
cadaverous person, evidently of French extraction, with something kind
and humane about his face, but yet the physiognomy expressed the utmost
determination of character--such a heart and eye as could perform a
delicate surgical operation without a flutter of nerve or eyelid, and
who would stand before a leveled pistol looking calmly down the barrel
as the hammer fell. His face was intellectual, and he never smiled. His
whole appearance portrayed a thorough seaman. Where he came from no one
knew; nor did he ever open his lips, even to the captain, with a reason
for taking service among his band. All known about him was that he
landed from a slaver at St. Jago, and was engaged by Don Ignacio to
serve professionally with Brand in assisting the patriots on the Spanish
Main. When, however, he reached the rendezvous of the pirates, and
discovered that they were altogether a different sort of patriots than
he had bargained for, he nevertheless made no objections to remain, and
took the oath of allegiance, only stipulating that he should not be
called upon to take an active part in their proceedings. Here, then, he
remained for nearly three years, attending to the sick or wounded,
taking no interest in the accounts of the exploits of the freebooters
around him--rarely, indeed, holding speech with any one save his
room-mate, the padre, or occasionally a dinner or a walk with Captain
Brand. On the last expedition, however, of the "Centipede," he had been
induced to go on board, so that he might become a check and guard over
the brutal ruffian who had been placed temporarily in command; but, as
we have already seen, his influence had been of little avail.
There was yet another occupant of the room inhabited by the doctor and
Padre Ricardo; and a low moaning cry caused the former to rise quietly
from his chair and approach the low iron bedstead on his side of the
lodging. There, beneath a light gauze musquito net, lay our poor little
Henri--his once round, rosy, innocent face now pale and thin, with a red
spot on each cheek, and a dark, soft line beneath the closed eyes.
Uneasily he moved in his fitful slumber; and putting his little hands
together as if in prayer, he murmured, "Oh mamma, mamma!"
Beside the bed stood an unglazed jar of lemonade, together with a vial
and a spoon. The doctor drew nigh, and, gently pushing aside the
curtain, stood looking at the child for some minutes. Presently the
little sick boy feebly stretched out his delicate, thin limbs, and
unclosed his eyes. Oh! how dim, and sad, and touching was that look, as
he gave a timid, half-wild stare, and then, closing the lids tight
together, the hot drops bubbled out and coursed slowly down his tender
cheeks.
The doctor, with the gentleness of a woman, bent over him, and taking up
his poor, limp little hand, he remained feeling the fluttering pulse and
catching the hot breath on his dark cheeks. As if communing with
himself, while a glow of compassion lighted up his careworn visage, he
muttered,
"By the great and good God, who hears me, if I save this child I will
restore him to his heart-broken mother!"
He sank down on his knees by the bedside as he made his vow, and letting
the little hand rest on the bed, he buried his face in his large bony
hands. What thoughts passed through that man's mind none but the
Almighty knows; but when he arose his stern features had resumed their
wonted expression, and, pouring a little lemonade in a glass, he held it
to the sleeper's lips. Then moving noiselessly back to the table, he
said, in a low tone,
"Padre, the boy will live. His fever is leaving him, and he will get
well."
"_Ave Maria! Santissima!_" ejaculated the padre, crossing himself and
kissing his cross; "I pray for him. You must give him to me, doctor. I
will make him a little priest, and he shall swing the censer and chant
the Misericordia when I get the new chapel built."
"Time enough to think of that, _mi padre_, when he gets strong again.
But just now all the prayers _you_ can say for him will do him no good,
and so I hope you won't put yourself to the trouble."
"_Cierto, amigo_, doctor; but don't sneer at the prayers of the Church.
They do good; they ease the soul and soothe the pangs of Purgatory."
"Ah! and how long do you expect to stop in Purgatory?"
"_Ave purissima!_ What a question to ask your pious and devout Padre
Ricardo!"
"Question the devil when you want fire," retorted the doctor, as he
opened a book lying on the table before him, and put an end to the
dialogue. His companion quietly helped himself to a measure of pure gin,
and unclasped the covers of his richly-bound missal.
Scarcely, however, had their conversation ceased, when a hoarse hum of
many voices was heard in the direction of the sheds without, mingled
with shouts in all tongues and uproarious laughter.
"_Peste!_" said the doctor, looking out of an open window; "the people
have knocked off work and are coming home to their supper. They seem to
have brought some of the crew of the felucca with them too. We shall
have a loud night of it, for the captain has sent them a pipe of wine
and a barrel of rum to carouse with."
"_Pobre citos!_ they have had a hard time of it during the summer--short
of rum, and water too, I hear, and they need refreshment and repose. So
many of my poor flock killed, too, by that savage American corvette, and
I not near to administer the last consolations and holy rite!" sighed
the padre, as he kissed the crucifix and bowed his head. "There is
Lascar Joe, too, among the missing! He refused the sacrament, infidel as
he was, the day before he sailed; but what turtle-soup he made!" The
padre hereupon sighed deeply again, but whether for the loss of the
Lascar or the soup, no one knows.
The noise without increased--the rattle of crockery, the clinking of
glasses, the moving of feet, and all the sounds of hungry, boisterous
sailors at table. Soon, too, a shout or cheer would be heard, then a
verse of a song, roars of laughter, and now and then the tinkle of a
guitar struck by vigorous fingers in waltz or fandango.
"_Merci!_" muttered the doctor, as he looked compassionately at the sick
child on the bed; "those noisy wretches will, I fear, disturb the little
boy, and it's as hot here too, padre, as the place we all are going
to."
"It _is_ warm, my son!" he replied, as his thick unctuous lips parted
with a smile at his companion's allusion to another and a hotter place;
"but I think our good _capitano_ would have a cot slung for my little
priest in the saloon of the big building there. It is always cool on the
crag, you know."
"Ah! perhaps he will," said the doctor, reflectively; "I'll see about
it."
Stepping again to the bedside of the little sufferer, he laid a hand
gently on his forehead, where the soft curls lay in confusion about his
temples, and then quickly touching his pulse, he regarded him
attentively for a few moments, while at the same time a light glow of
perspiration came faintly over the innocent face and spread itself down
the neck.
"His fever is breaking! _Grace a Dieu!_" whispered the doctor to the
padre; "his breath is regular and cool, and he is sleeping sweetly. Now,
if you like, we will go to see the captain, and, if he consents, I will
carry the child when he wakes to the dwelling."
The doctor carefully closed the door of the room as he and his companion
stepped out into the open court-yard, and moved toward the spacious
sheds beyond.