_Gentlemen All_
"Look, you fool!" said the admiral, roughly, furious with rage at
being balked in this way, though, in spite of himself, his heart
exulted in the nobility of the man. "Look, you beggarly Irishman!" he
exclaimed, turning the surprised young man about before he could
recover himself,--"look on the picture of her whom you reject! Gaze
upon it! If you love her, say whether or no your high-flown sentiments
of honor can stand against that prospect." It was his final appeal,
win or lose; he had staked all upon the throw.
There in the great frame stood the most beautiful picture that the
eyes of either man had ever seen. Elizabeth was standing. One tiny
hand clutched tightly her heaving bosom; the other arm was stretched
out with upraised palm like a goddess in command. The light of the
flickering candles cast subtle shadows upon her face. The dusk of the
room intensified the illusion and spiritualized her beauty. O'Neill
looked at her with all his life in his gaze; so glorious, so splendid,
so perfect a creature would shake the very soul of honor itself!
The admiral had played his last card; this was the end of his
resource, and he watched the Irishman with all the intensity of a
tiger about to spring on its prey. The moments fled. He knew that he
had lost. Elizabeth had risen in the stress of her anxiety, the strain
had been too much for her; she had been about to intervene between
them, when the glances of the two men arrested her step. She waited,
one little foot outstretched, her body leaning forward slightly, a
picture of triumph, her eyes as two lambent flames playing upon her
lover. He watched her in awestruck silence, sank on his knees,
stretched out his arms, murmuring softly,--
"Thou knowest that I love thee. I have dreamed sometimes that in
happier days thou mightest have given me thy heart, but I could not
take it with a bar sinister of shame between us! No--" Was she moving!
Was that some trick of the wavering light!
"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill, fearfully, rising. "See--is it a
spirit? She shakes her head! Look you, my Lord, she is alive; the
picture fell last night, you remember-- 'Tis herself! Elizabeth,
Elizabeth, you have heard and seen--have I not decided well?"
"How dare you, my Lord!" exclaimed the girl, coming down from the dais
and stepping swiftly toward the astonished admiral, who shrank back
from her,--"how dare you make my hand the reward of treachery; my
person the bait for dishonor? And by what right do you dispose of me
without consulting me? Am I a slave, that you force me upon this
gentleman? My word is given to your son; you yourself insisted upon
it. You would play the traitor double, and would fain make him do the
same. And for what? To compass the death of one poor man to whom I owe
life and honor, who is only fighting for what he calls his freedom!
Shame upon your gray hairs, sir! Oh, the insult to my modesty--to be
thus bandied about between two men-- And you, sir!" she cried, in
tempestuous passion, turning to O'Neill,--"you do me the honor to
refuse me--to reject me--me--me--Elizabeth Howard--look at me--you
would have none of me--"
"My honor--" cried O'Neill, amazed at her sudden change and
inconsistency.
"Your honor--have I any honor, sir? Would you have left me a shadow of
it between you? Stand back, sir! My Lord, is it thus you discharge the
trust committed to you by my mother? To give this gentleman
opportunity to return to France, and say that he has refused my hand?"
"He shall not go back to France, Lady Elizabeth," said the admiral,
sternly.
"Why not, pray?" asked Elizabeth, faltering, her passionate anger
checked by the admiral's word and look.
"Because he shall be tried and hanged to-morrow as an American spy or
a captured traitor, whichever he may elect."
She stood as if petrified at these cruel words.
"It is right, sir," said O'Neill. "I submit; and if you would make me
die happy, say that the hideous proposition I have had from you was
but the test of my honor."
"Oh, sir!" cried Elizabeth, in agony, throwing herself upon her knees
before the admiral, "forgive me for my wild, intemperate speech; I
know not what I say. You have been a father to me from the beginning,
and I have ever loved you as one; I have turned to you for everything.
Unsay your cruel words! Retract this order! You cannot condemn this
honest gentleman. Dispose of me as you will. I love him--I love
him--ay, let the truth be heard--even for his rejection of me! Nay,
had he not done so, I would have hated him. Spare his life--I will
marry Edward, do anything you wish--grant me this boon!"
"I cannot," said the admiral, slowly; "I pity you, from my soul I do,
and him as well, but I dare not. There is but one thing that would
excuse my clemency to his Majesty--there is the alternative he has
nobly rejected: die he must, or give up his captain!"
"A thousand deaths rather than that!" answered O'Neill. "Rise, Lady
Elizabeth; your appeal is vain. Rejoicing in your approval of my
action, thankful to God that I have heard you say, 'I love you,' I
shall die happy."
"No, no!" said the girl, spreading her arms protectingly before him,
and then throwing herself upon his breast, "you cannot die--you shall
not die! Oh, my love, my love, I knew not until I heard you speak what
this feeling was. I cannot let you go! Surely, you would never be so
cruel as to part us now?" she cried brokenly, looking back at the
impassive old man; his hands were steady enough now,--they never
trembled but from shame. "What has he done? He came here to see
me,--me alone,--to take me in his arms as he holds me now; and you
condemn him to death for that! Did you never love when you were young?
They whispered that it was my mother who had your heart. They told me
that she was unhappy because they forced you apart. 'Twas to you she
confided me. Have pity, in her name, have mercy!"
"Enough!" said the admiral; "it is not that I will not, but I cannot.
He has chosen; he must die."
"Then may death come to me," said Elizabeth; "because, for all
eternity, I love him!"
"And this," broke in the cold, stern voice of Major Coventry, who had
entered the room at that moment, "is the welcome I receive from my
bride of to-morrow, and this is the reward of the efforts I have made
to secure the release of the Marquis de Richemont, my friend! May God
have pity on me,--my sweetheart and my friend!"
"Sir!" said O'Neill, brokenly, "I crave your forgiveness. I knew that
she was yours--I do not understand how we got into this position,"
passing his hand over his forehead in bewilderment; "but this I
know,--I am to die! There is no choice. She will yet be yours."
"Never--never!" cried Elizabeth, turning to him. "Edward, if you have
truly loved me,--if I have rightly estimated you, your nobility of
soul, your generosity of heart,--you will plead for us with your
father. You will give me up; you are too proud to take an unwilling
bride, and one who in spite of herself--for I have fought against it
for your sake--confesses that she loves another. You will intercede
with your father--I will bless you all the days of my life. Edward,
Edward, the companion of my childhood's hours--my friend--my
brother--my only hope is in you! Speak!" She fell at his feet and
clasped his hand, which she covered with kisses. There was another
silence. Coventry covered his face with his other hand; the sweat of
agony bedewed his brow.
"Rise, Elizabeth, you shall not put your trust in me in vain," he
cried hoarsely, at last. "Father, can nothing be done? I will not
stand in the way."
"My son--Lady Elizabeth--Lieutenant O'Neill--there is nothing that can
be done. My duty is perfectly clear. The only possible salvation of
the prisoner would be in the action which he has refused even to
consider; and, sir, if it were my duty to effect, if possible, the
capture of your captain and his ship through you, I can only say that
I am glad that I have failed. I apologize to you; you are a man of
honor, indeed, sir. I know few who would have resisted such a plea as
this. Say no more, Elizabeth, it is not that I will not--I cannot!
Edward, here is my seal. Make out the warrant for an order for a
court-martial to-morrow morning; it is a necessary form, of course.
The execution of Lieutenant O'Neill will follow at once." Elizabeth
did not faint,--no, not yet; there would be time for that later. She
clung to O'Neill and listened.
"What shall be the manner of my death, sir?" queried the latter.
"Hanging, sir. 'Tis the penalty prescribed by the law."
"It is a poor death for a man, my Lord, but 'twill serve. A last
request, sir. I am a sailor--may I be hanged upon a ship?" he asked
again, pressing the trembling woman to his breast.
"I grant that--would that I could grant more! Major Coventry, you will
direct Captain Pearson of the Serapis to execute the sentence of the
court, which will meet on his ship, the prisoner to be confined there
meanwhile. You will find the papers in the library; here is my seal;
hasten, and get the painful matter over." Coventry left the room at
once, in obedience to his orders.
"And at what time, sir, will the sentence be carried out?" asked
O'Neill, Elizabeth still clinging to him, covering him with incoherent
caresses, and fighting against despair.
"To-morrow evening at half after six o'clock."
"Very well, my Lord."
At this moment the old sergeant entered the room and saluted the
admiral.
"A French officer, wich he says he's from the American Continental
squadron, has come ashore in a small cutter, under a flag of truce,
an' desires to speak with your Lordship. He asks for a safe-conduct."
"Tell him he shall return as freely as he came, on the word of a
British officer, and admit him."
A slender, dapper little man, in the brilliant uniform of a French
marine officer, his head covered with a powdered wig, entered the room
a moment later, and bowed profoundly. Elizabeth started violently as
she beheld him.
"Whom have I the honor of addressing?" asked the admiral.
"The Vicomte de Chamillard, a colonel of marines in the navy of
France, serving as a volunteer in the American squadron," was the
reply.
"And you come on behalf of--"
"Captain John Paul Jones, to protest against your unlawful detention
of another French officer, the Marquis de Richemont, my Lord."
"He is a spy, caught in the very act: he has admitted it; and if that
were not enough, I find he is an attainted traitor. A court is ordered
for to-morrow morning on the Serapis; his execution, which will be
inevitable, is set for half after six o'clock in the evening; he shall
hang from one of the frigate's yard-arms."
"De Chamillard," said O'Neill, "you can do nothing."
"The laws of war--" persisted the Frenchman.
"It is in accordance with those laws that I do what I do," replied the
admiral, shortly; "and you may say to your captain that if I catch him
he shall swing from the first yard-arm that comes in the harbor."
"I am answered, then. Very good; I shall remember your courteous
words, my Lord; and now I enter my formal protest against this
unwarranted action on your part concerning the Marquis de Richemont.
The King of France will have something to say about it. I bid you
farewell."
"Farewell, sir," said the admiral, indifferently turning away.
"De Richemont, good-bye; embrace me." As the two men came together,
the Frenchman whispered, "This woman--is she your friend?"
"Yes," replied O'Neill, quickly.
"Mademoiselle," said De Chamillard, turning to Elizabeth with a keen
look in his eyes. Recognizing him at last, she stretched out her hand
to him. He murmured as he bent low over it, "Delay the execution for
at least six hours, and I will save him." Elizabeth sank down in her
chair, a gleam of hope in her heart.
"I salute you," he said, turning away.
"Sergeant," cried the admiral, "attend the Vicomte de Chamillard and
see him safely bestowed on his vessel."
As the Frenchman turned toward the door, he came face to face with
Major Coventry returning with the orders he had prepared.
"Paul Jones, by Heaven!" shouted the latter.
"At your service," said the supposed Frenchman, promptly tearing off
his wig and laying his hand on his sword.
"Ha!" cried the admiral. "Have you dared to come here! I have you now!
Call the guard! Sergeant, arrest this rebel--this traitor--this
pirate--disarm him! You shall never leave this castle but for the
ship, sir. The yard-arm is there."
"Stop, my Lord!" answered Jones, calmly, as the men crowded toward
him; "stand back, sergeant, back, men! You cannot touch me; I have
that which will protect me wherever flies the English flag."
"And that is--" said the admiral, smiling contemptuously.
"Your word, sir,--the word of an English officer."
The old man bit his lip in chagrined silence. He struggled with
himself, looking at the easy, _insouciant_ Scotsman before him.
"In seventy years it has not been broken," he said at last. "Well for
you that you secured it. Go! You are free! You are a bold man, sir,
but, I warn you, do not cross my path again."
"I am proud to have met so true a gentleman. Will you honor me?" said
Paul Jones, presenting his snuffbox to the admiral. The old man
hesitated, laughed in spite of himself, and finally helped himself to
a pinch.
"The d----d insolence of the man!" he exclaimed. "I'd like to have met
you in my young days, yard-arm to yard-arm."
"I would have endeavored to occupy you, sir," said Jones, coolly; "and
now I bid you farewell."
He shot one meaning glance at Elizabeth, and his lips seemed to form
the words "six hours," as he departed from the room.
"Here is the warrant, sir," said Coventry. "Again I ask, and this time
I ask my father, can nothing be done?"
"Nothing, sir, less as a father than in any other capacity. Sergeant,
take your prisoner. Major Coventry, you will conduct him on the
Serapis, and remain there as my representative until the execution is
over. Sir, you have borne yourself well this day; I would shake you by
the hand. Good-bye."
O'Neill clasped the proffered hand warmly, and then looked from
Coventry, standing erect, immovable, white-faced, to Elizabeth, who
was still sitting with bowed head, a world of entreaty in his glance.
Coventry nodded and turned away. O'Neill stepped quickly to the girl's
side, took her hand in his, bowed low over it, pressed a long kiss
upon it.
"May you be happy!" he said. "Farewell!" She looked at him in dazed
silence.
"Sir," he continued, turning back to Coventry, and saluting him, "I am
ready. Lead on."
"Forward, march, sergeant!" commanded the officer, hoarsely, and with
no backward look the little cortége moved from the room. The girl rose
to her feet as if to start after them, but the old man restrained her.
"O'Neill--O'Neill--" rang through the hall--a wild, despairing
cry--and then Lady Elizabeth sank down white and still at the feet of
the admiral.
"And this is love!" he murmured, shaking his old head; "I had
forgotten it."
BOOK III
ON THE VERGE OF ETERNITY
CHAPTER XIII
_A Desperate Move_
It was morning when Elizabeth came again to the terrace above the
water battery overlooking the harbor. She had passed a night of
sleepless agony, and her pallid face, with its haggard expression, the
great black circles under the eyes,--for her grief had been too deep
for tears,--gave outward evidence of her breaking heart. She had
besought the admiral again and again to stay the execution of her
lover, urging every plea that the most desperate mind could suggest;
she had implored his mercy and pity upon every ground, and upon his
inexorable refusal had begged that he might be reprieved for a few
hours, and that she might at least be allowed to see him before he
died. Touched by her sorrow, at first the old man had been inclined to
grant this petition, and had scribbled a line on his official paper,
giving the desired permission; but before he signed and sealed it, he
changed his mind, and deemed it best to refuse,--more merciful to her,
in fact.
It really wrung his heart to be unable to extend clemency to this
young man. He repented him of the temptation he had thrown in his way.
The nobility with which O'Neill had refused and rejected the chance of
life which had been offered him, the simplicity with which he had
given up everything for honor, impressed him more than ever. He was
sick at heart at the grief of his ward, whom he truly loved, and the
broken, despairing face of his son, since he had learned that
Elizabeth loved O'Neill, haunted him. He wished that the Irishman had
never come across his path, though he could not but admire his honor,
his grace, and his courage. He was bitterly sorry that he had ever
attempted to influence the man; he had an uncomfortable and growing
suspicion that his plans had brought nothing but trouble to every one.
Breaking away from the presence of Elizabeth, whose anguished face was
a living reproach to him, he finally secluded himself in his office
and refused to see her again.
So the day, like yesterday, wore away; but, oh, how differently! The
girl never knew how she passed the hours. She wandered restlessly up
and down the terrace, her eyes strained upon the sea. The garrison,
who idolized her to a man, had been apprised by the sergeant of what
had happened, and, to a man, they were upon her side. The men would
never forget the picture she made, as they watched her pacing to and
fro, ceaselessly gazing at the white ship in the harbor,--her lover's
prison, his scaffold even.
The sense of impotent helplessness with which she was compelled to
face the situation, the knowledge that O'Neill was doomed absolutely,
that there was nothing that she could do or say which would alter the
decision, was terrible. She had been accustomed to have her will, and
like most women loved it. Now she had to stand by in the bright
sunlight with all the strength of life and youth and love in her veins
and in his, and see her lover choked to death--hanged like a dog--at
the black yard-arm of that great ship yonder.
And for what? Womanlike, she put aside every thought of him but that
he had dared death itself only to see her, to be in her presence
again! Oh, how splendid, how handsome, how noble he had been in the
great hall, when he had refused her rather than to take her as the
reward of treachery! and now he was to become a lifeless lump of clay,
alive to her only as a memory, a recollection--how cruel! She could
not, she would not, stand it. She racked her brain over and over. Was
there nothing? No--
It was late in the afternoon. Her maid had not been able to drag her
from the terrace whence she had a view of the ship on which her lover
was to be executed,--murdered, she said. As she gazed upon it, she
noticed two men climbing nimbly up the black shrouds about the
foremast. When they reached the foreyard, they ran out on the
yard-arm. One of them carried something. A rope was dragging from it.
In obedience to an imperious command, her maid ran and fetched her a
glass. One look through it showed her--she was a sailor's ward--that
they were rigging a whip on the yard-arm, they were securing there a
girt-line block through which a rope was rove, leading to the top and
thence to the deck. She divined at once its hideous purpose. The hour!
The hour! Had it grown so late? Was it so near, so near? Was there a
God in that blue heaven bending above her head? Could such things be?
A sick feeling came over her heart, and she would have fainted but for
a sudden inspiration. Again she seized the telescope,--an unusually
strong one, by the way,--and raising it to her eyes with unsteady
hand, eagerly swept the sea off in the direction of Flamborough Head,
rising faintly down to the southward, a long distance away. For a long
time her nervous, trembling hands could not get that part of the
horizon in focus. She finally knelt down and rested the tube upon the
parapet, breathing a prayer as she did so, and looked again.
Ah! At last she had it, and there swept into the field of vision three
gleams of white on the skyline, proclaiming, even to her unpractised
eye, the sails of ships! What had that indomitable man said to her
last night in the hall?
"Delay the execution for at least six hours, and I will save him!" He
was not one to promise lightly. She would try again. The telescope
fell with a crash at her feet.
She would make one more appeal to the admiral; it was late, but there
might yet be time. On the instant she turned, leaving the startled
maid, and ran like a fleet-footed fawn along the terrace, down the
stone steps through the water battery, through the bailey, into the
inner court, down the long passage, and into the great hall of the
night before, where the admiral was usually to be found at this hour.
She dashed impetuously into the room, crying,--
"The admiral, quick! where is he?"
"Ships has been reported down at Bridlin'ton Bay,--furrin ships, yer
Leddyship," replied the old sergeant, who happened to be there alone,
"an' his Ludship took horse about half-past twelve o'clock to go down
there."
Failure! Her last hope gone! She sank down into the chair. Reaction
had come; she was fainting, helpless, dying. It was over! The sergeant
started toward her, his face full of pity. She was sitting in the
admiral's chair, by the great table. Her glance fell listlessly upon
it. At the moment another idea flashed into her mind. Desperate,
foolish, nevertheless, she would try it--try anything; this, at least,
was action. She started to her feet again on the instant, instinct
with life.
"Leave me at once, and see that no one interrupts me; I wish to be
alone," she said imperiously to the astonished sergeant, who bowed
respectfully and withdrew. A half an hour later she came hurriedly out
of the room, white-faced, drawn, nerved up to desperate endeavor.
How he got through the night, O'Neill never knew. The court-martial in
the morning had taken little time; its sentence, a foregone
conclusion, promptly approved by the admiral, had been death by
hanging at half after six o'clock that night. He had refused to give
any further parole, in the faint hope that something might enable him
to escape, and consequently had been heavily ironed and placed in
confinement in the space between two of the great guns on the lower
gun-deck--the Serapis was a double-banked frigate--on the starboard
side. The forethought of Coventry, who had attended him with the
solicitude and kindness of a brother, and had pleaded for him
unavailingly before the court, had caused a canvas screen to be
provided, which enclosed two of the guns, and allowed him to pass his
hours undisturbed by the curious gaze of the English seamen. An armed
marine stood always as sentry before the screen.
Captain Pearson, a gallant officer, had been kindness itself in all
his arrangements, but his orders, which were peremptory, left him no
discretion whatever. O'Neill passed his time sitting by the open port,
leaning on a gun, gazing out over the water at the gray old castle
where he had found his love and met his fate. Many tragedies had been
enacted within its walls during long centuries of history--none sadder
than his own.
It would have been foolish to say that he had no regrets. No one could
think of the possibilities of happiness presented by such a love as
that which he was now assured Elizabeth felt for him, without a sense
of despair coming over the mind in the knowledge they were not to be
enjoyed; but he was a sailor, and generations of heroic ancestors had
accustomed him to look death in the face, and smile undaunted at its
harsh, forbidding appearance.
"_Fortune_, _Infortune_, _Fortune_" had been the motto of his branch
of the red-handed O'Neills; at least that was the punning Latin
translation of a Celtic original which meant, "Fortune and misfortune
are alike to the strong."
When his friends and acquaintances at the French court, those knights
and ladies with whom he had ruffled it so bravely, the young king, his
master, his old comrades, the hard fighters on the Richard, her
dauntless captain, that brave old man, his father, heard how he died,
they would learn that he had met the last grim enemy with the wonted
intrepidity of his race. _Noblesse oblige!_ and then having made his
peace with God as best he could alone,--he was of a different faith
from that of the chaplain of the ship,--he gave himself over to
mournful dreams of Elizabeth Howard.
Late in the afternoon his meditations were interrupted by the arrival
of Coventry. The poignant unhappiness of the young Englishman was, if
anything, greater than that of O'Neill. His engagement to Elizabeth
Howard, with whom he had grown up, had been at first more or less a
matter of convenience, and he had never entirely realized the hold
she had taken upon his heart, until he heard her--in the arms of
O'Neill--make that frantic avowal of her overwhelming passion. Men
frequently do not know the value of what they have--until they lose
it.
Coventry's heart had been surcharged with love and devotion to this
woman, and because his life had glided on evenly he had not known how
full of love it was until he had been so shaken that it had
overflowed. He would, he thought, cheerfully have taken the other's
place, sentence of death and all, could he hear but once before he
died the ringing accents of such a sublime confession--and for
himself. His love for the woman of his choice was of the most exalted
character, and might well, were merit or fitness alone to be
considered in such a case, have claimed her own deepest feelings in
return.
When Elizabeth had appealed to him to intervene, with a magnanimity as
rare as it was noble, he had subordinated his happiness to her own,
and had endeavored to procure a mitigation of the punishment imposed
upon his rival, though he knew his success would throw his promised
wife into the arms of O'Neill. He had not done this without a terrible
struggle,--it was a gray-faced, broken man who looked upon the world
of to-day, in place of the smiling youth of the night before,--but he
had done it. He felt that the sacrifice would cost him his life, and
for that he was truly glad, yet he had offered it freely, generously,
and nobly. He had not hesitated to do so, for with him the happiness
of Elizabeth Howard was the paramount passion.
If she did not love him, he could at least show her what love truly
meant in its highest sense; give her a lesson in love like to the
lesson in honor that other man had exhibited last night. For her he
stood ready to give up everything; his own future he did not allow to
weigh a moment in the balance beside hers.
There was something grandly sublime in this utter abnegation of self,
so simply done for another's happiness. Coventry had been a Christian
after a rather better fashion, perhaps, than most young men of his
time; his associations with the sweet, pure girl he loved had kept him
so. All his people for generations had been Churchmen; this seemed to
him to be the right thing to do, the thing demanded of a gentleman;
the greatest Gentleman of them all, who had shown His breeding on a
Cross, had set the example of self-sacrifice. A sentence quoted by the
chaplain in the service a few days before, which had struck his fancy,
ran in his head; he had a good memory.
"_I will very gladly spend and be spent for you; though the more
abundantly I love you, the less I be loved_."
Yes, that was it.
At the first moment, when he found last night that his pleadings were
of no avail, and that O'Neill was doomed to die, his heart had leaped
in his breast at the thought that his rival would be removed; but he
had crushed the thought as unworthy a gentleman of his high ideals;
and there had come to him, in addition, a consciousness that to a love
like Elizabeth Howard's the death of a beloved would make no change.
Such passions come but once in a lifetime, and when they arrive they
are as eternal as the stars. He had given her up, and she belonged, in
life or death, to another. A glance at his own anguished heart enabled
him to feel for her. Time would not soften a blow to a nature like to
hers.
In the execution of O'Neill, Coventry saw the death-warrant of
Elizabeth. He had passed the day racking his brain and thinking of
some way to delay the execution, but without avail. He would have
stopped at nothing to save them both. In despair he had come to
consult with his rival.
CHAPTER XIV
_Almost the End_
"I am glad to see you, my friend," said O'Neill, smiling at him in a
melancholy way.
"Would God that I could see you in any place but this!" answered the
young Englishman.
"Ah, yes!" replied O'Neill, his eyes brightening; "then we might fight
it out, man to man, sword to sword, and--"
"Not so," mournfully replied Coventry. "The battle has been fought,
and you have won again. Whether you live or die, Elizabeth Howard is
not for me."
"My poor friend, may the day upon which I crossed your paths be
accursed! I have brought to each of you nothing but sorrow," replied
the young sailor, sadly, touched at the other's surrender.
"It was fate, O'Neill. Do not reproach yourself with that. All day
long I have been striving to think of some means to delay this
accursed execution, until I could communicate with the king. An appeal
to his clemency might--but no--I see no way, nothing, unless--you
know--" he hesitated and hung his head, blushing painfully.
"No more of that, if you love me, Coventry," said O'Neill, gravely
"Put yourself in my place! Could you do it? Ah, you shake your head,
you see! Neither could I, not even to purchase heaven." There was a
long pause between them.
"O'Neill," said the Englishman at last, "would that I could take your
place!"
"But you cannot, Major Coventry," replied the other, gratefully. "You
honor me in the thought; but if you could, I should refuse to allow
it. You are the better man; all my life I have been a gay, reckless,
pleasure-seeking soldier of fortune, with never a serious purpose
until now, and now it is too late! You are the worthy one, and you
must live to watch over, to care for her whom we both love.
Perhaps--surely--in days to come she will forget; time, absence, you
know--she will reward your devotion, she must--you will be happy--"
His voice broke, and he turned away his face and looked out of the
open port. Coventry shook his head.
"You know her not, sir. She is not for me, nor would I take her loving
you; my love is too deep for that--nor would she come. She will never
forget you." O'Neill's heart leaped at this assurance.
The ship's bell on the deck above them struck four times; it was six
o'clock! There was a little silence within the screen.
"The hour approaches," said O'Neill, softly, at last. "I would be
alone for a few moments before--you understand?"
"Yes," said the other, rising and pressing his hand. "Have you nothing
to say, no message to send to--" he asked magnanimously.
"Nothing--nothing--'tis best so. You will come for me at the time?"
"Yes, and I will stand by you to the end, like a soldier."
"You do me great honor," replied the other, thankfully. Coventry
looked at him a moment, shook his head, and turned away.
In the prayers of the young Irishman the face of the girl he loved
would obtrude itself. It seemed but a moment before he heard the tramp
of armed men coming along the deck. They stopped before the screen. It
was opened, and Coventry, pale as death, presented himself at the
opening; the screen was promptly folded back; there were marines fully
armed before it, the chaplain, too, in the white robes of his office.
"I am ready, gentlemen," said O'Neill, calmly. "May I not go to my
death unbound?" he asked.
At a nod from Coventry, the master-at-arms unlocked the fetters about
his feet and hands. The prisoner took his place in the midst of the
little squad of men, and ascended to the spar-deck. The ship's company
of marines was drawn up aft on the quarter-deck. Most of the seamen of
the crew were arranged in orderly ranks in the starboard gangway.
Forward a grating had been rigged on the bulwarks under the port
fore-yard-arm. A new rope led from the grating, up through the block
in the yard-arm, came inboard to another block under the top, and
thence through a block fixed to the deck. Some sixty or seventy men
chosen by lot from the ship's company had hold of the rope which was
led aft along the port gangway. In front of the marines stood Captain
Pearson and his officers in full uniform. The prisoner was halted
before him.
"Are you aware, sir," said the captain, gravely, "that the hour for
the carrying out of the sentence of the court approaches?"
"Yes, sir," answered O'Neill, courteously.
"Have you anything to say before that time?"
"I have to thank you all for your kindness to me, nothing else, sir."
"Allow me, sir," said the captain, "to assure you of the great
personal distaste and regret I feel at being compelled to take this
action."
"Your feelings do you honor, sir," replied O'Neill, gravely; "but it
is a matter of duty. Pray, proceed."
"Captain Pearson," said Coventry, in great agitation, "can nothing be
done to delay this execution a few hours? There are considerations,
sir, in my possession, which I feel sure would incline his Majesty,
could he be communicated with, to extend clemency to this
gentleman,--circumstances which--"
"Are these circumstances within the knowledge of Lord Westbrooke,
Major Coventry?" answered the captain, surprised at the unusual nature
of the interruption.
"They are, sir."
"Have you mentioned them to him? Have you called his attention
specifically to them, I mean?"
"Yes, sir, I have," answered the soldier, reluctantly.
"And they have evidently not influenced him, you see. Therefore I fail
to see how I can permit them to weigh with me."
"But a delay, sir, of a day, of an hour even, until I can communicate
with the admiral again! For God's sake, sir, do not hang this
gentleman like--"
"Major Coventry, you are a soldier, and should not make such an
appeal. I have my orders. You have shown me no cause to disregard
them; I cannot take it upon myself to do so. I dare not!"
"But an hour, sir, until I--"
"Not a moment! At five bells they must be carried out," said the
captain, inflexibly. "No more, sir," he added, as Coventry made an
impetuous step forward. "I have indulged you too long already. Mr.
Pascoe, take the prisoner forward."
"It is useless, Coventry. Why prolong this agony longer? You have done
what you could. I thank you and bless you," said O'Neill, as they
walked along the deck to the place of the grating.
"Will you please to step up here, sir?" said Pascoe, the first
lieutenant of the Serapis, who had the matter in charge, pointing to
the grating on the rail as they came abreast of it.
"It is a fair and easy place from which to step to heaven, sir, or to
the other place as well," said the Irishman, smiling, as he stepped on
the rail. "I pray you to tell your men to start me on my way with a
quick pull and a swift run." Pascoe nodded in comprehension. This
would be a case in which speed would be merciful.
A boatswain's mate now stepped up beside the prisoner, and bound his
feet and hands with a lashing. A hangman's knot had been made by
expert fingers in the rope leading from the yard-arm, and the running
noose was quickly cast about O'Neill's neck.
"The collar of an ancient order, this," observed O'Neill, still
smiling. "And now one last request, sir," he added, turning to the
lieutenant.
"And that is?"
"Throw away that black cap, sir. Let me go with my eyes open." The
lieutenant hesitated a moment. The whole ship's company was filled
with admiration for the intrepid and gallant Irishman.
"Do it, for God's sake, Pascoe!" whispered Coventry, springing up
alongside O'Neill and the sailor, who, to avoid him, stepped back and
stood on the rail by the fore shrouds.
"What are you doing there, Major Coventry?" answered Pascoe.
"Nothing. I promised to stand by him to the last," replied Coventry.
The officer hesitated a moment, and then threw the cap into the water.
"I thank you," said O'Neill, huskily. "How much time is there?"
"About two minutes, I think," said the lieutenant, nervously.
"You will run away with the fall at the first or last stroke of the
bell?"
"The last, sir."
"No more," said O'Neill to Coventry, turning his face in the direction
of the shore. The deep voice of the white-robed priest alone broke the
silence,--
"'_Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not Thy
merciful ears to our prayer; but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most
mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour, Thou most worthy Judge eternal,
suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death, to fall from
Thee_.'"
Out on the water a white-sailed little boat was speeding swiftly
toward them. There was a woman in it. The eyes of love, even in the
presence of death, are keen, perhaps even keener then than ever. It
was Elizabeth Howard. O'Neill recognized her at once. Good heavens!
Why had she come here? She would arrive in time to see him swinging
lifeless from the yard-arm,--a hideous sight for any woman. He could
not take his eyes from her.
"See!" he whispered to Coventry, "that boat yonder; she is there."
"My God!" said the officer. "What shall we do?"
"Nothing; 'tis too late."
"She has something in her hand," cried Coventry. "What can it be?"
"Forward, there!" cried the captain, watch in hand. "Strike the bell
five!"
The mellow tones of the first couplet of the ship's bell rang out in
obedience to the command. The hour was come! It was his death signal,
but O'Neill never turned his head from the approaching boat. The old
quartermaster struck the bell deliberately, lingering over it
reluctantly; a little shiver ran through the men.
"Stand by!" shouted the lieutenant, in a voice he strove in vain to
make firm. "Make a quick jerk and a lively run, lads, for God's sake!"
The men grasped the rope more firmly, sprang into position for the
jump. The next couplet was struck on the bell. The boat was nearer
now. Coventry saw that the woman waved something that looked like a
paper in her hand. The last stroke of the bell rang out on the
breathless, silent ship.
"Set taut!" cried the lieutenant, hoarsely. The men leaped forward
instantly to the shrill piping of the boatswain and his mate. "Sway
away!" he cried.
The tightened rope caught the Irishman by the throat. A lightning
flash seemed to cleave the skies: he saw, as in a vision, a great hall
hung with arras, a picture frame, a woman radiant, beautiful, her eyes
shining; an upraised hand; like silver bells a voice murmured, "I love
him, I love him." She moved--ah, a gigantic hand caught him by the
throat; he strove to cry out; it clutched him tighter and tighter;
blackness like a pall fell before him, shutting out the smiling
face--death--agony--he saw no more--he swung into the air and was
nothing.
The quick eye of Major Coventry had detected, at last, what the girl
was waving.
"That paper," he cried frantically, as the last bell struck. "It must
be a reprieve; the admiral has relented."
Was it too late? Quick as thought he snatched the sheath knife from
the belt of the sailor near him. It was too late to stop the men on
the rope, even had he possessed the power; but as O'Neill rose in the
air, he caught him around the waist, and with one rapid blow severed
the straining rope above his head. Assisted at once by the sailor
alongside of him, they lowered the bound, unconscious man upon the
deck beneath them. It was all done in the twinkling of an eye. The men
on the ship broke out in ringing cheers.
The rope, being relieved of the weight of the body, of course ran
rapidly through the block, and the men hauling it pitched pell-mell
over themselves upon the deck. There was a moment of intense
excitement. The seamen on the other side of the deck, cheering wildly,
started eagerly forward; the officers, sword in hand, sprang in front
of them, driving them back. The marine officer aft brought his men at
once to attention with a sharp word or two, and every piece was made
ready in case of disturbance. Pearson, white with rage at the
interruption, leaped forward.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who has dared to interfere
in this manner?"
"I, sir," replied Coventry, fearlessly, looking up from his place by
the unconscious man.
"And by what right, sir?" cried the enraged captain. "Though you be
the son of the admiral, you shall dearly rue this unwarranted
assumption of authority. What excuse have you to offer for
interrupting the sentence of a court-martial? What reason can you urge
for your presumption?"
"Boat ahoy!" cried a seaman stationed at the port gangway.
"Sir," said Coventry, quietly meeting the eye of the thoroughly
infuriated captain, "if I mistake not, you will find my excuse in that
boat."
"Well for you, sir, if it be there! Never, in my twenty years of
service, have I been so braved, and on my own ship, too. See what boat
it is," said the captain, turning to one of his midshipmen, "and find
out what is wanted." The lad came running back presently, and saluted.
"'Tis a lady, sir,--the governor's ward,--Lady Elizabeth Howard; she
wishes to come on board," he said.
"Lady Elizabeth Howard! This is no place for women; this man is still
to be hanged. What can she wish?" exclaimed the captain, frowning.
"Receive her at once, sir, I beg," said Coventry. "She has a
paper,--my excuse, sir," he added, smiling.
"Show her on board," said the captain, shortly, to the midshipman.
Then he looked down on the still, unconscious form of O'Neill. "Send a
surgeon here at once, sir," he continued; and as the latter presented
himself, "Is the man dead?" he asked.
"No, sir," said the surgeon, examining him hastily, and making ready
to apply some necessary restoratives, for which he despatched an
assistant to the sick-bay.
"Get him in shape, then, and quickly, for another attempt; for hang he
shall, if he has to be held up for it," ordered the captain, sternly.
At this moment the midshipman, followed by Lady Elizabeth, pale as
death, a blue boat cloak, which belonged to her guardian, which she
had caught up in the castle, fluttering in the breeze, her hat gone,
her hair dishevelled, her hand clutching a paper, broke through the
little group.
"Captain Pearson, where is he?" she cried nervously; then, as her eyes
fell on the prostrate form of O'Neill, she dropped the paper to the
deck, covered her face with her hands, and rocked to and fro in agony.
"Oh, my love, my love! Too late! too late!" she wailed, faltering.
"Not so, madam," said the captain, turning toward her. "The man still
lives, the surgeon assures me. He has but fainted. Have you a warrant
to stop the execution? If not, it must go on, and it shall go hard
with Major Coventry as well."
"The prisoner is reprieved, sir; here is the paper," said Elizabeth,
life coming back to her, "sealed and signed by the admiral himself.
Oh, I had it a moment since--where has it gone?"
"Here it is, your Ladyship," said one of the officers, lifting it from
the deck and handing it to her.
"There!" she said, presenting it to the captain. He opened it
deliberately and glanced over the brief contents. She watched him with
a nervousness she vainly attempted to conceal. Meanwhile the doctor
had succeeded in rousing O'Neill. The first glance of his eye fell on
Elizabeth, and nothing else he saw.
"Heaven and the angels!" he murmured faintly, not yet comprehending
the position.
"It seems to be made out properly and duly signed and sealed," said
the captain, slowly,--"a reprieve for the prisoner until further
notice, and permission for the bearer to see him alone," he added
suspiciously. There was a little pause. He turned the paper over in
his hand, and looked sharply at the girl.
"The admiral chooses a strange messenger," he added. "I cannot say if
this be regular or no. His handwriting is unfamiliar to me. I do not
recognize this; you say you had it from him, madam?"
Elizabeth could not trust herself to speak; she only bowed. There was
evidently something very suspicious to the captain in the whole
proceeding. The signature did not seem just right.
"Ah! I have it--Major Coventry!" he cried suddenly.
That miserable young man, sick at heart, had shrunk into the
background since Elizabeth had come aboard, and the girl had not seen
him before. He had felt that his work was done when she appeared; but,
no, he was to find out that his troubles had but just begun.
"Oh!" she cried, as he stepped forward, clutching him wildly by the
arm, a look of terror in her eyes, as she added, in a whisper, "not
you--I had forgotten you--we are lost!" In the bitter knowledge that
she had forgotten him, he overlooked the clue to her action furnished
by her last words.
"Here is a reprieve from the admiral," said the captain. "It seems to
be correct, and yet--will you look over it and give me your opinion?
you are familiar with his writing, at any rate. My Lady, forgive the
questioning, but the matter is most serious, and I must be absolutely
assured."
"Here is the paper, Edward," said Elizabeth, desperately, taking it
from the captain's outstretched hand. "Is not that the writing of the
admiral?" she added entreatingly, and then clasping her hands, she
looked at him with all her soul in her eyes and waited, full of
apprehension. A word, and he hanged her lover, and incidentally, but
surely, killed her; a word, and he set them free! What the
consequences to himself of his decision might be, with the sublime
egotism of love for another, she neither knew nor questioned. Coventry
gave a brief glance at the document; he saw what was expected of him;
his life or her happiness trembled in the balance; true to his
determination, he did not hesitate a moment. In that glance of a
single second he realized the truth, which he had more than suspected
before.
"It is," he replied briefly and indifferently aloud. A little prayer
to God for forgiveness leaped within his heart at the falsehood. He
had connived at her deceit, failed in his soldierly duty, broken his
honor--for this woman. The reputation of a lifetime of loyal service
to his king, the honorable record of years of devotion to duty had
been thrown away in a moment for her. He had sacrificed more than life
itself for his love--and she loved another! He turned the paper over
in his hand and then quietly returned it to the captain. He said no
other word, he scarcely even looked at Elizabeth. He could not trust
his own gaze. There might be reproach in it. And he would fain make
the sacrifice like a gentleman at least.
"Thank God--thank God--" whispered Elizabeth, under her breath; and
the look of gratitude she flashed at him would have gone far to repay
even a greater sacrifice--perhaps.
The keen captain was not yet satisfied, however.
"You wished to release him yourself, I remember," he said uncertainly.
"I am by no means persuaded that--but it is impossible for me to
proceed now until I have seen the admiral. Take the prisoner below,"
he said to the guard, "and allow Lady Elizabeth to see him alone. Mr.
Pascoe, tell the boatswain to pipe down, and call the watch."
CHAPTER XV
_A Soldier and a Gentleman_
Accompanied by the marine guard, and leaning upon the arms of the
surgeon and Coventry, who tenderly assisted his faltering steps,
O'Neill was taken below, followed by Elizabeth, scarcely yet
comprehending what had happened. The girl's heart was exulting madly.
So far she had triumphed. What next? When they reached the little
screened enclosure between the guns, in which O'Neill had been
confined, the guard saluted and released the prisoner. He had not been
ironed again, and by some oversight no one, in the confusion following
the reprieve, called attention to it. As he stepped within the screen,
and Elizabeth prepared to follow him, Coventry interrupted her by
holding out his hand with a mute glance. Was she going to pass him by
without a single word of gratitude, of farewell even?
"Oh!" she said, with unconscious cruelty which pierced his heart, for
this was the second time, "I forgot you." And then, as if repenting
for the situation, and to make amends for that forgetfulness, which
was, to say the least, most ungrateful, in spite of the presence of
the seamen and marines, she seized his hand, drew him toward her, and
pressed a long, sweet kiss upon his forehead.
"God bless you for what you did," she whispered.
"What you do, do quickly," he replied. "I will replace the sentry;
you will be safe. God grant you may succeed. 'Twas bravely done;
good-bye."
"Good-bye; we shall not forget you," she said hurriedly, withdrawing
within the screen. And this was the only reward he received for his
sacrifice. By his direction the sentry on guard withdrew to the
opposite side of the deck, and he himself mounted guard in front of
the canvas. With what feelings he paced to and fro in front of that
little strip of cloth which alone separated him from the woman he
loved, in the arms of the man who loved her--and he had put her there!
As soon as she entered the enclosure, Elizabeth threw herself in the
arms of the bewildered O'Neill.
"Oh!" she whispered, "you are saved--saved--and through me!"
"No, dearest, not yet," replied he, straining her to his heart and
kissing her fondly. "I scarcely yet understand it all; but if I heard
aright, 'tis but a reprieve until to-morrow; build no hope upon it."
"We will not wait for the morrow, my dearest," she answered softly,
"for the boat swings under the counter yonder. When night falls and it
is quite dark, we will slip out of the port and go away together; in a
few moments it will be time."
The Irishman caught eagerly at the suggested idea. It was full of
improbability, but it did present a bare possibility of escape if they
were fortunate.
"Very good," he whispered, "excellent; but the sentry there?"
"We will wait until there is some bustle on the deck," she answered,
"and in the confusion and noise they will not hear; at any rate, we
must risk it." Something told her she would better not inform him that
Coventry was keeping watch.
"How did you prevail upon the admiral to grant the reprieve?" he
asked, after another pause, not unemployed, however.
"I--well, you see--oh, I scarcely know how; the admiral loves me, you
know--I cannot explain it. It seems like a bewildering, frightful
dream to me," said the girl, passing her hand over her hair and
turning a shade paler as she spoke, and studiously avoiding his eye.
"Do not speak of it now. You are safe for the moment--you saw the
paper--Edward also--it was all right. Let that suffice."
He soothed her with tender words and loving caresses; the sound of
them was death to the pale-faced young man, alone with his own broken
thoughts on the other side of the screen. Unheeded the night came
stealing over the harbor, lights in the town twinkled here and there,
the boatswain's whistle rang out between decks on the frigate. There
was a call, a hoarse cry or two, a hurrying of feet, a little
confusion.
"Now is the time," said Elizabeth, releasing herself from his
unwilling arms, and looking out through the port. "The man is
watching; I met him on the strand as I was seeking for a boat to bring
me out to you. He is faithful; he says he knows you--has served under
you."
"Knows me!" said O'Neill, surprised, thrusting his head through the
open port. There, right beneath him, a little skiff was being brought
up deftly and without noise, from where it had lain unnoticed under
the counter, in the confusion since the girl's arrival. The side of
the ship was in deep shadow, and the broad main chains extending over
their heads, above the ports, further concealed them from notice.
Gathering her skirts about her, Elizabeth slipped first through the
port. O'Neill held her firmly until the man below lifted her gently
into the stern of the boat. Noiselessly, and as quickly as possible,
O'Neill followed her. By Elizabeth's direction, he lay down in the
bottom of the boat, and she covered him entirely with her boat cloak.
The man in the bows, whom O'Neill had not recognized in the shadow,
and who had said nothing, slowly worked the boat back under the
counter again; then, with a strong thrust, shoved her clear of the
ship. The flooding tide carried them slowly away. In a few moments he
cautiously got out his oars, and by a very gentle pulling added a
little to the way of the boat.
The ear of the watchful Coventry had at once apprised him of their
departure. He could scarcely resist the temptation to enter the
screen,--to call them back that he might see her once again. But he
had duty to do. So soon as he was persuaded that they had left the
ship, he called the sentry from the opposite side of the deck, and
told him to mount guard again, and on no account to disturb the
prisoners. Then he ran rapidly up to the quarter-deck, and made his
way aft to the marine on guard there. The man was looking out into the
darkness at a dark blur on the water,--a boat; two figures could be
distinguished in it, one of them a woman; Coventry saw them at once,
and as he looked they disappeared,--the last sight of her, he thought
bitterly. The marine had just opened his mouth to give the alarm, when
the clear voice of the officer rang in his ear.
"Sentry!" said Coventry. The man instinctively sprang to attention at
once, and for the moment forgot the boat.
"Have you seen any signals from the castle?"
"No, sir; but I seen a little boat off there that looked suspicious
like."
"Whereabouts did you see it?"
"There, sir, right off there."
"No," said Coventry, straining his eyes through the darkness. "There
is no boat there. You have been mistaken, I think," he added
indifferently, his gaze still fixed on the place where they had
drifted away and disappeared. He knew what was coming, since they had
gone. He must pay for it, so he leaned on the rail and waited. A few
moments later, a large barge, full manned, darted out of the darkness,
coming toward the ship. Coventry knew what it was, of course.
"Boat ahoy!" shouted the watchful sentry at the gangway.
"Flag," was the answer, as the admiral dashed alongside. Almost before
the officer of the watch could reach the gangway the old man clambered
to the deck.
"Good-evening, sir," he said, in response to the former's salutation.
"Captain Pearson?"
"I have sent for him, my Lord," replied the officer, and the next
moment the captain himself came bustling out of the darkness to do
honor to the old admiral.
"Ah, Captain Pearson, good-evening."
"Good-evening to your Lordship."
"The prisoner I sent off--he has been duly executed, I presume?"
"Why, no, sir!" said the captain, alarmed at this confirmation of his
suspicions. "We were about ready to carry out the sentence; the
command to sway aloft had been given, in fact, when we received your
reprieve."
"My reprieve!" said the admiral, in great surprise. "What mean you? I
sent no reprieve."
"Sir, sir!" cried the astonished captain. "It was brought here by your
ward, Lady Elizabeth Howard."
"Elizabeth! Good God!" cried the old man, starting violently. "Her
maid said she was ill--she must have--did you inspect it carefully,
sir?" he asked, checking himself.
"Yes, my Lord. It seemed to be all right; but the whole proceeding was
so irregular and unlike you that I called upon--"
"Where is the paper?" cried the admiral, interrupting impatiently.
"I have just sent to fetch it, sir."
They waited in silence, until a midshipman placed it in the hand of
the admiral. Pascoe held a light while the old man seized it,
scrutinized it eagerly, and handed it back to the captain.
"This," he said slowly, "is a forgery. You should have disregarded it,
sir."
"'Twas passed upon by your son and aide, Major Coventry, my Lord,"
replied the captain, shortly.
"How! Edward! Where is he?"
"Here, my Lord," said the young man, stepping forward, pale as death,
and saluting.
"Did you examine this paper, sir?"
"I did, sir."
"You knew it was a forgery?"
"Yes, sir."
"And yet you declared it to be correct?"
"I did, sir."
"For what purpose?"
"Will you direct these others to retire out of hearing, Captain
Pearson?" said Coventry, indicating the officer of the watch, the
midshipman, and all of the others; and when his request had been
complied with, he added: "'Twas to save the honor of your ward, my
Lord, to insure happiness to the woman I love more than life, to
effect the escape of the man upon whom that happiness depended."
"Have you dared, sir," said the admiral, furious with rage, "to thus
derange my plans and disregard my orders, to thwart me, to interfere
between a duly constituted court and its prisoner?" He stamped his
foot and looked fiercely at his son.
"Me as well," said the captain; "upon the deck of my own ship--to put
this dishonor upon me."
"The prisoner!" cried the admiral, impetuously. "Have him brought on
deck at once, Captain Pearson."
"But your ward, my Lord; she is with him," said the captain.
"Bring her too, then," the old man answered passionately.
"But the crew--the men--not before them all!" said Coventry, striving
to gain time.
"Before Heaven itself the offence was given," said the admiral, losing
all control over himself in his fury, "and the punishment shall have
equal publicity." The midshipman who had hastened below now came
running on deck in terror.
"There's no one there, my Lord; they've gone, escaped, sir!" he cried.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Pearson.
"Escaped!" said the admiral, turning to the captain. "Had you no
sentry to watch them, sir?"
"Yes, my Lord, certainly," said Pearson.
"Let him be tried and shot forthwith, then, for gross neglect of duty
in permitting--"
"My Lord, the sentry is innocent," interrupted Coventry; "I replaced
him; I alone am guilty."
"Worse and worse! You knew they escaped, sir?" said the admiral.
"I did; 'twas to prevent discovery I took his place," replied his son,
bowing. Captain Pearson opened his mouth to speak, but his superior
silenced him with a wave of his hand.
A bitter fight raged in the old man's bosom, but he saw his duty, and
knew it must be done. There was a long and awful pause. When the
admiral spoke again it was in an altered tone; he had regained his
self-control.
"Captain Pearson," he said slowly and deliberately, in a strained and
unnatural voice, "let the court-martial which passed judgment upon the
prisoner be re-convened at once to try Major Edward Coventry for
disobedience of orders in time of war, and for aiding and abetting the
escape of an enemy, and for knowingly declaring a forged order,
purporting to bear my signature, to be correct,--in short, for conduct
unbecoming an officer and a gentleman."
"Surely not that last, my Lord," said Coventry, impulsively raising
his hand in deprecation.
The admiral hesitated, looked long and earnestly at his handsome son.
"You may leave off the part about conduct unbecoming an officer and a
gentleman, Pearson," he answered.
"Thank you, sir," said Coventry, gratefully.
"Good heavens, my Lord!" cried Pearson; "the punishment is death--I
pray you--"
"Silence, sir!" he cried sternly; "you have your order. Shall I be
more merciful to this gentleman than to the poor marine I would have
had shot a moment since for less than he has done?"
"But he is your son. Have mercy on him, my Lord!"
"So much the more imperative that he should receive justice--not mercy
from me. Besides, from this hour he is no longer son of mine," said
the old man, inflexibly. "Let the prisoner be confined under double
guard; you will see that he at least does not escape you."
"It is just," said Coventry, no less resolutely than his father; "I
expected it. It was for her I did it."
There was a sudden bustle upon the deck forward.
"Sail ho! Light ho! Light ho!" rang out from a dozen rough throats.
"Where away?" said the officer of the watch.
"Off the starboard quarter," was the reply,--"there, coming up from
Flamborough Head."
"They will be the Bon Homme Richard and the rest of that scoundrelly
pirate squadron, Captain Pearson. I saw them off Bridlington Bay this
afternoon," said the admiral.
"We will go out and meet them at once, with your permission, my Lord,"
cried the captain, enthusiastically. "All hands up anchor! Mr. Pascoe,
show the signal for the Scarborough to get under way. Lively! we have
him now, men! This is our chance at last! There's prize money and
honor for you by yonder lights!"
With wild cheers the eager crew broke for their stations. The capstan
bars were shipped and manned, and the clanking pawls clicked merrily
as the men heaved away as lustily as a crew homeward bound from a
foreign station.
"Good luck to you, Captain Pearson," said the admiral, turning away.
"Bring him back a prisoner or sink him, and I will pledge you my word
your king's sword shall be laid upon your shoulders. Would that I were
younger and might go with you! but my duties, as well, prevent me.
Good-bye."
"Sir--my Lord--my father!" said Coventry, who had stood unnoticed in
the excitement of the moment.
"Do I see you still here, sir?" answered the admiral, coldly.
"I would ask a favor of you, sir--as--as--as my father."
"Ask no favors of a father, sir; you have none!"
"Let me beg of the man, then," said Coventry, resolutely. "We are
about to engage the enemy. For God's sake, sir, for the love of my
mother, do not condemn me to inaction now! Let me serve as the
humblest volunteer! You shall not regret it."
The old man hesitated. He was a father in spite of what he had said,
and he could not forget it. His heart was throbbing beneath his iron
exterior and appearance of outward composure.
"Go!" he replied at last. "You are free of any charges until
to-morrow. When next I see you I shall have to prefer them, therefore
let me not look upon your face again, sir. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes; good-bye, sir!" said the young man, brokenly. "I thank you
and bless you for this. To-morrow I shall plead my cause in a higher
court. Think of me kindly, sir."
"And you have done this work and wrecked yourself for a woman! You
have been a fool, sir; what woman that ever lived was worth it?" said
the admiral, shortly.
"This one," replied his son. "I loved her; I love her still."
The two men looked at each other in silence. The admiral relented a
little,--it was for the last time,--and drew the boy to him. He lifted
his head to the sky in silent prayer.
"All hands make sail!" hoarsely cried the boatswain at the instance of
the executive officer. "Lay aloft, topman!"
The admiral turned away, and Coventry was alone. He walked over to
Captain Pearson.
"Father gives me a chance to die," he said. "Please assign me to some
duty."
"I am glad to hear it," said the captain, his face lighting up. "We
are short a lieutenant; I confide to you the forward division of the
main-deck battery. Do your best with it."
"I hope to serve it well," said the young officer, saluting proudly,
and springing toward his station.
"Anchor's away, sir!" cried the officer forward on the forecastle.
"Man the topsail sheets and halliards, let fall, sheet home, hoist
away!" roared the captain, himself seizing the trumpet. As the broad
folds of canvas dropped from the wide-reaching yard-arms, the noble
ship gathered way and sailed out to try her fortune.
BOOK IV
THE SELFISHNESS OF LOVE
CHAPTER XVI
_In the Line of his Duty_
AS soon as they had drifted some little distance from the Serapis,
O'Neill rose, threw off the boat cloak, and stepped aft around the
oarsman to the stern-sheets of the boat, where Elizabeth sat
motionless, holding the tiller. He knelt down before her.
"Elizabeth, dearest, we have actually escaped!" he said softly,
stooping toward her. "I did not think it possible." She released the
tiller, took his head in her hands, and kissed him in wild exultation.
"Free! Free!" she murmured, "and together--my own, my own!" Her words,
her look, her caress, set his blood bounding again.
"Yes, yes; is it not heavenly, and with you. Oh, my soul, how can I
repay you?" he whispered, giving back kiss for kiss, and stretching
out his hands toward her. There was a little pause, broken by a rough
voice, which its owner evidently tried to render more gentle; in a
hoarse whisper the man at the oars asked,--
"Where are ye a-headin' of the boat, yer Leddyship?"
"I know not!" she answered wildly, seizing the tiller again; "only
away from that awful ship!"
"Who is this man at the oars?" asked her lover, rising and sitting
down by her when he took the tiller from her nervous hands.
"Well, yer Honor," said a low, deep voice, with a smothered laugh in
it, "my name ashore, w'ere I was left by Cap'n Jones t'other night to
look arter you, mought be Smith, or Brown, or any old name; but yere
in this boat it's Price--William P. Price--w'ich is wot my mother told
me, at any rate, though I ain't got no evidence but her word fur it,
an' she's dead, an' God be thanked I see yer Honor alive."
"Price! You!" exclaimed O'Neill, in great surprise. "How did you find
him, dearest?"
"I found her, please yer Honor," replied the man. "I seed her
Leddyship a-comin' down to the beach, an' I ups and captures a small
boat from the English, w'ich the man'll be awful disappinted like,
w'en he don't find her to-morrow, an' then I ups and offers to take
her off, an' I tells her I knows you, an' we fixed it up, and here
y'are!"
They were not yet so far from the Serapis, even by this time, but that
the quick ear of the girl detected the confusion on her decks: the
shrill piping of the boatswain and his mates, the sharp commands of
the officers, the trampling of many feet, were easily heard; she
clutched her lover nervously, all alert at the thought of a possible
further danger to him.
"Oh!" she whispered, "they are doing something on the ship. Our escape
is discovered. They will come after us!"
"Not with the whole ship," he answered, smiling, though listening with
straining apprehension as well.
"I think they're a-gittin' under way, sir," said the old seaman.
"Listen to the clankin' o' the pawls, yer Honor."
"You are right; it cannot be after us, though; a cutter or two would
suffice for that."
"It'll be fur the Richard an' the rest of 'em. Cap'n Jones, he said
he'd capture them ships afore the mornin' watch, an' if you wasn't
hung afore that time, he'd trice up the whole d--n--w'ich I beg
pardon, yer Leddyship, but he said it--crowd to the yard-arms, unless
they'd let you go free! Our wessels ought to be a-comin' up from
Flamburry putty soon, now. But if I mought make so bold, w'ere are ye
headin' fur now, sir?"
"We head for the Richard, of course," said the young man, promptly.
"That's w'ere we b'long," said the sailor, joyfully; "I don't want no
fightin' goin' on, an' I ain't there!"
"Nor I," replied O'Neill. "I would put you ashore, Elizabeth, before
we go; but--"
"'Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people,'" she
quoted softly. "Whom have I now but you? To whom can I go but to you?"
she murmured, laying her hand upon his own. It was dark on the boat,
but if it had been broad daylight he could not have helped it,--he
kissed her.
"Oh, to be worthy of it all, to be worthy!" he answered.
William grinned sympathetically, wiped his mouth wistfully with the
back of his hand, and tried to look away. Presently, unshipping the
oars, the two men stepped the mast and hoisted the small sail. The
little boat, under the freshening breeze, began to draw through the
water rapidly. In order to win out of the mouth of the harbor, they
would have to pass in a direction which would bring them once more
near the moving Serapis. They could hardly hope to escape discovery.
They had, of course, gained a good start on the frigate; but as she
was soon covered with sails, and her great height enabled her to catch
the freshening breeze blowing over the hills, which was lost to the
smaller craft, she literally rushed down upon them.
A noble picture she made to those on the boat. Ghostlike and eerie in
the pale moonlight, shining fitfully through the overcast heavens, the
great white ship towered above them, her soaring masts covered with
clouds of snowy canvas stretching far out on either side on the
spreading yard-arms. Her sails swept the skies; her keel ploughed the
deeps; the wind sang in the top-hamper; the white water, shot with
sparks, piled up in front of her, bubbled and played around her
forefoot, and rolled away on either side in broad sheets of foamy
phosphorescence. The yellow lights of the battle lanterns streamed
through her open ports; a drum was grimly rolling the call to battle
on her decks. Dark forms passed to and fro; men leaped hither and
thither in casting loose the double row of great black guns; sometimes
a vivid flash in the moonlight proclaimed a drawn sword. Presently the
cries and orders died away; the men settled down at their stations;
silently the huge fabric, a splendid example of that power which for
twice two hundred years had ruled the seas, swept toward them. O'Neill
watched her in generous admiration.
"A fit antagonist even for our great captain," he cried, all his
enthusiasm aroused by the ship, "and nobly handled," he added. "Mark
the discipline; see the order!"
"Ay, sir, that'll be a hard one to take; but we'll take her, never
fear!" said the old seaman, sharing his officer's ungrudging
approbation of their gallant foe.
"How can you speak so?" said the girl. "To me she is nothing but a
prison--a menace--a horror!"
"You are a woman, dearest; I hope to be on the old Richard before
long, and I feel from such a ship as that there is much honor to be
gained."
"And death, too," she answered, shuddering.
"It may be; death and honor often go hand in hand," he replied
gravely; "but she nears us; you must lie down until she passes."
It was a new thing for her to be commanded; she found it altogether a
sweet experience--then. Later it might be another matter. So, though
protesting because she was a woman and had prescient eye to the
future, Elizabeth dutifully obeyed her lord and lay down in the boat,
resting her head against his foot. As they drew toward the mouth of
the harbor the wind came stronger. The little boat fairly roared
through the white-capped waves. She heeled over until the water
trickled in on the lee side; but O'Neill resolutely and skilfully held
her up to it. He could not afford to lose an inch of distance to
leeward, for the water shallowed rapidly in that direction, and
abounded in rocks as well. The Serapis was alongside now; they had not
yet been observed. The attention of the men on the frigate was fixed
upon the approaching ships to the southeast, now plainly visible.
O'Neill fairly held his breath as he congratulated himself that they
were to be passed by unnoticed. Suddenly a sharp cry rang out just as
the Serapis drew ahead.
"Sail ho! Boat ahoy, there!" For a moment the small boat lay right in
the path of light cast by the brilliantly illuminated stern-ports of
the frigate.
"'Tis the prisoner, he that escaped!" shouted a powerful voice.
"Sentry, give him a shot from your piece," cried Captain Pearson
himself, springing on the rail and leaning over toward them. Old Price
shook his fist at the frigate in stout defiance. The sharp crack of a
musket rang out in the air. The bullet seemed to have struck something
forward in the boat; a shudder swept through the little craft, a
hoarse, frightful cry quivered through the night, there was splash,
the boat struck something, and that something, whatever it was, rasped
along her keel as she drove ahead.
"Clear away the second cutter," cried another voice on the frigate.
"Keep all fast!" shouted Pearson. "We have bigger game to-night," and
then he hollowed his hand and cried out as the Serapis drew rapidly
away,--
"We'll take care of you, sir, in the morning, when we return." A few
more musket-shots were fired at them from different parts of the ship;
one bullet tore through the sail and whistled by the ear of the young
lieutenant, but did no harm.
"We are saved again!" cried Elizabeth, sitting up and looking
gratefully at her lover.
"But not without a cost," said the young man, solemnly.
"What mean you? Are you hurt; are you wounded?" she cried.
"Price!" called O'Neill, softly, though he knew it was useless. There
was no answer.
"Oh, that awful cry!" said Elizabeth, shuddering.
"It was he," added O'Neill, gravely. "He was hit by the first shot,
and went overboard. Did you not feel him strike the keel?"
"Is there no hope for him?" she queried anxiously. "Could we not put
back and seek him?"
"None," replied the young lieutenant, shortly. "There was death in his
voice; it's all over with him. Well, he died in the line of his duty;
'tis a sailor's cherished hope."
"He helped me--both of us--in time of need; our way to liberty and
happiness," she cried piteously, "seems to be over the bodies of those
who love us."
"So it has ever been in the world,--a thousand deaths to make one
life, a thousand griefs to make one joy," he answered, laying his hand
tenderly upon her head, which she had buried in her hands.
"But what come what may," she added, looking up resolutely, with all
the selfishness of love, "I have you, at least, and we are together
again."
"Ay, let us pray it may be forever, sweetheart."
They were out of the harbor now; and while the Serapis was stretching
along to the northeast to gain an offing, with the Scarborough some
distance ahead of her, and to leeward, the lighter draft of the small
boat permitted O'Neill to head her directly for the oncoming American
ships, whose lights, and the ships themselves, were now plainly
visible in the moonlight.
CHAPTER XVII
_Differing Standards_
"The battle which will take place to-night yonder between those ships
decides my fate. I hope to God I may arrive in time to take my part in
it! The Richard is fearfully short of officers at best; Landais, who
has the Alliance, is crazy and a coward; Cottineau in the Pallas is an
unknown quantity, and the rest have fled. Jones has only Richard Dale
and a lot of midshipmen with him upon whom he can absolutely depend,
and there are over two hundred prisoners in the hold. He needs me. If
this breeze hold on, I think we may intercept the Richard before the
battle is joined. Pray, dearest, as never before, for the success of
our arms! It means life, and you, for me."
"It means life for me as well," she answered, nestling against him and
nerving herself up to the inevitable confession. How he would take it
she did not know, or rather she would not permit herself to say. She
was conscious only of an impelling necessity to tell him the whole
story, though she had deliberately waited until she believed he could
do nothing.
"Ah, yes, 'tis sweet of you to say so, but not the same. Me they will
hang, but not you," he answered fondly.
"Yes, they will," she replied. "I--I--I must confess it to you before
we go further; it weighs upon me. I also am guilty."
"Guilty! You! Of what, pray? Of loving me too much?" he queried,
laughing in pure lightness of heart.
"No, not that," she answered, "but that--that order--your reprieve. It
was--the admiral did not sign it," she added desperately.
The secret was out.
"And who did it, then?" he asked, still unsuspicious of her meaning.
"I did it myself," she answered, with averted head.
"It is not possible!" he exclaimed, withdrawing from her a little in
his astonishment.
"'Twas for you--for you I did it--reproach me not; nay, you shall
not!" she cried, on fire to defend herself and her love, now the truth
was told. "Captain Jones said six hours' delay and you were saved.
There was no other way. I begged, implored, entreated the admiral--he
left me; went away--I saw the man fixing that block--the rope--I ran
to him to make one more appeal--he was not there. On his desk was an
order giving me permission to see you, which he had intended to give
me and had refused at the last moment and left unsigned. His watch was
there and his seal. I added the rest and signed and sealed it myself;
do not shrink from me!" she pleaded with changed mood again. "Your
anger--your disapproval--kills me. Is there no excuse that you can
find for me?" Her appeal was so tender, her affection so apparent, she
was her own justification.
"No man would have done it," he said irresolutely, wavering.
"But every woman would," she replied promptly, pressing her advantage.
"Why are you so silent; Your precious honor is safe, and as for
mine--"
"'Twas nobly done," he answered at last, in complete surrender. "There
is not a woman in the world but would honor you for it; not a man who
would not love you. You have done that which I could not, and for me.
My heart before, and now my life is yours, my heart's dearest."
"I knew you would not like it," she answered simply, "but there was no
other way. I confess I was terrified when Edward--"
"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill. "He saw the order?"
"Yes," said the girl, cowering before him again. In truth, this phase
of the transaction had actually escaped her memory.
"Captain Pearson accepted it without questioning him?" he queried. She
would have given all the world to lie to him, but even in the darkness
she could not be further untrue, in his very presence, though now like
a flash she saw it all.
"He--he doubted it," she whispered hesitatingly. "He handed the paper
to Edward, and asked him if it--if it was all right."
"And Coventry?"
"He took it and looked at it, looked at me--I had forgotten him, I
must confess,--" she went on brokenly,--"and then he handed it back to
Captain Pearson and--and said it was correct--the signature, I mean."
"He knew, think you?" asked her lover, with deadly calmness.
"Yes, he knew," she faltered.
"And the sentry--our unheeded escape?"
"Edward took his place--I might as well tell you all now," continued
the girl, desperately.
"Ah!" he said, coldly and sternly; "and do you know, Lady Elizabeth,
what the penalty is for such actions as his?"
"No," she replied, in alarm; "I never thought. They will not harm him.
He is the son of the admiral--what is it?"
"They will shoot him, or hang him like a dog to the very yard-arm
prepared for me!" he answered with stern emphasis.
"No, no! It is not possible!" she cried, appalled at the naked fact.
"Ay, but it is," he replied; "and it is through your actions, and my
blind acquiescence therein, that this honorable gentleman is done to
death. This puts another face on the whole thing. You have made me a
craven; I am dishonored, his life is sacrificed for me!"
"I did not mean to do it; I did not know," she wailed, stricken to the
heart by his bitter reproach.
"Ay, but you should have known; but when women meddle in affairs of
state the consequences oft exceed their narrow views. Pray God, there
may yet be time to rectify the frightful happening," said O'Neill,
bitterly, putting the helm hard over as he spoke. The boat swept
around, the sail gybed, and they headed for the northeast.
"What is it that you would do?" cried Elizabeth, in alarm, laying her
hand on the tiller.
"Follow the Serapis," he answered shortly.
"For what?"
"To give myself up if possible, and thus insure his freedom."
"I knew--I knew it would be so," she whispered. "I loved him," she
murmured, turning away, "I have sacrificed everything for him, and he
repudiates, reproaches me. O my God, why hast thou forsaken me!" she
wailed in unconscious imitation of a greater Sufferer. She drew away
from him and knelt down in the boat, and buried her face in her hands,
leaning upon the weather gunwale. He looked at her a moment, and
before the pathetic abandonment of her grief his anger melted. She was
a woman; with her, love was all.
"Elizabeth," he said tenderly, "the bitterness of having caused that
good man's death, his apparent dishonor, overwhelmed me. I love you,
as you know, more than life itself. You are a woman; you see things
differently. There is nothing above love in a woman's heart. Come back
to me; your place is here, whatever happens. I love you the more for
your great sacrifice, but now we must undo it if we can. Heaven has
not smiled upon our meeting; perhaps, if we go hand in hand before God
together, we may find mercy, perhaps joy!"
She made no answer, but nestled against him forgiven, contented. For a
time they sailed the sea in silence. The clouds had broken and left a
clear sky, whence the moon had flooded the ocean with her silvery
light; but the breeze came fitfully and gradually died away where they
were now under the lee of the land. It was such a night as lovers
dream of. They loved and they were together, side by side, alone, in
the soft autumnal night, adrift on a summer sea. There was that in the
past which kept them silent; and yet in their very proximity, in the
hands that touched and clasped each other, the head that nestled on
his shoulder, the arm that encircled her waist, the lips that met, the
eyes that spoke,--there was a sweetness which neither had ever known
before. The gentle wind whispered of love. The curling, lipping waves
caressed the keel with sounds like kisses, and to it all their hearts
kept time. It was a respite,--a lull between two phases of the
conflict; there was love and there was peace in the little boat, and
war and tumult were far off on the horizon.
By and by Elizabeth slipped down from the thwart, and crouched down in
the boat at his feet. O'Neill held the tiller with one hand; the other
lightly stroked her golden head. She was perfectly content; everything
was out of her heart but he and the present; she was very still. He
could see the soft curve of her cheek resting upon her sweet white
hand in the moonlight. After one of the little intervals of silence,
he looked down upon her again. She made no motion, and did not reply
to a word he said softly, and he discovered that she was asleep.
He did not wonder. The experiences of the past few days would have
killed any ordinary woman. How heroic she had been! With what abandon
she had put aside everything for the purpose of saving him! She had
hesitated at nothing. His love for her was measured by his honor; hers
for him was boundless. 'Twas ever so; and he had reproached her,
spoken harshly to her, upbraided her, turned away from her! How could
he have been so cruel! she was so young, his heart yearned over her.
He vowed that if God did permit them to escape from the perils which
environed them, he would make up to her for every unkind word spoken,
every reproach, every cutting glance, by an eternity of devotion.
The night, the ocean, the loneliness, impressed him. What had he ever
done to be so blessed in the love of this noble woman? His life, as he
had said, had been an idle one. In the courts he had played at hearts
as he had played at war on the ships for the fun of the game. With her
a serious purpose had entered his life and was before him. The silence
of the night was broken only by the soft splash of the waves, as the
little boat rocked gently through them. The gentle wind grew fainter
and fainter; presently the flap of the idle sail against the mast
apprised him that it had gone.