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John Coe raised her from her kneeling position with evident tenderness.
“I do not fully know what you mean, madam,” he said, “and cannot, therefore, make use of your meaning to put a stop to what is going on. But I can feel for your evident suffering without knowing its cause.”
“Master Revere,” said Marston, with sadness and yet something of sternness in his voice, “if I could, I would consult your feelings in this matter. But what you say comes too late, even if it were fully explained. Mr Brown, do me the favour to lead this young gentleman to his state-room door.”
Mr Bowsprit advanced, and taking the hand of Ada led her away. She retired, still extending her disengaged hand towards the intended combatants, with an imploring glance.
Story 2-Chapter VIII.
The Ship Duchess
She was a vision of delight.
Ballad.
These treasures are for you, my own beloved one —
Laid up for you by your own father’s hand.
Foxglove.
Antonio. A long, low, black and rakish vessel, say you?
Pietro. Yes, captain; she’s a pirate beyond doubt.
Antonio. We’ll have a fight or e’er she capture us.
The Storm.
The truth of my history obliges me to relate some occurrences powerfully bearing upon John’s fortunes.
It was in the early part of the month of June, in the year 1817, when the ship Duchess left the port of Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, bound to the port of Havre, in France. She had been chartered for this voyage by a French merchant by the name of Jules Durocher.
Jules Durocher had settled, when a young man, as a planter in the island of Hayti; but, dissatisfied with a planter’s life, he had sold his land in that island, and afterwards removed from Hayti to Kingston, where he established himself as a merchant. Here he had succeeded in making a large fortune, when he was but little more than forty years of age. Having lost his wife, an English lady, whom he had married in Jamaica, and to whom he was much attached, and his health, which had for many years seemed to be good, failing at length suddenly from the insidious and slowly-working effects of the climate, he had determined to retire from business, to realise his gains, and to pass the remainder of his days in his native France, with his only child Louise.
He had now so far carried out his intentions as to have converted into gold and bills of exchange all his large fortune, except the comparatively small portion which had been required to purchase a cargo of the native products of Jamaica for the ship he had chartered. So uncertain, however, are the calculations of men, that now, when the quietude in which he had long hoped to pass his declining years appeared almost certain of realisation, his health began rapidly to decline; and his state was so weak, when the lading of the Duchess was completed, that he had to be taken from his bed on land and carried to one on board of the ship. Such was the state of things in which Jules Durocher and his daughter Louise left their home of many years in Kingston, to transfer their fortunes to the father’s native France.
Louise Durocher was very beautiful; but her beauty was not of the kind which we generally attribute to French ladies, and which is characterised by sparkling black eyes, raven-hued tresses, and a brunette complexion. Her loveliness was a direct antithesis to this description. Her hair deserved fully the title of “golden” on account of both its colour and its lustre, and held smoothly round her head by a plain riband, fell in a mass of rich curls over her shoulders. Her softly bright eyes, dark, but decidedly and purely blue, exhibited in every glance a tender heart and an intelligent mind. A soft rose-tinge upon her cheeks illustrated by a delicate contrast the pearly fairness of her complexion.
At the time when she is introduced to my readers, she was dressed in a loose white muslin morning robe, slightly confined at the waist by a white silken cord; and from beneath the folds of this garment peeped out now and then two beautifully-shaped little feet clad in a delicate pair of white satin slippers. The band round her hair was also white. A dress of this description does not generally comport with beauty of the style of Louise’s; but in the case of loveliness so exceeding as hers, it absolutely added to the effect. The pure, innocent, and elevated expression of her face, haloed by her lustrous wealth of golden hair, the beholder might be said to realise the ideal of the old masters.
The cabin of the Duchess occupied, as usual, the after-part of the ship. Directly at the stern, and dividing the width of the vessel between them, were two handsome and elegantly-furnished state-rooms – the one assigned to Mr Durocher, and the other to his daughter. Each of these state-rooms opened into the saloon, which, occupying the breadth of the ship, was very nearly square. Forward of this saloon, a narrow passage leading from it divided a double row of state-rooms – two upon each side – which were used by the officers of the ship.
At the time when these new characters are introduced to the reader, the Duchess had been some days out of port. She had gone through what is called the Windward Passage – between the islands of Cuba and Hayti – had passed through the channel crowded with many islets, which lies between Caycos and Turks islands and had fairly entered upon the broad Atlantic. The invigorating air of the open sea had so improved the health of Mr Durocher that he had been brought from the bed in his state-room to a sofa in the saloon. Here he was attended by his daughter and a young quadroon slave girl, who waited upon the young lady.
Louise, who was skilled in music, and performed upon several instruments, had just finished singing, to an accompaniment on the harp, the beautiful old song entitled “My Normandy” – a genuine relic of the age of chivalry, of the days of the trouviers and troubadours – when her father’s emotion caused her to put aside the instrument. That touching song, applying fully to the case of the returning exile himself, with its tender refrain —
“I long again the land to see, Which gave me birth – my Normandy,” recalled the past vividly, with many a hope then entertained of a happy return to his native land – many a hope which the untimely death of his wife had destroyed for ever.
“Dear Louise,” said Mr Durocher, “how feelingly you sing that charming song of my native land! What happiness I used to anticipate in pointing out to your now sainted mother – when wealth, achieved through a long and tedious exile, should enable me to resume, in my Normandy, the station from which losses had reduced my family – all the beautiful scenes so familiar to my childhood. God destroys such hopes to draw our affections away from the things of earth. ’Tis now for you only, my beloved child, that I at all consider a worldly future. You will have wealth; few of the daughters of France born upon the soil will be heirs to such a fortune. But there are cares also belonging to the possession of riches; and how will an inexperienced young girl like you know how to meet these?”
“Do not trouble yourself about me, my dear father,” said the affectionate daughter. “Is not your health improving? Every day since we left Kingston you have gained strength. You will live yourself to see your money safely invested and your daughter’s future secured. Let us hope that many, many happy years on earth await us.”
“If future years are in store for me, Louise,” replied Mr Durocher, “they may be cheerful when blessed by your presence, but I cannot be happy where your mother is not. I feel convinced, however, that I shall soon meet her again; I am impressed with a feeling – though I know not why – that I shall never more see France.”
The young lady left her seat beside the harp and sat upon a chair near to the sofa on which her father was reclining. She placed her arm round his neck, and took in her disengaged hand one of his.
“Dearest father,” she said, in a tender and soothing tone of voice, “these low spirits are but the lingering effects of your illness. Life must still have much happiness in store for you. The grand and beautiful scenes of day and night, upon land and water, exhibiting, as they ever do, a proof of the power and goodness and love of God towards His creatures, must have an influence leading to happiness upon every human soul. I am sure that one so good as you must feel this blessed influence.”
“I do feel it, my dear child,” said the invalid; “but that feeling cannot remove the uneasiness which I experience at the conviction that I must soon leave you alone in the world. I have a number of relations in France; but you are unknown to all of them; even I, so long has it been since I have met any of them, must be nearly, if not quite forgotten.”
The speaker paused awhile in reflection. Louise was also silent; she could make no reply to her father’s last observation; its probable truth admitted of no just objection. Mr Durocher at length spoke again —
“Louise,” he said, taking a pocket-book from an inside breast-pocket of his coat, “in this pocket-book are bills of exchange on different bankers in France to the amount of twelve hundred thousand francs. Even if these be lost, the money will still be safe; the bills are executed in triplicate; one copy of each has been left by me in the hands of a friend at Kingston, and the third copy of each has been sent to a gentleman in Havre. These bills can only be paid on my endorsement, or on that of my legal representative, in case of my death. There is a note of the names of these gentlemen and of a list of the drafts in my trunk; here is a copy of the same note which I wish you to take possession of. In the strong-box in my state-room are fifty thousand francs in gold; and the cargo of this ship should sell at Havre for at least a hundred and fifty thousand francs. In the event of my death, this property is yours. I should have mentioned to you these particulars before; I feel urged now to postpone no longer giving you this information.”
At this instant, and before Louise could make a reply, a loud voice giving orders and the noise of hurrying feet were heard upon deck.
“Celeste,” said Mr Durocher, addressing the quadroon girl, “go upon deck and see if you can learn what is the matter.”
The girl hurried up the cabin steps, as ordered, and soon returned accompanied by the captain.
“What is the cause of the disturbance overhead, Captain Johnson?” asked the invalid.
“We have been apparently pursued for some hours,” was the answer, “by a rather suspicious-looking vessel. Pirates are by no means uncommon in these waters, and it is not improbable that this is one. As the wind is light, we have crowded on every yard of canvas. The stranger, nevertheless, is evidently gaining upon us. I have, therefore, ordered our two twelve-pounders to be made ready for service, and have directed the men also to look to their small-arms. If it were late in the day we might indulge a hope of keeping at a sufficient distance from the suspicious craft to make our escape in the night.”
The time was between nine and ten o’clock in the morning.
The face of Louise became white with alarm. The poor girl seemed to be terribly frightened.
“There is no need of feeling alarmed, Miss Durocher,” said the captain, in a cheerful voice. “We are not by any means certain the stranger is a pirate. Should he prove to be such, the probabilities are in our favour that he will not molest us, when he finds, on nearer approach, that we are so strong; these sea-robbers are not apt to assault any vessel which they cannot capture without fighting. We are well manned, having sixteen officers and seamen, all able men. We have two cannons and plenty of muskets and cutlasses, besides a full supply of ammunition. Even if he should attack us, I think that we can easily beat him off. My vessel is larger than his, and manoeuvres well; and fully one-half of us are man-of-war’s men.”
“Why do you suppose,” asked Mr Durocher, “that the stranger is in pursuit of you?”
“Because,” replied Captain Johnson, “when we first saw him, the course which he was steering was due south-east as ours is north-east, and he is now directly astern of us. If Miss Durocher will come with me upon deck, she can see our pursuer very plainly by aid of the telescope. You are too weak, I suppose, to get upon deck yourself, Mr Durocher?”
“I will try to do so, if you will give me your aid,” answered the invalid.
“You had better not undertake so much,” said Louise. “I am afraid that the fatigue will do you harm.”
“It will not hurt him at all, miss,” said Captain Johnson, cheerily. “He need not suffer from fatigue at all. If you will let that yellow girl of yours bring up an easy-chair, I will carry your father up in my arms.”
Captain Johnson was, indeed, a powerfully-made man; he was fully six feet in height, and stout in proportion. Constant exercise in the open air had given to him the full vigour to which his herculean frame seemed to entitle him.
As soon as the invalid was made comfortable in his easy-chair, and was in a position from which he commanded a view of the ocean all around, the spy-glass was handed to him. Far away towards the south-west, and at first sight rather low upon the horizon, the strange sail could be seen by the unassisted eye; but the telescope showed that her hull was above the horizon.
“There seem to be a number of men upon her deck,” said Mr Durocher; “and she has one of those long pivot-guns amidships. That is a very dangerous cannon, Captain Johnson; our pursuer may, with a gun of so long a range, do us ruinous injury without coming near enough to allow us to do him harm with our small cannon.”
The telescope was passed to the captain, and by him to Louise. It was then handed to the officers of the ship.
“Can you make out her hull?” asked the captain of one of these officers, who had at the moment the glass in his hand.
“Partly,” was the answer. “What I can see of it is entirely black. She seems to be clipper-built.”
“And these Baltimore clippers are so fleet,” remarked the captain.
Things began to look dark for those on board the ship, it must be confessed; if the stranger’s intentions were hostile, his superior speed, and the long range of his pivot-gun, made the escape of the chase very doubtful. Captain Johnson, however, like a good officer, made every preparation for defence. His self-possessed and even cheerful manner inspired those under his command with confidence. But Louise became very pale, and Mr Durocher suffered much in mind, principally upon her account; but, for the sake of each other, their fears were kept to themselves. The quadroon girl shivered with terror, on her own account, and on account of those to whom she had been so much attached for many years.
Story 2-Chapter IX.
The Combat
The foe, invulnerable still,
Foiled his wild rage by steady skill,
Till, at advantage ta’en, his brand
Forced Roderick’s weapon from his hand.
Lady of the Lake.
Orano. We offer you the post of captain, sir.
Ortega. I accept – with conditions.
The Onslaught.
A pirate ship, and a pirate crew.
Old Song.
The swords were brought. A clear space was left upon the deck for the combatants to move in, around which the sailors – first those who had stood near to the quarter-deck, and afterwards those from the more forward parts of the vessels formed a ring; all were eager and intensely interested, but quiet spectators. Seeing the officers offering no interference, they no doubt considered that it was also their part to make no interruption. Mr Dempster acted as second to Marston; Mr Brown, better known as Bowsprit, acted as second to John Coe.
The swords were measured by the seconds and found of equal length. As both the weapons belonged to Captain Marston, the choice of them was offered to the prisoner, who took one of them at once, apparently without making any selection. The combatants were then placed in position; the salutes with the blades were given, and the fight began.
It was very soon apparent that young Coe was the more expert swordsman. Captain Marston had, when young, as most young gentlemen of fortune were in the habit of doing, taken lessons in the small-sword exercise; but he had of late been accustomed only occasionally to combats with the cutlass; and such conflicts – as even one who is not an expert at either weapon must know – must rather tend to diminish than increase one’s skill with the small-sword. His antagonist, on the contrary, had been in the habit for years of practising play with foils with young gentlemen in his neighbourhood, so that he had much improved his skill of late years.
The sword-points were scarcely crossed before John was aware that his adversary’s life was in his hands. This discovery was a great relief to his mind. He placed no faith in the pledges given by Captain Marston’s officers; on the contrary, he felt assured that, if he should kill one who had virtually acknowledged himself to be a pirate chief, his own life would be forfeited; even if the officers should keep their pledges to the letter, the common sailors were bound by no pledge. These reflections caused him to use all his efforts to disarm his adversary; and added to these considerations, inducing him to pursue such a course, was the memory of early associations, and also the apparent generosity of his foe in granting him a combat at all, as equal almost as it could be made under the circumstances.
Captain Marston, too, became very soon aware that he was fighting against one who was superior in the use of the weapon which he had selected. Shaken from his usual self-possession by a knowledge of this fact, and irritated by the forbearance of one whom he had considered his inferior with any weapon, and especially with the one which he had chosen, he made the mistake usual in such cases,
“And showered his blows like wintry rain.”
John Coe, on the contrary, kept perfect control of his faculties. For an instant he retreated rapidly before the violent assault of his adversary; but the next moment, with a short, sudden and powerful blow of his sword, he sent Captain Marston’s weapon flying over his own head. His own sword-point was immediately at the captain’s breast.
There was a sensation among the spectators at this sudden and totally unexpected result of the combat; but there was no movement towards any interference.
Captain Marston’s arms dropped by his side. He stood before his antagonist, as if ready to receive his sword-thrust. Coe stood, meanwhile, with his sword fixed, as it were, in the same position, while he kept his eyes firmly bent upon those of his conquered adversary.
“I am at your mercy, Mr Coe,” said Captain Marston, at length in a voice that palpitated, if I may use the term, partly on account of his recent violent exertion, and partly because of surprise at his defeat.
“I wish you no harm,” answered the victor, lowering his sword-point. “I only wished to show that had I been assailed by open force, I should not have been easily made a prisoner.”
The expression of the faces of the lookers-on showed that their captive had risen very highly in their estimation within the last few minutes. The most brutal and debased human being in the world still admires manly courage and magnanimity. The determined bearing of the prisoner, indicating a perfect preservation of his self-respect and self-reliance, in such adverse circumstances, and his willingness, even eagerness to prove his manhood by fighting Captain Marston in the very presence of his band, and the coolness, skill, and self-control which he had exhibited in winning and in using his victory, all manifested those qualities which men most admire in men. Captain Marston saw the admiration of his prisoner which was expressed in the faces of his officers and men; and he immediately resorted to an expedient which, by exhibiting on his part a generosity apparently equal, but in fact more than equal, to that of his adversary, might neutralise to some extent the injury which may have been done to his standing in the opinions of his band by the result of the contest.
“You see, gentlemen,” he said, addressing his ship’s company, “that in the opinion which I have heretofore expressed to you of my friendly foe, I have not overrated his merits. Let us have three hearty cheers for John Alvan Coe.”
The three cheers called for were immediately given with a will.
“I further propose, gentlemen,” said Captain Marston, “that we proceed forthwith to form the corps of marines which I have before spoken of to you, and that Mr Coe be offered the captaincy of that band.”
“And with all due deference to Captain Vance,” exclaimed Afton, before Captain Marston’s proposition could be acted upon, and with his usual intermingling of expletives, “I propose that we either make Mr Coe commander of this brig, or throw him overboard. For my part, I should prefer to have the latter alternative carried out. No divided command can exist except to our disadvantage. If Mr Coe is, in your opinion, superior to Captain Vance, make him our chief; but do not give to him a charge which, unless he and the captain entirely agree, may cause civil war on board the brig.”
“I beg to differ with my honoured friend, Lieutenant Afton,” said Bowsprit, facing the ship’s company. “As Mr Coe has proved himself a brave and skilful man, we should try to secure him as a co-partner in our enterprises. As he is a born and bred gentleman, there are cogent reasons why he should hold a respectable position among us. But, although he has shown that he is superior to Captain Vance in the use of the small-sword, we are not therefore to suppose that he is co-equal with our distinguished chieftain in experience in seamanship and in habits of command. Nor would our new friend rank, in the position proposed, with our captain; he would be co-ordinate in rank with Lieutenant Seacome. There would be no danger of a conflict of authority with Captain Vance; there is a commander of marines on board of every man-of-war. I cannot, therefore, agree with either of the propositions of my distinguished friend Afton. His first would be unjust to our captain, his second would be an equal wrong to the gallant new comer. I second Captain Vance’s motion.”
The speech of Billy Bowsprit was received with much applause, and the proposition of the captain was adopted by a vote of two to one. Mr Afton had his admirers among those old salts who were, like himself, rough in language, and especially hardened in crime. These men were not influenced in their votes by the authority of the captain, or the eloquence of Billy Bowsprit.
“And now, Mr Coe,” said the captain, “will you do me the honour of accepting the post to which we have elected you, and give me the pleasure of being the first to name you by your new title, Captain Coe, of the marine force?”
Young Coe remembered the conversation upon this very subject which he had held, in anticipation, with Ada Revere, and her advice as to the course which he should pursue, should the offer be made to him. He called to mind also that, immediately preceding his duel with Captain Marston, she had declared that she was indebted to himself for an important service. He knew that that unfortunate girl must be better qualified by experience than he was himself to guide his course in relation to this matter. He determined, therefore, that he would consult with her again, and, should he find her sincere in her friendly feelings towards him, to be governed by her counsel in the desperate strait in which he was placed. With this purpose in view he made answer to Captain Marston’s question —
“Your offer, Captain Vance, and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the officers and seamen, and, for the first time, giving the captain of the brig his assumed name, “so changes the relation which I bore towards you but a few moments ago, that I must beg of you to grant me a little time to consider this question so suddenly placed before me. With your permission, I will retire for a few moments, and then return and give you my decision. In any case, I thank you for the favour you have shown to me.”
Having thus spoken on deck, he retired to the cabin. In the saloon he found Ada Revere. She sat upon a sofa, with her head resting upon her hands. On the entrance of our hero she rose at once to meet him, and her face, which had been sad, expressed a sense of relief.
“Oh! I am so glad to see you, Mr Coe,” she said. “Your face seems to show that nothing unpleasant has resulted from the state of things in which I left you. Tell me – do tell me quickly – what has happened?”
John related to her all that had occurred.
“And now, Miss Revere,” he added, “I have come to ask an explanation of your language when you spoke some time ago of being under an obligation to me. When I saw you at the old manor house, your face seemed familiar to me. I thought that that recognition was accounted for by my having seen you in your boy’s dress, at the Spout on Saint Leonard’s Creek. But you appeared to refer to an acquaintance between us dating, farther into the past.”
“I can see nothing wrong, Mr Coe,” answered the beautiful girl, “in telling you – in outline, at least – all my history. Do you remember Ada Ashleigh, who was one of your schoolmates at the old Manor Quarter school-house situate between Millmont and Drum Point?”
“Certainly I do,” was the answer. “What a sweet and guileless little girl she was!”
“I was that little girl, Mr Coe,” said Ada. “Do you not remember that, when any of the schoolchildren charged me with being the daughter of a man who received smuggled goods, after my father was brought before a court in Baltimore on such a charge, you always took my part? And once – an occasion which I shall never forget – when Mr Dempster, now an officer on board of this brig, but then a boy almost a year older than yourself, wounded my feelings even to weeping by his jeers, you rebuked him so severely for being rude, as you said, to a harmless little girl, that he challenged you to fight. I shall never forget the gratitude which I felt towards you for championing my cause, and my delight when you handled Dempster so roughly, that he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten, and to promise never to say a harsh word to me again.”
“We had heard in Calvert,” said John Alvan, “that Ada Ashleigh had made a runaway marriage in Baltimore, for which she was disinherited by her father. Since that intelligence was received, two or three years ago, I have heard nothing of her fate.”
“That runaway marriage was between me and Harry Marston,” said Ada. “He intended it for a false marriage; and when he told me that it was such, I believed his words. But I learned, nearly a year ago now, from the friend of Captain Marston, whom he engaged to procure the services of some one, not a minister of the gospel, to perform the ceremony, that we had actually been wedded by a regular priest, and I have since obtained from that priest a certificate of the marriage. The conscience of Henry Marston’s friend would not, at the last, allow him to take part in such deceit. My father never knew that it was with Captain Marston that I left his house; nor have I yet been able to summon the necessary courage to inform Captain Marston that we are really married. I wish that he knew it. I am sure that, had he been acquainted with the fact, he would never have commissioned me, his own wife, to act the part which he meant that I should act during your imprisonment at the old manor house and at the hut.”
“I would tell him for you myself, unhesitatingly,” remarked John Alvan, “but the information would come most properly from you.”
After some further conversation upon the subject, young Coe asked —
“Do you still advise me, madam, to accept this position which is offered to me? I do not mean absolutely to accept it, but seem to accept it. I know now that you are really my friend, and have full faith in you.”
“I certainly do,” answered the lady. “Your refusal to do so must eventuate in your death. They have gone too far to set you free, even under the most solemn pledges. As the most of these men would not be faithful to any pledge made to you, so they would not trust in any pledges made by you to them, under the circumstances. Whereas, by seeming to accept the offer, you will, in the ordinary course of things, have many chances of making your escape.”
“Yet,” remarked the young man, “if they were to undertake, for instance, to capture a merchant vessel, I would die rather than give assistance in the commission of such a crime.”
“Of course,” answered Ada, “but the ‘chapter of accidents’ may make unnecessary your placing yourself in antagonism to the brig’s crew on that question. We will hope so.”
“Have they ever really made such captures?” asked young Coe.
“Many such,” replied Ada. “They are pirates in the full meaning of the word.”
“In this business they must have committed murders,” said John.
“There is not a man in the brig, except yourself,” answered Ada, “who is not responsible for the shedding of human blood.”
“Dear madam,” said John, pityingly, “what a terrible life you must have led among such men.”
“I have often been able to save bloodshed,” said Ada. “Most of the captures made by the Falcon have been made without the taking of human life. When life has been taken it has been mostly in cases where a fight has followed a refusal on the part of a merchant vessel to surrender. I have never known a case where Captain Marston has allowed any one to be hurt after surrender. Indeed, I think at heart he is sick of the business in which he is engaged. Afton, however, and too many of the crew with him, appear to take pleasure in acts of cruelty.”
The conversation between Mrs Marston and young Coe here closed, and the latter returned upon deck. He expressed to the captain and the ship’s company his acceptance provisionally of the post offered to him, it being understood that he reserved to himself the right to resign it whenever he thought proper to do so.
