Ossario. Stand, ho! Who are you?
Antonio. We are true men, sir.
Ossario. True men, give the word - and pass.
Old Play.
Walter. Only a pleasant jest, I do assure you.
The borry Joke.
When the two men descended the ravine leading to the shore, the sun was half an hour above the horizon. Before they left the mouth of the ravine, they dismounted, at the suggestion of Captain Marston, and fastened their horses to the drooping branches of a tree which grew by the side of the road. The animals were, in this situation, out of sight of the place of rendezvous. The companions having thus made their horses secure, advanced to the shore.
The novelist, and even the poet, could find no lovelier locality, ready created for the scenes of fancied grief and pleasures, than that contained within lines embracing Saint Leonard’s Creek and its immediate adjuncts. Not only is the stream itself—especially in the fair expanse near its junction with the river, which is now supposed to lie glowing and dimpling in the morning sunshines with varying lights and shadows, before the reader’s mental eyes—remarkably beautiful; but all around it—every bill and dale, every field and grove, every jutting promontory and retiring cove—partakes of the same character of pre-eminent loveliness.
On the southern side of the expanse mentioned is a broad beach of white sand. From the side of a cliff which towers above this beach flows a fountain of water, very pure, clear, and cold, and equally abundant at all seasons of the year. This fountain is known throughout a large district of surrounding country as the Spout, and is some fifty yards from the spot where the road, leading down the ravine before-mentioned, enters upon the sands.
Just as Captain Marston and John Coe stepped upon the shore, and were turning to the left hand to seek the fountain, a short and stout man, about forty years of age, with long, curling locks of reddish-brown hair, and a face very darkly tanned by sun and breeze, and, probably, by battle, too—to judge by the marks upon his countenance—presented himself before them.
“Stand!” exclaimed this individual, planting himself directly in front of the two young men, and presenting a cocked pistol in each hand.
“We’ll see about that,” said John Coe, sternly, drawing a pistol also.
But Captain Marston placed a hand upon the arm of the angry young man.
“Don’t be so fast, John,” he said. “Don’t you see the twinkle in the fellow’s eyes? I am disposed to believe that this is but a jest after all. What do you want?” he continued, addressing the sailor.
“No one can go beyond this spot,” answered the stranger, “without giving the password.”
“A F E?” said Captain Marston, interrogatively.
“There seems to be something in that,” remarked the sailor; “but it will not answer.”
“How will this answer?” asked the captain. “‘All for Each?’”
“All right,” was the reply; “pass, gentlemen.”
As the two young men walked forward, they were followed by the sailor, who still held the two pistols in his hands.
On arriving in front of the Spout, they found a beautiful row-boat, the bow of which just touched the shore. It was manned by four sturdy seamen, whose hands rested upon their oars, which were ready placed in their rowlocks. A boy, apparently between fifteen and sixteen years of age, in straw hat and light blue trousers and jacket, occupied the stern seat. This last-mentioned person was remarkably handsome; his face was beautifully oval in its shape; its complexion was a pale brunette (if I may use the phrase), there being in it no tinge of red. His form was slender and graceful; his large, soft black eyes had a thoughtful, or rather a dreamy expression, and masses of jet-black curls hung down below his shoulders.
“Jump aboard, gentlemen,” said the sailor in fancy dress; “the time is fully arrived, and we shall be expected as soon as we can make the distance. If we don’t go at once, somebody will be disappointed.”
“A moment, if you please, sir,” said John, in a sarcastic tone and manner, and with a darkening expression of face. “May I claim the honour of knowing your name?”
“Certainly, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a mock-ceremonious bow, which did not tend to cool the rising wrath of young Coe. “My name is William Brown, better known as Billy Bowsprit. This latter name may seem, unaccompanied by a proper explanation, to derogate from the dignity of the fair position which I occupy in maritime society, and with which, by-the-bye, I will presently make you acquainted. But it originated in what was, in fact, a compliment to my wit and my other good qualities. A highly intelligent gentleman, of French inclinations—having probably been born of such a disposition, seeing that he was a native of Paris—once did me the honour, on account of some slight jocular remark which fell from me in a social hour, of saying that I was a beau esprit. The rude, unlettered sailors,” he waved a hand towards those in the row-boat, “have, in their ignorance, manufactured out of this compliment the absurd name of Bowsprit. I submit to the soubriquet, partly because those who use it do not know any better, but mainly because it intimates a just compliment, seeing that, as the bowsprit is in advance of the ship, so do I take the lead of all on shipboard in all affairs where either sagacity or boldness is required.”
“Well, Mr Brown,” began young Coe—
“Allow me, if you please, sir,” said Bowsprit, interrupting him, and making at the same time a low and apologetic bow; “I have not yet finished the catalogue of myself, a desire to become acquainted with which was intimated in your polite and very flattering inquiry. Permit me to add, to what I have already said, that I fill the honourable post of first-mate on board of as beautiful a little craft as eye was ever blessed with seeing.”
The reader will, perhaps, be surprised at the great apparent improvement in the language of Billy Bowsprit since his first introduction in the second chapter. The fact is, that individual had received what is called a good ordinary education, and prided himself upon his ability to talk in either good English, or in what he styled “sailors’ lingo.”
“Well, Mr Brown, better known as Billy Bowsprit,” said John Coe, in a tone of voice expressive of both anger and resolution, as soon as the voluble sailor gave him an opportunity of speaking, “I wish you to know that I do not allow myself to be dealt with in this summary manner. I shall return home, and any man who interferes with me will do so at his imminent peril.”
Saying this, he drew both of his pistols, setting the hammers with his thumbs in the act of drawing them from his pockets.
Billy Bowsprit raised the pistol which was in his right hand, and was about to pull the trigger, when at a slight and rapid sign from Captain Marston, who stood a little in the rear of young Coe, he suddenly pointed the muzzles of both pistols towards the ground. At the same moment the captain drew both of his pistols also, and placed himself by the side of John.
“Come,” he said, addressing Billy Bowsprit in a really stern voice, “if this is a jest—as I think it is—we have had enough of it. Tell us what you want, and what the whole of this singular affair means.”
“Why, sir,” replied the seaman, in a somewhat crestfallen tone, “no harm has been meant to either of you all the while; and if this young gentleman,” looking at John, “hadn’t been quite so fiery, everything would have been explained to you some time ago. The fact is, my captain is an old acquaintance of both of you; he hasn’t seen either of you for years, and so is very anxious to see you both, if only for a short time. He wants you to come and take breakfast with him this morning. He had business with the schooner up the river here as far as Benedict, to land a cargo of goods. He has to get to Baltimore as soon as possible, but was determined to see you both first. So he landed me early yesterday morning, on this side of the river, opposite Benedict, to carry a message to you. But not knowing the latitude and longitude of that part of the country, I was obliged to take bearings and to make observations so often, that I did not arrive in your neighbourhood till after midnight; and I did not of course like to waken up families who were strangers to me at such a time of night. The notion about the cards was one of my own—a kind of experiment. I know how much curiosity there is in the world; and I felt certain, therefore, of seeing you two gentlemen here this morning.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr Bowlegs—I beg your pardon—Bowsprit,” said the captain. “You seem to be somewhat of a philosopher; you carry out a plan with so much coolness, so much self-possession, beings always on your guard neither to act nor to speak hastily or unadvisedly.”
There was evidently sarcasm, if not irony, in the captain’s remarks.
The sailor bowed merely; he seemed to be, to use a common expression, “struck dumb.”
Young Coe laughed heartily. Yet he must doubtless have felt somewhat abashed at the conviction that Marston’s course of treating the affair as a farce was decidedly more successful than his own, of viewing it as a melodrama.
There was silence for a minute or two, during which all the pistols which had been drawn were put out of sight. At length the stillness was broken by a question from John.
“How did you manage to get your card or note into my room?” he asked of the sailor.
“Allow me to keep that secret to myself,” answered Billy Bowsprit, with a smile, holding out in his hand at the same time, however, several skeleton keys. “But you are not to suppose, Mr Coe, that these keys show that I have any bad habits; I have never used them except in such innocent ventures as the present.”
John took the skeleton keys in his hand; he had never seen such instruments before.
“I don’t think,” he remarked, returning the keys, “that any one of those could possibly unlock my outer door.”
“One must understand the use of them,” replied Billy Bowsprit. “I have others, however.”
“How did you so readily make your way to this point!” asked Captain Marston of Billy Bowsprit.
“Why, sir,” was the reply, “I have been over this road before, many years ago now. On that occasion, I was for a short time at the houses of both your father and Mr Coe. I came here because this was the place where this boat here was to meet you two gentlemen and myself.”
“Who is this friend of ours who wants to see us, Mr Bowsprit—I mean Mr Brown?” asked John.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” was the answer. “My captain particularly ordered me not to tell you; he wanted, he said, to give you a pleasant surprise.”
“What do you say, John?” asked Captain Marston. “Shall we accept the invitation of this unknown friend?”
“If we knew what to do with our horses,” said John, “and I could get a note home to tell them what has become of me, I should say ‘yes’ at once.”
“If that is all that is in the way, gentlemen,” said Mr Brown, alias Bowsprit, “get your notes ready at once. Here, Tom,” he continued, addressing the youth who was sitting on the stern seat of the row-boat, “do you knew the way to Millmont and to Blue Oldfields?”
“If I don’t, I can inquire for it, sir,” answered the boy.
“Then, as soon as you get the notes which these gentlemen want you to deliver at their houses,” said Bowsprit, “take their horses, which you will find just behind those trees, there,” pointing, “where the road corners with the shore; and as soon as you can do so, deliver notes and horses to their proper addresses. You will then walk down to Drum Point, where we shall be by that time, and we will there take you aboard.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the boy.
While these directions were being given, Captain Marston had drawn a note-book and a couple of lead-pencils from his pocket. Tearing a blank leaf from the book, he handed that and one of the pencils to John. Using their hats as writing-desks, the two young men soon finished their notes and handed them to the boy, who immediately started on his mission.
The four men in the boat had been merely lookers-on and listeners in respect to what had been taking place on the shore.
When the boy took his departure, Captain Marston, John Coe, and Billy Bowsprit leaped into the boat.
“Will you steer, Captain Marston, if you please?” asked Bowsprit.
“With pleasure,” answered the captain. “Then, if Mr Coe will take his seat with you at the stern,” said the sailor, “I will take my place at the bow, and act as lookout.”
The seats were taken, and the boat having been driven from the shore by one or two backward strokes of the oars, her head was turned down the creek. The supple rowers bending “with a will” to the elastic blades, the light craft fleetly bounded on her course over the glowing tide of Saint Leonard’s, towards the broad Clearwater, which lay before them in the morning sunshine as ever bright and beautiful.
Sebastian. How are you, friends?
I’m very glad to see you.
As You Will.
Toby. Who are these men, sir?
Wily Will. They’re travellers only.
The Masquerade.
The row-boats, carrying John, Captain Harry Marston, Billy Bowsprit, and the four seamen, leaving the mouth of Saint Leonard’s Creek, entered upon that largest and fairest of the several lake-like expanses of the Clearwater—being six miles in length and three in width—which lies between Point Patience on the south-east, and Solitary Point on the north-west.
On gaining an offing sufficient to give the occupants of the boat a view commanding the whole expanse, only one vessel was in sight. This was a graceful little schooner, of about thirty tons burden, which lay at anchor on a part of the river called the Flats, situate on the eastern side of the stream; she was in a position south-east of Otter Point, directly in front of Hungerford’s Creek, and about a mile and a half from Point Patience. An easy row of three-quarters of an hour over the crystal-like waters, which were but slightly stirred by a slight wind, brought the boat from the Spout alongside of this schooner.
A vessel so small required no steps to ascend her sides, and the occupants of the row-boat soon leaped upon the deck. They were there met by a young man about five feet and a half in height, with blue eyes, light flaxen hair, and cheeks which, originally fair, were somewhat tanned by exposure to sun, wind, and weather. He was dressed in roundabout and pantaloons of light blue cloth, pumps, and light straw hat.
“How are you, John? how are you, Harry?” he exclaimed, shaking hands with Coe and Marston, with much appearance of cordiality. “I am very glad to see you. I hope that you are not offended with the ruse which I used to bring you to see me for a short time? I feared that, if you knew who it was, you would not take the trouble to come to see me.”
Both of the young men assured him that a ruse was not at all necessary; it was nearly preventing them from coming, and that, had they only known at once that it was their old school-friend, George Dempster, who wanted to see them, there would have been no hesitation on their part in coming to visit him.
John Coe was much surprised at finding George Dempster—who had been his classmate at Princeton, and who was the oldest son of a planter in good circumstances on the eastern shore of Maryland—occupying the position of skipper of a small bay-craft; politeness, however, prevented him from making any allusion to what seemed to him so singular.
Captain Dempster—to give him the title generally bestowed in courtesy upon the commander of the smallest trading craft, on the Chesapeake Bay, at least—invited his old friends to come at once into his cabin.
Here a mahogany table was handsomely set out, being spread with a fine linen diaper cloth, and being covered with a porcelain breakfast-set. Cushioned mahogany seats for four surrounded the table.
The steward—or he who in a vessel so small generally performs the duties of both that officer and of cook—had apparently already received his orders, for scarcely had the captain, his mate, and his two friends entered the cabin, when breakfast was placed on the table. Fragrant coffee, light rolls, fresh butter, ham and eggs, fried crocuses and soft crabs, formed the repast.
“You may think it strange, my friends,” said Captain Dempster, while the party of four were partaking of the meal, for which the bracing morning air and their early ride and row had given my hero and Captain Marston keen appetites, “that you find me in this position. The matter is easily explained, however. It is due to a compromise, agreed to by my father and myself, between my extreme views in favour of a life on the ocean and his extreme views in favour of a life for me on the land. Thus I can indulge, to a limited extent, my preference for a seafaring life, and he can enjoy what he honours me by calling the pleasure of seeing me frequently. I confess that I would much prefer a life on the open sea; but one must not be disobedient to an affectionate and generally indulgent father.”
While the three friends—Mr Bowsprit had left the table, as soon as his appetite was satisfied, to attend to duties upon deck—sat over their claret, talking of “old days,” as, even when young, we fondly call them, hours sped on. In the meantime the anchor had been secured on board, the sails hoisted, and the vessel had laid her course down the river, impelled by a light wind from the west. Point Patience was soon rounded, and in two hours and a half or three hours from the time of leaving her anchorage, the schooner had passed down the lowest reach of Clearwater, and had rounded to at the extreme end of Drum Point, to take on board the lad who had been sent to deliver the horses and notes of John Alvan Coe and Captain Marston to their respective homes. The boy made excellent speed, and was waiting at the place of rendezvous when the schooner was still some miles from the Point.
“Why, Dempster,” said young Coe, seeing that they had passed Drum Point Harbour, “you are not going out upon the bay, are you?”
“I have to take off a load of cord-wood,” was the answer, “from the shore near the old Eltonhead Manor House, this side of Cove Point. We shall there be but little farther from your home than here at Drum Point; and I want to see all that I can of both of you. But think, Coe, of my carrying a load of fire-wood to Baltimore!
“‘To what base uses we may come, Horatio.’”
“But how are Marston and myself to get home this evening?” asked John.
“Oh! as to that matter,” was the answer, “I can borrow horses from Mr Chew, whose house is but a few miles from Eltonhead; and the boy Tom, who took your horses home this morning, can go with you, and bring back the animals. But I hope that you will not return until the morning. Let me spend at least one evening with you.”
“What do you say, Marston?” asked John, who was enjoying the society of his friends very much. “I have not seen that lonely old Eltonhead house since I was a schoolboy, and I should like to see it again, especially if we could visit it ‘by the glimpses of the moon’ to-night, since it has now, and has had for some time, I believe, the reputation of being haunted. I hardly think that they would feel uneasy at home on account of my continued absence, as I merely said in my note that I was going to visit a friend on board of his vessel.”
“If you are agreed, let us stay,” replied Marston. “I should like to revisit the old house myself, especially as you say, to
“‘Visit it by the pale moonlight.’”
“And, if you gentlemen desire it,” said Captain Dempster, “I will have some hammocks swung this evening in the old manor house. We will pass the night there, and will thus—to take a liberty with Sir Walter Scott’s verse—dare
“‘To brave the witches in their den,
The spirits in their hall.’”
This proposition being very agreeable to both Coe and Marston, they consented to continue as Captain Dempster’s guests until the morning.
The three young men remained upon deck to enjoy the glorious day and the beautiful and rapidly shifting scenes presented to their view, as the schooner skirted, within a few hundred yards of the beach, the northern shore of Patuxent Roads—a sheet of water which is, in fact (as I have before mentioned, I think), a gulf or widening of the Chesapeake Bay at the mouth of the Clearwater river. While the three friends were gaily chatting, inspired by the cheering influence of their surroundings, Mr Bowsprit walked up to the commander of the craft.
“Captain Dempster,” he said, “I think those sailors in the hold and forecastle will be getting into a state of mutiny soon, if we don’t let them come out upon deck. They say that their quarters are too close.”
“Tell them,” replied the skipper, “they can come up as soon as they please; we are now fairly out of the Clearwater—at least, out of sight of Drum Point Harbour.”
The sheet of water called Patuxent Roads is by some considered to be a part of the Clearwater river.
“These men of whom Mr Brown speaks,” continued Captain Dempster, addressing his two friends, “are some newly-discharged United States seamen, whom I am taking to Baltimore. I had a load of freight to carry from Baltimore to Portsmouth. At the latter place these men applied to me for passage to the former city. I told them that I had freight to take from Portsmouth to Benedict, and then a load of wood to carry to Baltimore. As they did not care much for the delay, I bargained to take them to Baltimore, and to charge them only for what their board while on the schooner might be worth, on condition that they would help us to load and to unload. I did not wish so many men to be seen on board of my craft while in the river, since such an incident would probably subject me to the delay of a search by the revenue officer, who, having but very little to do, naturally wishes to make the most of his office.”
About thirty rough, sunburnt and weather-beaten men now came upon the deck. Among them was almost every variety of dress which nautical fashions then allowed; but the cloth roundabouts and tarpaulin hats prevailed. They kept away from the after-part of the deck, gathering in groups amidships and towards the bow. They seemed to be in fine spirits, as frequent bursts of somewhat subdued laughter came from the different groups. Little did young Coe think that he was the subject of their merriment.
It was scarcely half an hour after these men came upon deck when the schooner anchored about fifty yards from the beach, at a point where long ranks of pine and oak cord-wood were ranged along the edge of the cliff, which was here but from twenty to twenty-five feet high. A large flatboat, oblong in shape, and of the kind commonly called “scow,” was lying on rollers far up on the beach and close under the cliff.
As soon as the anchor was dropped overboard and the sails lowered and secured, the row-boat—which had been hanging from the davits at the stern of the schooner since the lad had been taken aboard at Drum Point—was forthwith let down into the water. It had to make three trips from the schooner to the shore before the unusually large number of hands were all landed. Then the scow was at once pushed into the water. Some of the seamen soon ascended the cliff by a small ravine near at hand; and the work of throwing down the wood to the beach, pitching it to the water’s edge, and piling it into the scow was at once commenced.
Our hero and his two friends passed the rest of the day, to all appearances, very pleasantly together; there was so much to say to each other of what young people call, queerly enough, “old times,” so much that each had to tell to the others of what had occurred to himself since their last meeting. About an hour after the schooner came to anchor they took their dinner—which comprised “all the luxuries of the season”—in the elegant little cabin. Mr Bowsprit was present at this meal, and added to the enjoyment of it by his unique and pleasant sallies. This joyous individual was with them only at dinner; his duty required him to attend to the loading of the vessel. The dinner of the hands, by the way, was sent ashore to them, and eaten under the shade of the trees upon the cliff.
A prisoner, didst thou say? O, gracious heaven!
Have mercy on my parents and my friends,
And for uncertainty let them not too long suffer!
Oh speedily set me free! - Anon.
Cyrus. Who art thou, fair and gentle princess?
Myranda. Knight,
I am, alas! unfortunate; but yet
I wish thee well, and fain would do thee service.
Romance of Sir Cyrus.
I will not do it, lady; speak no more.
The Tempted.
About half an hour after the dinner was concluded, the three young friends were taken ashore in the jolly-boat. Leaving the beach, they pursued a path through a dense forest for about half a mile, when they came into a small opening in the woods, in the centre of which stood the old brick building known as Eltonhead Manor House, surrounded by its out-houses, all of brick. The opening in which this old-time mansion stood had evidently been in former days much more extensive, for among the small pine-trees covering the ground in the part of the forest nearest to the old house, the earth still distinctly bore the impress of corn-rows the marks of former cultivation of that species of grain first obtained from the red man.
Desolation marked the spot. The yard and garden walls were broken down in many places; the gate at the end of the short avenue had fallen and now lay in ruins. The shade trees in the yard and avenue needed pruning; scions from their roots had sprang up in all directions. Even at this early season weeds spread over the yard and garden, and closed the gateways; yet the building itself was in comparatively good preservation.
It was not by any means such a mansion as in Great Britain would be suggested to the mind by the title of manor house. It was built of bricks imported from England, and the walls were of such thickness that, though time had, in passing over them, stamped his impress upon them in weather-stains and moss and lichen, they stood, apparently, as firm as when first erected. The house, was two stories high; on the floor of the first storey, a wide hall passing through the centre of the buildings with two very large rooms on each side of it. The second storey, and the attic to some extent, corresponded to the first; a broad staircase led upwards from the hall on the ground floor. Some pieces of old and almost worn-out furniture remained in the building, one or two heavy old tables, and a dozen or so huge and very old-fashioned oaken chairs. In one of the rooms downstairs were two or three rude settees or benches, left by some tenant who had used the premises since they had been deserted by their proper occupants.
During the afternoon Captain Dempster and his guests rambled through the woods and along the bay shore. When they had concluded their ramble and returned to the old manor house, the shades of twilight were gathering. They found that three hammocks, intended for their night’s rest, had been swung in one of the large rooms of the second storey, and in another room on the same floor, a plentiful and well-lighted board was spread for supper. On a chair beside the supper table was an open hamper of champagne, beside which was a pack of playing cards. The intention of Captain Dempster was declared by himself to be to pass the evening at whist, admitting Mr Brown, alias Billy Bowsprit, to complete the necessary party of four; the game to be enlivened by an occasional glass of wine. No game of whist was played that evening, however. John Coe, after he had finished his supper and taken one or two glasses of champagne, was obliged to plead overwhelming drowsiness, which he attributed to the interesting character and unusual excitement of the day.
Although early in going to bed, yet it was late in the morning when the young man awoke. On looking around him he found that the other hammocks in the room were vacant.
Springing out of bed he hurried to the door; it was locked. The windows were all down. On throwing open the sash of one of them and looking out, he saw a man with a musket on his shoulder, who was promenading to and fro in the yard below, and keeping an eye on the windows of his room. It seemed, then, that he was guarded as if a prisoner. He called out to the man who was apparently keeping watch in the court below.
“What do you want?” asked the guard.
“Where are Captain Dempster and Captain Marston?” exclaimed John.
“I don’t know of whom you are talking,” answered the guard. “I only know that Captain Vance and Lieutenant Seacome took supper with you last night, after which you got drunk, and had to be put to bed; and that Captain Vance—my captain—said that you were on no account to leave the house. That is all I know about the matter, sir.”
“I was not drunk,” said young Coe. “I took but two glasses of wine after supper. There must be some mistake somewhere. The gentlemen with whom I supped last night are two of my oldest friends. I never dreamed that they were capable, nor can I yet believe that they are, of treachery towards me.”
“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” said the man with the musket. “I only know that our orders are not only to keep you within this house, but not to let any one come near enough to the house to hear a human voice from it, even when raised to its highest pitch. We are also ordered, if you make a very loud call, to shoot you at once. We have nearly thirty men here; guards are placed all round the building, and scouts are spread through the country for a mile round. My own impression is, Mr Coe (that is your name I believe)—but it is, after all, only my opinion, mind you—that you are a very close prisoner. Moreover, I believe that I am authorised in saying to you that you are a prisoner to men from whom no one ever escaped alive. So, close your window, and make the best of your situation.”
John left the window, and walked to the door, which he found locked.
On turning his face from the door he noticed, for the first time, in his astonishment at his situation, that a table was already neatly spread, near the middle of the room, with a clean, white damask table cloth, upon which a handsome breakfast-set of china-ware was arranged, with chairs, plates, knives and forks, cups and saucers, for two; but no viands were yet set out upon the board.
The sight of the table so spread, creating in him a fear of being surprised by the entrance of a visitant before his toilet was completed, caused him to hurry on his dress. He found a pair of pistols in his pockets; they seemed to be his own, but on examining them closely, he found not the private mark which he had placed on each of them, soon after they were purchased, to distinguish them from Henry Marston’s. It was evident that the re-exchange of pistols, by which his own should have been returned to him, had either been overlooked, or intentionally avoided by his captors the night before.
Scarcely had his hasty toilet been completed, for which he had found in the room water, towels and soap, looking-glass, combs, brushes, shaving instruments, and even scented oils and waters—when the door opened, and two of the seamen came in, bringing the covers for breakfast. They placed upon the table the dishes which they carried, and then immediately retired, taking with them the three hammocks, and removing all vestiges of the room having been slept in.
Shortly after they retired, two or three light taps were given at the door, and a soft and musical female voice was heard asking permission to enter.
“Enter if you can,” he said.
The door was opened again, and what seemed to be a vision of loveliness entered. This vision was a lady, rather above than under the ordinary height, with a form as graceful as imagination can conceive. Her face was oval in shape, her complexion was very pure olive, beautifully tinged with rose. Her features were neither perfectly Grecian nor perfectly Roman, but of a style where the two were equally and beautifully blended. Her eyes were of jet-black, and of wonderful brightness, and her hair, of raven hue, was confined by a circlet of large pearls, with a single brilliant just above the forehead, and fell, in heavy and tastefully-arranged masses of curls, all round her head, to below her shoulders. Her dress was of rich black silk, elegantly fitted to her shape, and ornamented, on the flounces of the skirt and above the elbows of the loose sleeves, with thick and glossy fringes of the same hue and material as the dress. Light golden bracelets, ornamented each with pearls and a single diamond, encircled her wrists. As she advanced into the room, her very small and well-shaped feet—covered with a pair of light, black satin slippers, with high heels, and festooned with light gold buckles, flashing with tiny jewels—peeped in and out from under the sweeping folds of her skirt.
This lady advanced gracefully to the head of the table, making an elegant courtesy to the astonished John, and inviting him, by a polite motion of the head, to take a seat.
“A pleasant morning to you, Mr Coe,” she said.
“I should thank you for your good wish,” answered the young man; “but, lady, I am a prisoner, I am informed. I have, it seems, been betrayed by those whom I thought my friends. Oh, madam! of all the pains in the world, the greatest is that which is caused by having been betrayed by those in whom we had unlimited faith.”
“There are cases in which that which seems to be treason is friendship in disguise. It was no wish to do you injury which caused you to be taken prisoner; but your friends wished to have you always with them. Had harm been intended towards you, I should not have been left here; it was thought that I might devise ways of making captivity more bearable to you. I fear that this opinion only flattered me.”
John was young, and therefore impressible; he could but feel the spell of so dazzling a presence. What could he do but make such answer as the lady had sought to obtain?
“So much beauty, madam,” he said with empressement, “has power to lessen the pain of the most wretched captivity.”
“You are improving vastly,” said the lady, with a bright and fascinating smile. “We shall, I see, be very good friends, indeed. But the fact that we shall have to pass nearly, if not quite two weeks together, requires that you should have for me some less formal title than ‘madam.’ Call me, hereafter, Ada.”
“You still leave me in doubt, madam. I cannot take the liberty of addressing you familiarly by your Christian name.”
The lady seemed for a moment to be in thought. “Know me then,” she at length said, “as Miss Ada Revere.”
“Your face is strangely familiar to me,” said John.
“You saw me yesterday morning,” answered the lady, with a sad smile, “at the Spout on Saint Leonard’s Creek. You remember the lad who took charge of your and Captain Marston’s notes and horses?”
Young Coe’s countenance expressed much surprise and interest. But Miss Revere gave him no opportunity to speak.
“But I have known you much longer ago than that,” she continued, after making but little pause—“long before either of us knew that there was evil or deceit in the world. I may, perhaps, by-and-bye tell you my sad history,”—an expression of intense pain passed over the beautiful face—“this is no time for such a narrative. Your own position requires consideration and action; and our first thoughts must be given to that.”
“Can you explain to me,” asked John, “why I was captured, and why I am held as a prisoner?”
“Yes,” answered the lady; “and I am authorised to give you the information which you ask. I was not at the store at Drum Point the night before last, when you were seen by Captain Vance to look in at the window while certain goods were being conveyed to their secret depository; but I know all that took place. Ruin to Mr Ashleigh, and great injury to all connected with the brig would have been the certain result of your making publicly known what you had discovered. The first thought was to pursue and capture you at once; and the attempt to do so was made. That attempt was, as you know, a failure. The proposition was then made, as you were known to more than one of the brig’s company, to seize you at once at your father’s house. This proposition was made by one whom I hate, a man the enormity of whose villainy I have no words to express; I have no doubt that, had his proposal been acceded to, you would have been killed instead of captured. Captain Marston saved you from such a fate; he thought you might be enticed from your home, and even induced to join the ship’s company. He has a great affection for you, as an old schoolmate and friend; he has told me, with his own lips, that there is no living man for whom he has greater regard than for yourself.”
“I do not, without much painful feeling, oppose a lady’s views,” said our hero, “and yours seem to agree with those of Captain Marston; but it would not be fair in me to allow you to entertain opinions so incorrect as are Captain Marston’s respecting my character. True, I have been made a prisoner in the manner in which he had thought that I could be captured; so far his views were correct. But he does not understand my character entirely: I can be led—alas! too easily—even perhaps, to do what my moral sense disapproves of; but I cannot be driven. Had I been attacked in my father’s house by open force, I do not think that I should have been captured; I had arms at hand, and should have resisted to the death. My father is himself a strong, sensible, and brave man; the negroes would have fought for both. We might, at least, have held out until the neighbourhood could have been aroused; and the result, instead of being disastrous to me, might have been ruinous to the assailants. As to Captain Marston’s impression that I might be induced to join a ship’s company, or any other company, engaged in illicit trade—especially without my father’s consent—such a notion proves that he understands, and but to a small extent, only the outride of my character; while my inner and real life is to him a thoroughly sealed book.”
The lady reflected for some moments. She hardly knew how to act with the case before her. She saw clearly that he felt the power of her beauty; but that beauty, she began to think, would have no influence to change his opinions. She had been placed in the position in which we find her for the purpose of inducing young Coe to join the company of the brig; she was authorised to offer him a new office in that company which was to be created especially for him, that of commander of a kind of marine corps, to be organised especially on his account, and the chief officer of which organisation, should he become popular with his men, might have the power to defy the authority of the captain of the brig himself, or even to supersede him.
Miss Ada Revere, as she called herself, determined, after some reflection, to pursue the subject no further for the present.
“We shall be prisoners in this house, Mr Coe,” she added, after a few moments’ silence, “for some weeks, while the Sea-bird is discharging and receiving freight, and perhaps undergoing some necessary repairs. In the meantime, it will be my duty to use my best efforts to make your captivity bearable. We have the materials here for chess, draughts, and backgammon. I sing a little, and also play upon several musical instruments; but only one instrument of the kind is here—a guitar. Should you wish to take a glass of wine, there are specimens of several vintages at hand. And believe, at any rate, that, whatever may happen, I am entirely your friend.”
The lady was evidently in earnest in this last declaration. John made a proper acknowledgment; and in a few moments the two were engaged in a game of chess.
Othario. Remove the prisoner; the foe is near.
The Sea Witch.
He manned himself with dauntless air,
Returned the chief his haughty stare.
* * * * *
Come one, come all!
* * * * *
Fear nought - nay, that I need not say—
But doubt not aught from mine array.
Thou art my guest.
Lady of the Lake.
More than a week passed, and still John Coe was a prisoner at the old manor house. No chance of escape presented itself; and neither offers of money nor threats affected his guards. Yet, but for the name of captivity, and the thought of what might be in store for him in the future, his time would have passed pleasantly. Miss Ada Revere—as the lady chose to call herself—exerted all her talents and accomplishments to cause his time to pass agreeably. Games at chess and cards, books of poetry and romance, music of the guitar, and songs sung with charming taste, and accompanied by that fascinating instrument, varied her day and evening entertainments for the prisoner.
As great as was the interest which he felt in her who made his captivity pleasant, and as much aroused, therefore, as was his curiosity to know what was meant by her declaration that he and she had known each other in earlier days, he could not induce her to tell him to what she referred; he could only obtain from her the promise that she would at some future time make him acquainted with her history.
Miss Ada Revere had been commissioned by those who held John in captivity, not only to make his imprisonment more bearable, but also to endeavour to persuade him to join Captain Vance’s band. In the former task the reader has seen that she was successful; but the latter seemed to her to be so hopeless, that she did not even attempt it; she contented herself by persuading him to yield so far to circumstances as to pretend to be inclined to join them, that he might by such means have some chance of securing an opportunity to escape. The violent indignation—to call the feeling by a mild name—which young Coe entertained against his pretended friends, Marston and Dempster, he made no secret of to the lady; but the earnest desire which he cherished to have each of them before him at the pistol’s mouth, or at the sword’s point, he kept to himself.
Some ten or twelve days after that upon which young Coe had been so skilfully allured to imprisonment at the old manor house, the brig Sea-bird Captain Henry Marston, dropped anchor off the Eltonhead landing. She had needed no repairs, and her unlading and relading in Baltimore had been executed with the greatest despatch.
Without resistance John allowed himself to be taken from the manor house on board the brig. Where opposition would have been certainly unavailing, the attempt to make it would have been only a compromise of his dignity.
As the moon was in its first quarter, that orb had long since set when the long-boat and jolly-boat belonging to the brig returned from the shore to the vessel, both heavily laden with the men who had been left at the manor house—those in the smaller boat having young Coe among them as prisoner. A single lantern, held by one of the seamen at the gangway, showed but a dim outline of the deck and rigging of the brig, as those newly arrived climbed her sides. John had but a short time to make observations, as he was at once hurried down into the after-cabin, and through that into a small and neat state-room forward of it. He parted with Miss Ada Revere immediately on gaining the deck. There was much expression of pain and uneasiness in the face of the mysterious young girl when she shook hands, on parting with the prisoner at the gangway, and whispered to him “Be firm and hopeful, and do not give way to anger, however just.”
When all had embarked, the boats were secured on deck, the anchor lifted, the sails hoisted, and the brig, impelled by a fair and light but freshening breeze from the north, sped on her course over the broad, bold waters of the Chesapeake towards the wide Atlantic.
When a bright and cloudless morning, near the middle of June, arose in beauty over the wide and flashing expanse of the lower Chesapeake, Old Point Comfort lay in sight, but far away on the starboard-bow. A number of bay-craft, and a few sea-going vessels were scattered here and there, at points nearer or more distant, over the bright surface. The smoke of no steamer was seen; such vessels were at that period very rare, not only on the waters of the Chesapeake, but over the whole world.
At this time, John was confined to his state-room; he had risen and dressed, but, on trying the door of his room, had found it locked. None of the seamen, either, except those consisting of the watch, were allowed to come upon deck while the brig was in such confined waters; such a large number of hands being seen would not comport with the Sea-bird’s character of a peaceful merchant vessel.
The wind continuing to blow fair, although still somewhat light, the afternoon had advanced but two or three hours when the brig had passed out between the capes and was at sea, and entirely out of sight of land. All were now allowed to come upon deck, John among them, to find upon the quarter-deck Captains Marston and Dempster. Near to them stood Mr Bowsprit, Mr Afton, and Ada Revere—the latter wearing her sailor-boy dress. The rest of the crew were mostly on the deck amidships; some few were in the bows, and a group was gathered but a little forward of the quarter-deck.
“Well, John,” said Captain Marston, “I hope that you have made up your mind to join us. I can offer you a respectable position. We have very nearly fifty men, all told. I shall form thirty of these into a company of marines, and offer you the post of commander of this newly-made corps. But, before I proceed any farther, let me introduce you to some of your new shipmates. This old friend of ours, whom you know now, I suppose, as my first-mate, Mr Dempster, becomes my first lieutenant, Mr Seacome, when we enter the tropics; at the same time your humble servant takes the more convenient name of Captain Vance, and this good brig, the Sea-bird, becomes the Falcon—the free rover. This is my second mate, Mr Afton, who prefers to change, under such circumstances, his title only, and to be called Second-lieutenant Afton.”
This burly and savage-looking individual growled an oath or two about not being afraid of his own name.
“This joyous individual,” continued the captain, motioning his hand towards another of the party, “is my third-mate, or lieutenant, and selects his sobriquet for his roving name—that is, Third-mate Brown becomes Third-lieutenant Bowsprit. You have already met this jolly person. You are also, I presume, well acquainted by this time, with this young gentleman, Master Revere, my clerk.”
At mentioning this last name, Captain Marston, with a slightly sarcastic expression of countenance, waved his hand towards Ada Revere. She cast her eyes to the deck, and a vivid blush spread over her beautiful face. Even in the midst of his own trouble, John could not help feeling pity for the poor girl. Often had the questions recurred to him: “What is her real position on board of this vessel? What is her history?” Sympathy with her lonely condition and the wrongs which he felt that she must have received from one leading member, at least, of the brig’s company, strengthened the indignation which he experienced on account of his own injuries, and probably caused him to forget all prudence in answering Captain Marston’s addresses to him.
“You, Captain Marston,” he said, in a firm and perfectly collected manner, and with a certain intensity of voice which intimated that he felt more than he spoke, “address me in calm tones and familiarly, as if you had done me no wrong to destroy the intimacy and kind feelings which existed between us in past years. In speaking thus, you add insult to injury; your words, manner, and voice suggesting that I am so simple, so very weak in intellect, as not to be able to appreciate the inexpressibly gross outrage which has been committed against me.”
“You do me wrong,” said Captain Marston, “in supposing for a moment that I doubt that you possess a very unusual degree of intellect. I have always considered you one of the most remarkably endowed men, both in mind and body, with whom I ever met. In what other manner could I have spoken? and what was the use of my speaking with excitement? That you must remain with us is a fixed fact. You have learned things the public knowledge of which would ruin Mr Ashleigh, implicate—if an investigation should take place—the character of some gentlemen of the highest standing in Baltimore, or even endanger their safety—to say nothing of the security and interests of those among whom you are now standing. Self-preservation is the first law of nature; and you obliged us to make and hold you a prisoner, by informing yourself wilfully of secrets important to us, and of not the least concern to you. You have yourself alone to blame for the situation in which you are placed.”
“Every citizen,” replied the spirited young man, “has not only a right, but it is his duty, if an opportunity occurs, to investigate whatsoever appears to him to be a breach of the laws of his country.”
“That remark does not affect us at all,” answered Marston, “although it may have justified, to yourself and others, your curiosity and interference. Our duty is to defend ourselves against the laws.”
“With the view which you take of the matter,” retorted John, feeling offended and irritated by Marston’s application to him of the words “curiosity and interference,” and determined to retort at all hazards to language which appeared to him personally insulting, “I should not have so much cause to complain had I been captured by open force; but my kind feelings towards yourself were played upon in a treacherous and cowardly manner to work out my own injury.”
A dark and lowering scowl came upon the face of Captain Marston, and he placed his right hand in his bosom as if to draw a weapon.
At the same instant Afton drew a pistol from one of his pockets and raised it.
“Do you dare,” he cried, “to call our captain a coward?”
Captain Marston, however, who seemed not yet to have overcome his rage sufficiently to speak, suddenly grasped Afton’s weapon, and drew it from his hand.
“This is courage, truly!” said young Coe, with bitter irony expressed in his voice, and addressing Afton. “You are very brave in assaulting an unarmed man. You would feel and act very differently if you and I were alone, and equally armed.”
“Captain,” exclaimed Afton, “what is the use of bandying words with this fool? Let us settle the matter at once by shooting him, and throwing him overboard. We needn’t fear his betraying us then. ‘Dead men tell no tales.’”
“Leave him to me,” said Captain Marston, moving his hand towards Afton. Then, addressing John, he continued—“You take advantage, John Coe, of our relative positions; you know that I, as a brave man, cannot, while surrounded by my band, resent an insult from an unarmed prisoner. If I am a smuggler—and, perhaps, even what you would call a pirate—you know that I cannot so sacrifice my manhood as to take advantage of the means at my command to punish the gross insult which you have offered me.”
“If you boast so much of your manhood, which word also implies your honour, such as it is,” said John, “and feel so wounded at what I have said, the same power which you possess over your band to bring them against me, should also be strong enough to prevent them from interfering while I render you the satisfaction for which you seem to long. Here, in the sight of your men, with no friend to see what is called fair play, I am willing to fight you with sword, pistol, or gun. Yes, I will do so, even though they may kill me, should I defeat you, the moment after; for I had as lief die as be debarred my liberty, or be obliged to yield my actions to the expediency which is merely suggested by opposing force.”
“I thank you for your proposition,” said Captain Vance, “and accept of it. You shall have a fairer contest, too, than you seem to expect. Here, Dempster, Afton, Brown.”
The officers addressed drew around their captain.
“Promise me,” said Marston, “by all the pledges that bind our association together, that if Mr Coe should succeed in killing me, he shall receive no injury for doing so; and further, that, upon his mere pledge of honour to keep secret what he has learned about us, you will land him at any port, near to our course, at which he may wish to disembark. Promise, moreover, under the same pledges, that you will not interfere in the combat about to take place between Mr Coe and myself, by deed, word, or look.”
The officers addressed, even the brutal Afton, gave the pledges required unhesitatingly, being perfectly assured that their captain would gain the victory.
“What weapons do you choose, Mr Coe?” asked Marston.
“It is for you to choose,” said John; “you have the right as the challenged party.”
“I select swords, then,” said Captain Marston; “the conqueror with that weapon is not obliged to injure his adversary.”
“You seem to consider it as granted, by that remark,” observed our hero, “that you will be successful?”
“By no means,” answered Marston.
John turned upon his adversary an inquiring and rather threatening look; but he said nothing more on the subject.
Lieutenant Dempster, or Seacome, was sent into the captain’s cabin for a pair of small-swords.
Ada Revere had looked imploringly upon Marston and Coe alternately, while the quarrel had been growing to its present condition. Anxiety and terror were both plainly expressed in her face; she had seemed, hitherto, desirous of interfering, but fearful of doing so; no doubt she had learned from much experience the danger of attempting to check Captain Marston in any of his acts. Now the prospect of an immediate conflict seemed to rouse her to action. She threw herself upon her knees between the two foes.
“Oh! I beseech you,” she cried, “let this quarrel go no farther. You know, Captain Marston, why I feel an interest in you; but you do not know that this gentleman, Mr Coe, rendered me, many years ago, one of those services which can never be forgotten. Think, gentlemen, what horror it would be to me to see one of you injured, or perhaps even killed by the other, and have pity upon me.”
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.