Peter Simple

Of all the horrors that ever I witnessed, nothing could be compared to the scene of this night. We could see nothing, and heard only the wind, before which we were darting like an arrow—to where we knew not, unless it was to certain death. Swinburne steered the boat, every now and then looking back as the waves increased. In a few minutes we were in a heavy swell, that at one minute bore us all aloft, and at the next almost sheltered us from the hurricane: and now the atmosphere was charged with showers of spray, the wind cutting off the summits of the waves, as if with a knife, and carrying them along with it as it were in its arms.

The boat was filling with water, and appeared to settle down fast. The men baled with their hats in silence, when a large wave culminated over the stern, filling us up to our thwarts. The next moment we all received a shock so violent, that we were jerked from our seats. Swinburne was thrown over my head. Every timber of the boat separated at once, and she appeared to crumble from under us, leaving us floating on the raging waters. We all struck out for our lives, but with little hope of preserving them; but the next wave dashed us on the rocks, against which the boat had already been hurled. That wave gave life to some, and death to others. Me, in Heaven’s mercy, it preserved: I was thrown so high up, that I merely scraped against the top of the rock, breaking two of my ribs. Swinburne, and eight more, escaped with me, but not unhurt: two had their legs broken, three had broken arms, and the others were more or less contused. Swinburne miraculously received no injury. We had been eighteen in the boat, of which ten escaped: the others were hurled up at our feet; and the next morning we found them dreadfully mangled. One or two had their skulls literally shattered to pieces against the rocks. I felt that I was saved, and was grateful: but still the hurricane howled—still the waves were washing over us. I crawled further up upon the beach, and found Swinburne sitting down with his eyes directed seaward. He knew me, took my hand, squeezed it, and then held it in his. For some moments we remained in this position, when the waves, which every moment increased in volume, washed up to us, and obliged us to crawl further up. I then looked around me; the hurricane continued in its fury, but the atmosphere was not so dark. I could trace, for some distance, the line of the harbour, from the ridge of foam upon the shore; and for the first time I thought of O’Brien and the brig. I put my mouth close to Swinburne’s ear, and cried out, “O’Brien!” Swinburne shook his head, and looked up again at the offing. I thought whether there was any chance of the brig’s escape. She was certainly six, if not seven miles off, and the hurricane was not direct on the shore. She might have a drift of ten miles, perhaps; but what was that against such tremendous power? I prayed for those on board of the brig, and returned thanks for my own preservation. I was, or soon should be, a prisoner, no doubt; but what was that? I thought of Celeste, and felt almost happy.

In about three hours the force of the wind subsided. It still blew a heavy gale; but the sky cleared up, the stars again twinkled in the heavens, and we could see to a considerable distance.

“It’s breaking now, sir,” said Swinburne at last, “satisfied with the injury it has done—and that’s no little. This is worst than ’94.”

“Now I’d give all my pay and prize-money, if it were only daylight and I could know the fate of the poor Rattlesnake. What do you think, Swinburne?”

“All depends upon whether they were taken unprepared, sir. Captain O’Brien is as good a seaman as ever trod a plank; but he never has been in a hurricane, and may not have known the signs and warnings which God in His Mercy has vouchsafed unto us. Your flush vessels fill easily—but we must hope for the best.”

Most anxiously did we look out for the day which appeared to us as if it never would break. At last the dawn appeared, and we stretched our eyes to every part of the offing as it was lighted up; but we could not see the brig. The sun rose, and all was bright and clear; but we looked not around us, our eyes were directed to where we had left the brig. The sea was still running high but the wind abated fast.

“Thank God!” ejaculated Swinburne, when he had directed his eyes along the coast; “she is above water, at all events!”—and looking in the direction where he pointed, I perceived the brig within two miles of the shore, dismantled, and tossing in the waves.

“I see her,” replied I, catching my breath with joy; “but—still—I think she must go on shore.”

“All depends upon whether she can get a little bit of sail up to weather the point,” replied Swinburne; “and depend upon it, Captain O’Brien knows that as well as we do.”

We were now joined by the other men who were saved. We all shook hands. They pointed out to me the bodies of our shipmates who had perished. I directed them to haul them further up, and put them altogether; and continued, with Swinburne, to watch the brig. In about half-an-hour we perceived a triangle raised; and in ten minutes afterwards, a jury-mast abaft—a try-sail was hoisted and set. Then the shears were seen forward, and in as short a time another try-sail and a storm jib were expanded to the wind.

“That’s all he can do now, Mr Simple,” observed Swinburne; “he must trust to them and to Providence. They are not more than a mile from the beach—it will be touch and go.”

Anxiously did we watch for more than half-an-hour; the other men returned to us, and joined in our speculations. At one time we thought it impossible—at another we were certain that she would weather the point. At last, as she neared it, she forged a-head: my anxiety became almost insupportable. I stood first on one leg, and then on the other, breathless with suspense. She appeared to be on the point—actually touching the rocks—“God! she’s struck!” said I.

“No!” replied Swinburne;—and then we saw her pass on the other side of the outermost rock, and disappear.

“Safe, Mr Simple!—weathered, by God!” cried Swinburne, waving his hat with joy.

“God be thanked!” replied I, overcome with delight.

Chapter Forty Eight

The devastations of the hurricane—Peter makes friends—At destroying or saving, nothing like British seamen—Peter meets with General O’Brien much to his satisfaction—Has another meeting still more so—A great deal of pressing of hands, “and all that,” as Pope says

Now that the brig was safe, we thought of ourselves. My first attention was directed to the dead bodies; and as I looked at their mangled limbs, I felt grateful to Heaven that I had been so miraculously spared. We then cast our eyes along the beach to see if we could trace any remnants of the other boats; but in vain. We were about three miles from the town, which we could perceive had received considerable damage and the beach below it was strewed with wrecks and fragments. I told the men that we might as well walk into the town, and deliver ourselves up as prisoners; to which they agreed, and we set forward, promising to send for the poor fellows who were too much hurt to accompany us.

As soon as we climbed up the rocks, and gained the inland, what a sight presented itself to us! Trees torn up by the roots in every direction—cattle lying dead—here and there the remains of a house, of which the other parts had been swept away for miles. Everything not built of solid masonry had disappeared. We passed what had been a range of negro huts, but they were levelled to the ground. The negroes were busily searching for their property among the ruins, while the women held their infants in their arms, and the other children by their sides. Here and there was the mother wailing over the dead body of some poor little thing which had been crushed to death. They took no notice of us.

About half a mile further on, to our great delight, we fell in with the crews of the other boats, who were sitting by the side of the road. They had all escaped unhurt: their boats being so much more buoyant than ours, had been thrown up high and dry. They joined us, and we proceeded on our way.

On our road we fell in with a cart blown over, under the wheel of which was the leg of the negro who conducted it. We released the poor fellow: his leg was fractured. We laid him by the side of the road in the shade, and continued our march. Our whole route was one scene of desolation and distress; but when we arrived at the town, we found that there it was indeed accumulated. There was not one house in three standing entire—the beach was covered with the remnants of bodies and fragments of vessels, whose masts lay forced several feet into the sand, and broken into four or five pieces. Parties of soldiers were busy taking away the bodies, and removing what few valuables had been saved. We turned up into the town, for no one accosted or even noticed us; and here the scene was even more dreadful. In some streets they were digging out those who were still alive, and whose cries were heard among the ruins; in others, they were carrying away the dead bodies. The lamentations of the relatives—the howling of the negroes—the cries of the wounded—the cursing and swearing of the French soldiers, and the orders delivered continually by officers on horseback, with all the confusion arising from crowds of spectators, mingling their voices together, formed a scene as dreadful as it was novel.

After surveying it for a few minutes, I went up to an officer on horseback, and told him in French that I wished to surrender myself as a prisoner.

“We have no time to take prisoners now,” replied he: “hundreds are buried in the ruins, and we must try to save them. We must now attend to the claims of humanity.”

“Will you allow my men to assist you, sir?” replied I. “They are active and strong fellows.”

“Sir,” said he, taking off his hat, “I thank you in the name of my unfortunate countrymen.”

“Show us, then, where we may be most useful.”

He turned and pointed to a house higher up, the offices of which were blown down. “There are living beings under those ruins.”

“Come, my lads,” said I: and sore as they were, my men hastened with alacrity to perform their task. I could not help them myself, my side was so painful; but I stood by giving them directions.

In half-an-hour we had cleared away so as to arrive at a poor negro girl, whose cries we had distinctly heard. We released her, and laid her down in the street, but she fainted. Her left hand was dreadfully shattered. I was giving what assistance I could, and the men were busy clearing away, throwing on one side the beams and rafters, when an officer on horseback rode up. He stood and asked me who we were. I told him that we belonged to the brig, and had been wrecked; and that we were giving what assistance we could until they were at leisure to send us to prison.

“You English are fine brave fellows,” replied he, as he rode on.

Another unfortunate object had been recovered by our men, an old white-headed negro, but he was too much mangled to live. We brought him out, and were laying him beside the negro girl, when several officers on horseback rode down the street. The one who was foremost, in a general’s uniform, I immediately recognised as my former friend, then Colonel O’Brien. They all stopped and looked at us. I told who we were. General O’Brien took off his hat to the sailors, and thanked them.

He did not recognise me, and he was passing on, when I said to him in English, “General O’Brien, you have forgotten me; but I shall never forget your kindness.”

“My God!” said he, “is it you, my dear fellow?” and he sprang from his horse, and shook me warmly by the hand. “No wonder that I did not know you; you are a very different person from little Peter Simple, who dressed up as a girl and danced on stilts. But I have to thank you, and so has Celeste, for your kindness to her. I will not ask you to leave your work of charity and kindness; but when you have done what you can, come up to my house. Any one will show it to you; and if you do not find me you will find Celeste, as you must be aware I cannot leave this melancholy employment. God bless you!” He then rode off followed by his staff.

“Come, my lads,” said I, “depend upon it we shall not be very cruelly treated. Let us work hard, and do all the good we can, and the Frenchmen won’t forget it.”

We had cleared that house, and went back to where the other people were working under the orders of the officer on horseback. I went up to him, and told him we had saved two, and if he had no objection, would assist his party. He thankfully accepted our services.

“And now, my lads,” said Swinburne, “let us forget all our bruises, and show these French follows how to work.”

And they did so—they tossed away the beams and rafters right and left, with a quickness and dexterity which quite astonished the officer and other inhabitants who were looking on; and in half-an-hour had done more work than could have possibly been expected. Several lives were saved, and the French expressed their admiration at our sailors’ conduct, and brought them something to drink, which they stood much in need of, poor fellows. After they had worked double tides, as we say, and certainly were the means of saving many lives, which otherwise would have been sacrificed.

The disasters occasioned by this hurricane were very great, owing to its having taken place at night, when the chief of the inhabitants were in bed and asleep. I was told, that most of the wood houses were down five minutes after the hurricane burst upon them. About noon there was no more work for us to do, and I was not sorry that it was over. My side was very painful, and the burning heat of the sun made me feel giddy and sick at the stomach.

I inquired of a respectable looking old Frenchman, which was the general’s house. He directed me to it, and I proceeded there, followed by my men. When I arrived, I found the orderly leading away the horse of General O’Brien, who had just returned. I desired a serjeant, who was in attendance at the door, to acquaint the general that I was below. He returned, and desired me to follow him. I was conducted into a large room, where I found him in company with several officers. He again greeted me warmly, and introduced me to the company as the officer who had permitted the ladies, who had been taken prisoners, to come on shore.

“I have to thank you, then, for my wife,” said an officer, coming up and offering his hand.

Another came up, and told me that I had also released his. We then entered into a conversation, in which I stated the occasion of my having been wrecked, and all the particulars; also, that I had seen the brig in the morning dismasted, but that she had weathered the point, and was safe.

“That brig of yours, I must pay you the compliment to say, has been very troublesome; and my namesake keeps the batteries more upon the alert than ever I could have done,” said General O’Brien. “I don’t believe there is a negro five years old upon the island who does not know your brig.”

We then talked over the attack of the privateer, in which we were beaten off. “Ah!” replied the aide-de-camp, “you made a mess of that. He has been gone these four months. Captain Carnot swears that he’ll fight you if he falls in with you.”

“He has kept his word,” replied I: and then I narrated our action with the three French privateers, and the capture of the vessel; which surprised, and, I think, annoyed them very much.

“Well, my friend,” said General O’Brien, “you must stay with me while you are on the island; if you want anything, let me know.”

“I am afraid that I want a surgeon,” replied I; “for my side is so painful, that I can scarcely breathe.”

“Are you hurt, then?” said General O’Brien, with an anxious look.

“Not dangerously, I believe,” said I, “but rather painfully.”

“Let me see,” said an officer, who stepped forward; “I am surgeon to the forces here, and perhaps you will trust yourself in my hands. Take off your coat.”

I did so with difficulty. “You have two ribs broken,” said he, feeling my side, “and a very severe contusion. You must go to bed, or lie on a sofa for a few days. In a quarter of an hour I will come and dress you, and promise you to make you all well in ten days, in return for your having given me my daughter, who was on board of the Victorine with the other ladies.” The officers now made their bows, and left me alone with General O’Brien.

“Recollect,” said he, “that I tell you once for all, that my purse, and everything, is at your command. If you do not accept them freely, I shall think you do not love us. It is not the first time, Peter, and you repaid me honourably. However, of course, I was no party to that affair; it was Celeste’s doing,” continued he, laughing. “Of course I could not imagine that it was you who was dressed up as a woman, and so impudently danced through France on stilts. But I must hear all your adventures, by-and-bye. Celeste is most anxious to see you. Will you go now, or wait till after the surgeon comes?”

“Oh now, if you please, general. May I first beg that some care may be taken of my poor men; they have had nothing to eat since yesterday, are very much bruised, and have worked hard; and that a cart may be sent for those who lie on the beach?”

“I should have thought of them before,” replied he: and I will also order the same party to bury the other poor fellows who are lying on the beach. Come now—I will take you to Celeste.

Chapter Forty Nine

Broken ribs not likely to produce broken hearts—O’Brien makes something like a declaration of peace—Peter Simple actually makes a declaration of love—Rash proceedings on all sides

I followed the general into a handsomely-furnished apartment, where I found Celeste waiting to receive me. She ran to me as soon as I entered; and with what pleasure did I take her hand, and look on her beautiful, expressive countenance! I could not say a word—neither did Celeste. For a minute I held her hand in mine, looking at her; the general stood by, regarding us alternately. He then turned round and walked to the window. I lifted the hand to my lips, and then released it.

“It appears to be a dream, almost,” said Celeste.

I could not make any reply, but continued to gaze upon her—she had grown up into such a beautiful creature. Her figure was perfect, and the expression of her countenance was so varied—so full of intellect and feeling—it was angelic. Her eyes, suffused with tears, beamed so softly, so kindly on me, I could have fallen down and worshipped her.

“Come,” said General O’Brien; “come, my dear friend, now that you have seen Celeste, the surgeon must see you.”

“The surgeon!” cried Celeste with alarm.

“Yes, my love; it is of no consequence—only a couple of ribs broken.”

I followed General O’Brien out of the room, and as I came to the door, I turned round to look at Celeste. She had retreated to the sofa, and her handkerchief was up to her eyes. The surgeon was waiting for me; he bandaged me, and applied some cooling lotion to my side, which made me feel quite comfortable.

“I must now leave you,” said General O’Brien; “you had better lie down for an hour or two, and then, if I am not back, you know your way to Celeste.”

I lay down as he requested; but as soon as I heard the clatter of the horses hoofs, as he rode off, I left the room, and hurried to the drawing room. Celeste was there, and hastened to inquire if I was much hurt. I replied in the negative, and told her that I had come down to prove it to her; we then sat down on the sofa together.

“I have the misfortune never to appear before you, Celeste, except in a very unprepossessing state. When you first saw me, I was wounded; at our next meeting I was in woman’s clothes; the last time we met I was covered with dirt and gunpowder; and now I return to you, wounded and in rags. I wonder wether I shall ever appear before you as a gentleman.”

“It is not the clothes which make the gentleman, Peter. I am too happy to see you to think of how you are dressed. I have never yet thanked you for your kindness to us when we last met. My father will never forget it.”

“Nor have I thanked you, Celeste, for your kindness in dropping the purse into the hat, when you met me trying to escape from France. I have never forgotten you, and since we met the last time, you have hardly ever been out of my thoughts. You don’t know how thankful I am to the hurricane for having blown me into your presence. When we cruised in the brig, I have often examined the town with my glass, trying to fancy that I had my eye upon the house you were in; and have felt so happy when we were close in-shore, because I knew that I was nearer to you.”

“And, Peter, I am sure I have often watched the brig, and have been so glad to see it come nearer and then so afraid that the batteries would fire at you. What a pity it is that my father and you should be opposed to each other—we might be so happy!”

“And may be yet, Celeste,” replied I.

We conversed for two hours, which appeared to be but ten minutes. I felt that I was in love, but I do not think that Celeste had any idea at the time that she was—but I leave the reader to judge, from the little conversation I have quoted, wether she was not, or something very much approaching to it.

The next morning, I went out early to look for the brig, and, to my great delight, saw her about six miles off the harbour’s mouth, standing in for the land. She had now got up very respectable jury-masts, with topgallants for topsails, and appeared to be well under command. When she was within three miles of the harbour, she lowered the jolly boat, the only one she had left, and it pulled in-shore with a flag of truce hoisted at the bows. I immediately returned to my room, and wrote a detailed account of what had taken place, ready to send to O’Brien, when the boat returned, and I, of course, requested him to send me my effects, as I had nothing but what I stood in. I had just completed my letter when General O’Brien came in.

“My dear friend,” said he, “I have just received a flag of truce from Captain O’Brien, requesting to know the fate of his boats’ crews, and permission to send in return the clothes and effects of the survivors.”

“I have written down the whole circumstances for him, and made the same request to him,” replied I; and I handed him my letter. He read it over, and returned it.

“But, my dear lad, you must think very poorly of us Frenchmen, if you imagine that we intend to detain you here as a prisoner. In the first place, your liberation of so many French subjects, when you captured the Victorine, would entitle you to a similar act of kindness; and, in the next place, you have not been fairly captured, but by a visitation of Providence, which, by the means of the late storm, must destroy all natural antipathies, and promote that universal philanthropy between all men, which your brave fellows proved that they possess. You are, therefore, free to depart with all your men, and we shall still hold ourselves your debtors. How is your side to-day?”

“Oh, very bad, indeed,” replied I; for I could not bear the idea of returning to the brig so soon, for I had been obliged to quit Celeste very soon after dinner the day before, and go to bed. I had not yet had much conversation with her, nor had I told General O’Brien how it was that we escaped from France. “I don’t think I can possibly go on board to-day, but I feel very grateful to you for your kindness.”

“Well, well,” replied the general, who observed my feelings, “I do not think it is necessary that you should go on board to-day. I will send the men and your letter, and I will write to Captain O’Brien to say that you are in bed, and will not bear moving until the day after to-morrow. Will that do?”

I thought it but a very short time, but I saw that the general looked as if he expected me to consent; so I did.

“The boat can come and return again with some of your clothes:” continued the general; “and I will tell Captain O’Brien that if he comes off the mouth of the harbour the day after to-morrow, I will send you on board in one of our boats.”

He then took my letter, and quitted the room. As soon as he was gone, I found myself quite well enough to go to Celeste, who waited for me, and I told her what had passed. That morning I sat with her and the general, and narrated all my adventures, which amused the general very much. I did not conceal the conduct of my uncle, and the hopes which I faintly entertained of being able, some day or another, to discover the fraud which had been practised, or how very unfavourable were my future prospects if I did not succeed. At this portion of my narrative, the general appeared very thoughtful and grave. When I had finished it was near dinner-time, and I found that my clothes had arrived with a letter from O’Brien, who stated how miserable he had been at the supposition of my loss, and his delight at my escape. He stated, that on going down into the cabin after I had shoved off, he, by chance, cast his eyes on the barometer, and, to his surprise, found that it had fallen two inches, which he had been told was the case previous to a hurricane. This, combined with the peculiar state of the atmosphere, had induced him to make every preparation, and that they had just completed their work when it came on. The brig was thrown on her beam ends, and lay there for half-an-hour, when they were forced to cut away the masts to right her. That they did not weather the point the next morning by more than half a cable’s length; and concluded by saying, that the idea of my death had made him so unhappy, that if it had not been for the sake of the men, it was almost a matter of indifference to him whether he had been lost or not. He had written to General O’Brien, thanking him for his kindness: and that, if fifty vessels should pass the brig, he would not capture one of them, until I was on board again, even if he were dismissed the service for neglect of duty. He said, that the brig sailed almost as fast under jury-masts as she did before, and that, as soon as I came on board, he should go back to Barbadoes. “As for your ribs being so bad, Peter, that’s all bother,” continued he; “I know that you are making arrangements for another sort of rib, as soon as you can manage it; but you must stop a little, my boy. You shall be a lord yet, as I always promised you that you should. It’s a long lane that has no turning—so good-bye.”