The Pirate

“We are too late for the money, captain: the water is already six feet above it. We must now try for the treasure.”

This intelligence appeared to check the current of the captain’s feelings.

“Now, in one word, sir,” said he to the bishop, “where is the treasure? Trifle not, or, by Heaven—!”

“Name not Heaven,” replied the bishop; “you have had my answer.”

The captain turned away, and gave some directions to Hawkhurst, who hastened below.

“Remove that boy,” said Cain to the pirates, pointing to Francisco, “Separate those two fools,” continued he, looking towards Filippo and the girl, who were sobbing in each other’s arms.

“Never!” cried Filippo.

“Throw the girl to the sharks! Do you hear? Am I to be obeyed?” cried Cain, raising his cutlass.

Filippo started up, disengaged himself from the girl, and, drawing his knife, rushed towards the captain to plunge it in his bosom.

With the quickness of lightning the captain caught his uplifted hand, and, breaking his wrist, hurled him to the deck.

“Indeed!” cried he, with a sneer.

“You shall not separate us,” said Filippo, attempting to rise.

“I do not intend it, my good lad,” replied Cain. “Lash them both together and launch them overboard.”

This order was obeyed: for the pirates not only quailed before the captain’s cool courage, but were indignant that his life had been attempted. There was little occasion to tie the unhappy pair together; they were locked so fast in each other’s arms that it would have been impossible almost to separate them. In this state they were carried to the entering-port, and cast into the sea.

“Monster!” cried the bishop, as he heard the splash, “thou wilt have a heavy reckoning for this.”

“Now bring these forward,” said Cain, with a savage voice.

The bishop and his niece were led to the gangway.

“What dost thou see, good bishop?” said Cain pointing to the discoloured water, and the rapid motion of the fins of the sharks, eager in the anticipation of a further supply.

“I see ravenous creatures after their kind,” replied the bishop, “who will, in all probability, soon tear asunder those poor limbs; but I see no monster like thyself. Teresa, dearest, fear not; there is a God, an avenging God; as well as a rewarding one.”

But Teresa’s eyes were closed—she could not look upon the scene.

“You have your choice; first torture, and then your body to those sharks for your own portion: and as for the girl, this moment I hand her over to my crew.”

“Never!” shrieked Teresa, springing from the deck and plunging into the wave.

There was a splash of contention, the lashing of tails, until the water was in a foam, and then the dark colour gradually cleared away, and nought was to be seen, but the pure blue wave and the still unsatisfied monsters of the deep.

“The screws—the screws! quick! we’ll have the secret from him,” cried the pirate-captain, turning to his crew, who, villains as they were, had been shocked at this last catastrophe. “Seize him!”

“Touch him not!” cried Francisco, standing on the hammock-netting; “touch him not! if you are men.”

Boiling with rage, Cain let go the arm of the bishop, drew his pistol, and levelled it at Francisco. The bishop threw up the arm of Cain as he fired; saw that he had missed his aim, and clasping his hands, raised his eyes to heaven in thankfulness at Francisco’s escape. In this position he was collared by Hawkhurst, whose anger overcame his discretion, and who hurled him through the entering-port into the sea.

“Officious fool!” muttered Cain, when he perceived what the mate had done. Then, recollecting himself, he cried,—“Seize that boy and bring him here.”

One or two of the crew advanced to obey his orders; but Pompey and the Kroumen, who had been attentive to what was going on, had collected round Francisco, and a scuffle ensued. The pirates, not being very determined, nor very anxious to take Francisco, allowed him to be hurried away in the centre of the Kroumen, who bore him safely to the schooner.

In the meantime Hawkhurst, and the major part of the men on board of the ship, had been tearing up the hold to obtain the valuables, but without success. The water had now reached above the orlop-deck, and all further attempts were unavailing. The ship was settling fast, and it became necessary to quit her, and haul off the schooner; that she might not be endangered by the vortex of the sinking vessel. Cain and Hawkhurst, with their disappointed crew, returned on board the schooner, and before they had succeeded in detaching the two vessels a cable’s length the ship went down with all the treasure so coveted. The indignation and rage which were expressed by the captain as he rapidly walked the deck in company with his first mate—his violent gesticulation—proved to the crew that there was mischief brewing. Francisco did not return to the cabin; he remained forward with the Kroumen, who, although but a small portion of the ship’s company, were known to be resolute and not to be despised. It was also observed that all of them had supplied themselves with arms, and were collected forward, huddled together, watching every motion and manoeuvre, and talking rapidly in their own language. The schooner was now steered to the north-westward under all press of sail. The sun again disappeared, but Francisco returned not to the cabin—he went below, surrounded by the Kroumen, who appeared to have devoted themselves to his protection. Once during the night Hawkhurst summoned them on deck, but they obeyed not the order; and to the expostulation of the boatswain’s mate, who came down, they made no reply. But there were many of the pirates in the schooner who appeared to coincide with the Kroumen in their regard for Francisco. There are shades of villainy in the most profligate of societies; and among the pirate’s crew some were not yet wholly debased. The foul murder of a holy man—the cruel fate of the beautiful Teresa—and the barbarous conduct of the captain towards Filippo and his mistress, were deeds of an atrocity to which even the most hardened were unaccustomed. Francisco’s pleadings in behalf of mercy were at least no crime; and yet they considered that Francisco was doomed. He was a general favourite; the worst-disposed of the pirates, with the exception of Hawkhurst, if they did not love him, could not forbear respecting him; although at the same time they felt that if Francisco remained on board the power even of Cain himself would soon be destroyed. For many months Hawkhurst, who detested the youth, had been most earnest that he should be sent out of the schooner. Now he pressed the captain for his removal in any way, as necessary for their mutual safety, pointing out to Cain the conduct of the Kroumen, and his fears that a large proportion of the ship’s company were equally disaffected. Cain felt the truth of Hawkhurst’s representation, and he went down to his cabin to consider upon what should be done.

It was past midnight, when Cain, worn out with the conflicting passions of the day, fell into an uneasy slumber. His dreams were of Francisco’s mother—she appeared to him pleading for her son, and Cain “babbled in his sleep.” At this time Francisco, with Pompey, had softly crawled aft, that they might obtain, if they found the captain asleep, the pistols of Francisco, with some ammunition. Pompey slipped in first, and started back when he heard the captain’s voice. They remained at the cabin-door listening. “No, no,” murmured Cain, “he must die—useless—plead not, woman!—I know I murdered thee—plead not, he dies!”

In one of the sockets of the silver lamp there was a lighted wick, the rays of which were sufficient to afford a dim view of the cabin. Francisco, overhearing the words of Cain, stepped in, and walked up to the side of the bed. “Boy! plead not,” continued Cain, lying on his back and breathing heavily—“plead not—woman!—to-morrow he dies.” A pause ensued, as if the sleeping man was listening to a reply. “Yes, as I murdered thee, so will I murder him.”

“Wretch!” said Francisco, in a low, solemn voice, “didst thou kill my mother?”

“I did—I did!” responded Cain, still sleeping.

“And why?” continued Francisco, who at this acknowledgment on the part of the sleeping captain was careless of discovery.

“In my mood she vexed me,” answered Cain.

“Fiend; thou hast then confessed it!” cried Francisco in a loud voice, which awoke the captain, who started up; but before his senses were well recovered, or his eyes open so as to distinguish their forms, Pompey struck out the light, and all was darkness; he then put his hand to Francisco’s mouth, and led him out of the cabin.

“Who’s there?—who’s there?” cried Cain.

The officer in charge of the deck hastened down. “Did you call, sir?”

“Call!” repeated the captain. “I thought there was some one in the cabin. I want a light—that’s all,” continued he, recovering himself, as he wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead.

In the meantime Francisco, with Pompey, had gained his former place of refuge with the Kroumen. The feelings of the young man changed from agony to revenge; his object in returning to the cabin to recover his weapons had been frustrated, but his determination now was to take the life of the captain if he possibly could. The following morning the Kroumen again refused to work or go on deck; and the state of affairs was reported by Hawkhurst to his chief. The mate now assumed another tone: for he had sounded not the majority but the most steady and influential men on board, who, like himself, were veterans in crime.

“It must be, sir; or you will no longer command this vessel. I am desired to say so.”

“Indeed!” replied Cain, with a sneer. “Perhaps you have already chosen my successor?”

Hawkhurst perceived that he had lost ground, and he changed his manner. “I speak but for yourself: if you do not command this vessel I shall not remain in her: if you quit her, I quit also; and we must find another.”

Cain was pacified, and the subject was not renewed.

“Turn the hands up,” at last said the captain. The pirate-crew assembled aft.

“My lads, I am sorry that our laws oblige me to make an example; but mutiny and disaffection must be punished. I am equally bound as yourselves by the laws which we have laid down for our guidance while we sail together; and you may believe that in doing my duty in this instance I am guided by a sense of justice, and wish to prove to you that I am worthy to command. Francisco has been with me since he was a child; he has lived with me, and it is painful to part with him: but I am here to see that our laws are put in force. He has been guilty of repeated mutiny and contempt, and—he must die.”

“Death! death!” cried several of the pirates in advance: “death and justice!”

“No more murder!” said several voices from behind.

“Who’s that that speaks?”

“Too much murder yesterday—no more murder!” shouted several voices at once.

“Let the men come forward who speak,” cried Cain with a withering look. No one obeyed this order. “Down, then, my men! and bring up Francisco.”

The whole of the pirate-crew hastened below, but with different intentions. Some were determined to seize Francisco, and hand him over to death—others to protect him. A confused noise was heard—the shouts of “Down and seize him!” opposed to those of “No murder! No murder!”

Both parties had snatched up their arms; those who sided with Francisco joined the Kroumen, whilst the others also hastened below to bring him on deck. A slight scuffle ensued before they separated, and ascertained by the separation the strength of the contending parties. Francisco, perceiving that he was joined by a large body, desired his men to follow him, went up the fore-ladder, and took possession of the forecastle. The pirates on his side supplied him with arms, and Francisco stood forward in advance. Hawkhurst, and those of the crew who sided with him, had retreated to the quarter-deck, and rallied round the captain, who leaned against the capstern. They were then able to estimate their comparative strength. The number, on the whole, preponderated in favour of Francisco; but on the captain’s side were the older and more athletic of the crew, and, we may add, the more determined. Still, the captain and Hawkhurst perceived the danger of their situation, and it was thought advisable to parley for the present, and wreak their vengeance hereafter. For a few minutes there was a low consultation between both parties; at last Cain advanced.

“My lads,” said he, addressing those who had rallied round Francisco, “I little thought that a fire-brand would have been cast in this vessel to set us all at variance. It was my duty, as your captain, to propose that our laws should be enforced. Tell me now what is it that you wish. I am only here as your captain, and to take the sense of the whole crew. I have no animosity against that lad: I have loved him—I have cherished him; but like a viper, he has stung me in return. Instead of being in arms against each other, ought we not to be united? I have, therefore, one proposal to make to you, which is this: let the sentence go by vote, or ballot, if you please; and whatever the sentence may be, I shall be guided by it. Can I say more?”

“My lads,” replied Francisco, when the captain had done speaking, “I think it better that you should accept this proposal rather than that blood should be shed. My life is of little consequence; say, then, will you agree to the vote, and submit to those laws, which, as the captain says, have been laid down to regulate the discipline of the vessel?”

The pirates on Francisco’s side looked round among their party, and, perceiving that they were the most numerous, consented to the proposal; but Hawkhurst stepped forward and observed: “Of course the Kroumen can have no votes, as they do not belong to the vessel.”

This objection was important, as they amounted to twenty-five, and, after that number was deducted, in all probability, Francisco’s adherents would have been in the minority. The pirates, with Francisco, objected, and again assumed the attitude of defence.

“One moment,” said Francisco, stepping in advance; “before this point is settled, I wish to take the sense of all of you as to another of your laws. I ask you, Hawkhurst, and all who are now opposed to me, whether you have not one law, which is Blood for blood?”

“Yes—yes,” shouted all the pirates.

“Then let your captain stand forward, and answer to my charge, if he dares.”

Cain curled his lip in derision, and walked within two yards of Francisco.

“Well, boy, I’m here; and what is your charge?”

“First—I ask you, Captain Cain, who are so anxious that the laws should be enforced, whether you acknowledge that ‘Blood for blood’ is a just law?”

“Most just: and, when shed, the party who revenges is not amenable.”

“’Tis well: then villain that thou art, answer—Didst thou not murder my mother?”

Cain, at this accusation, started.

“Answer the truth, or lie like a recreant!” repeated Francisco. “Did you not murder my mother?”

The captain’s lips and the muscles of his face quivered, but he did not reply.

“Blood for blood!” cried Francisco, as he fired his pistol at Cain, who staggered, and fell on the deck.

Hawkhurst and several of the pirates hastened to the captain, and raised him.

“She must have told him last night,” said Cain, speaking with difficulty, as the blood flowed from the wound.

“He told me so himself,” said Francisco, turning round to those who stood by him.

Cain was taken down into the cabin. On examination, his wound was not mortal, although his loss of blood had been rapid and very great. In a few minutes Hawkhurst joined the party on the quarter deck. He found that the tide had turned more in Francisco’s favour than he had expected; the law of “Blood for blood” was held most sacred: indeed, it was but the knowledge that it was solemnly recognised, and that, if one pirate wounded another, the other was at liberty to take his life, without punishment, which prevented constant affrays between parties, whose knives would otherwise have been the answer to every affront. It was a more debased law of duelling, which kept such profligate associates on good terms. Finding, therefore, that this feeling predominated, even among those who were opposed to Francisco on the other question, Hawkhurst thought it advisable to parley.

“Hawkhurst,” said Francisco, “I have but one request to make, which, if complied with, will put an end to this contention; it is, that you will put me on shore at the first land that we make. If you and your party engage to do this, I will desire those who support me to return to their obedience.”

“I grant it,” replied Hawkhurst; “and so will the others. Will you not, my men?”

“Agreed—agreed upon all sides,” cried the pirates, throwing away their weapons, and mingling with each other, as if they had never been opposed.

There is an old saying, that there is honour amongst thieves; and so it often proves. Every man in the vessel knew that this agreement would be strictly adhered to; and Francisco now walked the deck with as much composure as if nothing had occurred.

Hawkhurst, who was aware that he must fulfil his promise, carefully examined the charts when he went down below, came up and altered the course of the schooner two points more to the northward. The next morning he was up at the mast-head nearly half an hour, when he descended, and again altered the course. By nine o’clock a low sandy island appeared on the lee bow; when within half a mile of it, he ordered the schooner to be hove to, and lowered down the small boat from the stern. He then turned the hands up. “My lads, we must keep our promise, to put Francisco on shore at the first land which we made. There it is!” And a malicious smile played on the miscreant’s features as he pointed out to them the barren sand-bank, which promised nothing but starvation and a lingering death. Several of the crew murmured; but Hawkhurst was supported by his own party, and had, moreover, taken the precaution quietly to remove all the arms, with the exception of those with which his adherents were provided.

“An agreement is an agreement; it is what he requested himself, and we promised to perform. Send for Francisco.”

“I am here, Hawkhurst; and I tell you candidly, that, desolate as is that barren spot, I prefer it to remaining in your company. I will bring my chest up immediately.”

“No—no; that was not a part of the agreement,” cried Hawkhurst.

“Every man here has a right to his own property: I appeal to the whole of the crew.”

“True—true,” replied the pirates; and Hawkhurst found himself again in the minority.

“Be it so.”

The chest of Francisco was handed into the boat.

“Is that all?” cried Hawkhurst.

“My lads, am I to have no provisions or water?” inquired Francisco.

“No,” replied Hawkhurst.

“Yes—yes,” cried most of the pirates.

Hawkhurst did not dare put it to the vote; he turned sulkily away. The Kroumen brought up two breakers of water, and some pieces of pork.

“Here, massa,” said Pompey, putting into Francisco’s hand a fishing-line with hooks.

“Thank you, Pompey; but I had forgot—that book in the cabin—you know which I mean.”

Pompey nodded his head, and went below; but it was some time before he returned, during which Hawkhurst became impatient. It was a very small boat which had been lowered down; it had a lug-sail and two pair of sculls in it, and was quite full when Francisco’s chest and the other articles had been put in.

“Come! I have no time to wait,” said Hawkhurst; “in the boat!”

Francisco shook hands with many of the crew, and wished all of them farewell. Indeed, now that they beheld the poor lad about to be cast on the desolate island, even those most opposed to him felt some emotions of pity. Although they acknowledged that his absence was necessary, yet they knew his determined courage; and with them that quality was always a strong appeal.

“Who will row this lad ashore, and bring the boat off?”

“Not I,” replied one; “it would haunt me ever afterwards.”

So they all appeared to think, for no one volunteered. Francisco jumped into the boat.

“There is no room for any one but me; and I will row myself on shore,” cried he. “Farewell, my lads! farewell!”

“Stop? not so; he must not have the boat—he may escape from the island,” cried Hawkhurst.

“And why shouldn’t he, poor fellow?” replied the men. “Let him have the boat.”

“Yes—yes, let him have the boat;” and Hawkhurst was again overruled.

“Here, Massa Francisco—here de book.”

“What’s that, sir?” cried Hawkhurst, snatching the book out of Pompey’s hand.

“Him, massa, Bible.” Francisco waited for the book.

“Shove off!” cried Hawkhurst.

“Give me my book, Mr Hawkhurst!”

“No!” replied the malignant rascal, tossing the Bible over the taffrail; “he shall not have that. I’ve heard say that there is consolation in it for the afflicted.”

Francisco shoved off his boat, and seizing his sculls, pushed astern, picked up the book, which still floated, and laid it to dry on the after-thwart of the boat. He then pulled in for the shore. In the meantime the schooner had let draw her fore-sheet, and had already left him a quarter of a mile astern. Before Francisco had gained the sand-bank she was hull-down to the northward.

Chapter Ten.

The Sand-Bank

The first half hour that Francisco was on this desolate spot he watched the receding schooner: his thoughts were unconnected and vague. Wandering through the various scenes which had passed on the decks of that vessel, and recalling to his memory the different characters of those on board of her, much as he had longed to quit her—disgusted as he had been with those with whom he had been forced to associate—still, as her sails grew fainter and fainter to his view, as she increased her distance, he more than once felt that even remaining on board of her would have been preferable to his present deserted lot. “No, no!” exclaimed he, after a little further reflection, “I had rather perish here, than continue to witness the scenes which I have been forced to behold.”

He once more fixed his eyes upon her white sails, and then sat down on the loose sand, and remained in deep and melancholy reverie until the scorching heat reminded him of his situation; he afterwards rose and turned his thoughts upon his present situation, and to what would be the measures most advisable to take. He hauled his little boat still farther on the beach, and attached the painter to one of the oars, which he fixed deep in the sand; he then proceeded to survey the bank, and found that but a small portion was uncovered at high water; for trifling as was the rise of the tide, the bank was so low that the water flowed almost over it. The most elevated part was not more than fifteen feet above high-water mark, and that was a small knoll of about fifty feet in circumference.

To this part he resolved to remove his effects: he returned to the boat, and having lifted out his chest, the water, the provisions, with the other articles which he had obtained, he dragged them up, one by one, until they were all collected at the spot he had chosen. He then took out of the boat the oars and little sail, which, fortunately, had remained in her. His last object, to haul the little boat up to the same spot, was one which demanded all his exertion; but, after considerable fatigue, he contrived, by first lifting round her bow, and then her stern, to effect his object.

Tired and exhausted, he then repaired to one of the breakers of water and refreshed himself. The heat, as the day advanced, had become intolerable; but it stimulated him to fresh exertion. He turned over the boat, and contrived that the bow and stern should rest upon two little hillocks, so as to raise it above the level of the sand beneath it two or three feet; he spread out the sail from the keel above, with the thole-pins as pegs, so as to keep off the rays of the sun. Dragging the breakers of water and the provisions underneath the boat, he left his chest outside; and having thus formed for himself a sort of covering which would protect him from the heat of the day and the damp of the night, he crept in, to shelter himself until the evening.

Although Francisco had not been on deck, he knew pretty well whereabouts he then was. Taking out a chart from his chest, he examined the coast to ascertain the probable distance which he might be from any prospect of succour. He calculated that he was on one of a patch of sand-banks off the coast of Loango, and about seven hundred miles from the Isle of St. Thomas—the nearest place where he might expect to fall in with a European face. From the coast he felt certain that he could not be more than forty or fifty miles at the most; but could he trust himself among the savage natives who inhabited it? He knew how ill they had been treated by Europeans; for at that period, it was quite as common for the slave-trader to land and take away the inhabitants as slaves by force, as to purchase them in the more northern territories: still, he might be fortunate enough to fall in with some trader on the coast, as there were a few who still carried on a barter for gold-dust and ivory.