CHAPTER IV.
“No reflecting man can gaze upon a field of carnage, with its disfigured
and gory corses, without feeling ashamed of his species! If a
proud man, his pride will be humbled.”
“To find desolation and death, where we anticipate the calm bliss
of domestic peace and happiness, is a trial few minds are prepared to
encounter.”
—Spectator.
“Theirs was no hasty love, to bear for its bitter fruit a long repentance.”
—Maria of Meissen.
AN ARRIVAL—SCENE AFTER A CONFLICT—A MELANCHOLY
SPECTACLE—REVENGE PURPOSED.
The round, white moon was just fading into the
western skies, and the well-defined outline of the
peak of St. Catharine was delicately gilded by the
yet unrisen sun, while a roseate tint mantled half
the eastern heavens, the morning subsequent to the
scenes and adventures related in the preceding
chapters, when a little white spot on the horizon
attracted the attention of the wounded officer of
dragoons, as, under the refreshing influence of the
morning breeze, he recovered from the swoon into
which he had fallen from loss of blood, after being
struck down by the buccaneer.
Casting his eyes over the distant sea, he appeared
to watch the speck with much interest; and surprise
was manifest on his features, when, instead of
receding, he perceived that it enlarged, and evidently
approached the island.
“Can the buccaneer be returning!” he exclaimed;
“but he might as well finish me, as leave me
so!” and as he spoke, he raised, with a melancholy
smile, his mutilated arm. “Well, Captain Adair,”
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he continued, “you may hang your sword upon the
willow now—this Lafitte has done for you! But
that cannot be the pirate neither,” he said, in a changed
and eager tone; “his was a schooner, although
she carried royals, like a sloop of war. Ha! there
is another sail in her wake—a smaller craft—what
can they be? There! the larger veers a little—two,
three masts—she's a ship under topsails, and the
other's a schooner, a tender perhaps. But yet he's
not a John Bull!” and after a few minutes silence,
during which the anguish of his wound overcame
every other feeling, he continued—
“It is either a Frenchman or an American; but
what can she want here? Ha, there fly Monsieur's
colours!”
The vessels, which attracted the notice of the
officer, were now plainly visible, about two leagues
from the land. She was a large frigate, displaying
the ensign of France at her peak, and the same
national distinction also fluttered at the mast head
of the schooner. Standing into the bay before a free
breeze, with royals and sky-sails towering aloft, and
lower studding-sails set on both sides, in less than an
hour from the time she appeared a mere speck, like
the flash of a sea-gull's wing on the horizon, she had
passed the capes of the bay. Running close into
the land, and furling one sail after another, she
gracefully rounded to, and, accompanied by the tender,
came to an anchor opposite the entrance of the
recess, denominated the “Devil's Punch Bowl,”
and within the shadow of a gigantic rock, to which
nature had given the outline of a huge granite
fortress.
This vast mass rose abruptly over her tall masts,
in enormous beetling heads, crags, and precipices,
leaving a narrow belt of white sand at its base, upon
which the waves of the bay peacefully unrolled
themselves, when the winds were low, but over
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which they leaped in a storm, thundering against
the cliff, and roaring in the caverns, with terrific
sublimity. As the last sail was furled closely to its
yard, the dragoon saw a small boat put off from the
frigate, manned by four men and a steersman.
An officer in a naval undress, with the insignia of
the rank of a French captain upon his breast and
collar, leaned back in the stern sheets, as the boat
moved swiftly over the water, gazing upwards upon
the giant rock, rearing its dark mass against the
sky,—admiring its castellated outline, and its
dizzy crags, springing several hundred feet into the
air.
The oarsmen pulled rapidly in to the beach at
the base of the cliff, whose projecting verge, as they
passed into its dark shadow, suddenly hid them
from the eyes of the wounded officer.
“Lay to your oars briskly, men—one strong pull
more—there, we strike!” said the French officer,
as the boat, with a grating sound, grounded upon
the beach, running half her length out of the water,
on to the hard white sand.
The men shipped their oars and sprung out,
respectfully raising their caps, as their officer passed
by them in stepping ashore, and then turned to secure
the boat from the action of the tide.
Delaying a moment to arm themselves with
sabres and pistols, which they took from the stern,
they hastily buckled them around their waists, and
stood ready to follow their officer.
While his men were thus engaged, under the
command of the cockswain---a mere boy in the uniform
of a midshipman-- the officer stood a moment,
awaiting their movements, gazing, with folded arms
and thoughtful eye, upon the fine appearance his
motionless frigate exhibited, as, towering above the
dark hull, her lofty masts and slender spars
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appeared drawn with the accuracy of pencilling, against
the sky.
He was a slightly-formed man, rather below
than above the medium height of men, with a
strikingly-elegant figure, finely displayed and relieved,
by his blue frock and dark green cloak, falling
negligently back from his shoulders in graceful
folds. His forehead was high and expansive, over
which, as, for a moment, he raised his velvet cap to
meet the cool breezes from the sea, flowed, with almost
feminine luxuriance, thick clusters of dark
auburn hair. That softness of character, which this
peculiarity anticipated, was, however, contradicted by
the intellectual fulness of his brow, and the firm expression
of his blue eye, which, although it might
droop before a maiden's gaze, could flash proudly
back the glance of a foe.
One lock of his hair seemed trained to lie over
his forehead, and relieved the otherwise too perfect
oval contour of his face. His complexion, naturally
fair, was a little sun-browned, by exposure to the
sun and seas of many climes; yet a healthy hue
glowed upon his cheeks, while his upper lip was
graced with a mustacho of the same rich colour of
his hair. His lips were full, and rather voluptuous
in their finely-curved outline, but, without any approach
to sensuality. The general expression of
his features, when in repose, as they now were,
was intellectual, and, perhaps, melancholy. He
might be above thirty years of age, though the
juvenile and extreme beauty of his noble forehead,
the suddenly-mantling cheek, and the curve of his
mouth and chin, which a Hebé might have envied,
would indicate, that he had seen even fewer summers.
He would, in the eyes of a romantic maiden,
have been the Raleigh of the days of Elizabeth—
the Ivanhoe of chivalry.
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“We are ready, monsieur,” said the youthful
cockswain, as he drew closer the belt that confined
his weapons.
“Follow me, then, Montville; the men may all
remain; and see”—he said, turning to them, “that
you make no brawl with these Englishmen, as before!
Those soldiers who felt your Gallic knocks,
may take occasion to follow up their quarrel. If
they approach, shove off at once, and lay on your
oars beyond musket-shot.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the men, putting their
shoulders to the boat, and floating her; while their
commanding officer, followed by his favourite midshipman,
crossed the smooth belt of sand, and
winding rapidly around the base of the overhanging
crags, came to a part where the descent was less
precipitous. By the aid of branches, and jutting
irregularities of the rock, they ascended the cliff,
and, without pausing to glance at the magnificent
panorama of woodland, sea, and mountain, spread
out around them, entered a grove of pimento,
whose deep green hue, presented a fine contrast to
the unrivalled beauty of the lighter-tinged verdure
underneath.
Their way lay by natural and artificial paths,
through clumps of foliage of every variety and
brilliancy of colours, now brightly tinted, as the
sun-light shone through an occasional opening
above, now black, in the impenetrable shadows cast
by the loftier forest trees. After issuing from the
grove, they wound through luxuriant bowers of
West Indian vines, past a palm-tree, standing in
lonely and towering pride, and spreading cocoas,
and brazilettos, mingled with the vivid dyes of the
plumage of the bamboo, orange, and tamarind,—
the whole presenting, in the brightness of the morning,
a gorgeousness of colouring, unknown to less
genial climes.
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They had now reached the hedge of aloes and
palmetto, forming the boundary of the grounds surrounding
the villa of Velasquez.
Winding around it in a direction contrary to that
taken by the depredators of the preceding night,
they soon came to a small, latticed gateway, partly hid
in the hedge, and close to the unoccupied wing of the
mansion. The gate, which his young companion
was hastening forward to unlock with a small key
handed him by the officer, was battered in pieces,
and the dead body of a seaman lay in the threshhold,
with a fragment of a dragoon's sword, half
buried in his head.
“Mon Dieu!—what mischief has been here?”—
exclaimed the officer, stooping to examine the features
of the dead man. “He is a Spaniard, and
by his garb and arms, no doubt, a pirate. Cold,
and stiff!” he added, touching his temples, “he
has been long dead.---Allons! allons!” he cried to
his companion, bounding through the broken gateway—
“God preserve dear Constanza!”—and both
drawing their swords, they rushed up the avenue,
every few rods of which exhibited traces of a recent
and severe fight.
By the body of a horse lay a dead dragoon,
with the blood oozing from a pistol-wound in his
head, grasping, convulsively, the body of a Spanish
sailor. Although a deep gash cleft his cheek, he
still lived, while a consciousness of the death-grapple
in which he was held, overcoming the pain of
his wound, he writhed his features into a terrible
expression of horror—his black, lustrous eyes, rolled
wildly in their sockets, and his feeble fingers vainly
worked to release the vice-like grasp of the dead
man.
“Oh, Señores, for the love of God, help me! Ay
de mi—Ay de mi!—Ave Maria!” and he extended
his arms, imploringly.
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The officer arrested his rapid progress to the
house; his humane feelings overcoming his desire
to proceed; and, perhaps, he was at the same time
anxious to learn the nature and full extent of the
bloody signs surrounding him.
“Hold, Montville! let us aid this wretch,” he
said, arrested by the imploring language of the
sufferer. “What a fearful embrace!” With their
united efforts, but not without the exercise of great
muscular exertion, they disengaged the arms of the
dead man from around the living body of his foe—
who, during the slow-moving hours of the long
night, had borne such unspeakable tortures. How
fearfully was the dead avenged! clasping in his
close embrace the breathing body of his slayer!
“What, monsieur?” inquired his deliverer, as
the buccaneer grasped his cloak, and gave way to
a shower of tears, unable to express, in language,
his gratitude. “What means all this bloody work?
You, it seems, should know something of it!” and
his cheek and eye betrayed the intensest excitement
as he spoke. “Speak, speak!” he reiterated, as
the man held up his clasped hands in silence:
“Answer, man! or, by Heaven! I will give you to
a worse fate, than the arms of this dead soldier.”
The man shuddered at the allusion, and his eyes
glared with terror.
“Mercy! Señor, mercy!” he cried, clinging to
his cloak, without looking up.
The impatient officer drew a pistol from his
bosom, with a threatening air, when the Spaniard,
with difficulty and hesitation, articulated,
“Lafitte!”
“He has been here?” rapidly interrogated the
officer. “Where is Don Velasquez, and his daughter?”
“I know not, Señor; yo no sé, yo no sé—”
The officer, without hearing more, freed his
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cloak from his grasp, and darted forward, passing
by pistols, cutlasses, and a portion of the pirate's
booty, thrown away, in their flight. The sward
was cut up, with the feet of horses, and blood reddened
the green surface of the avenue, in many
places. In a few moments, after leaving the Spanish
sailor, they ascended the terrace, and came, at
once, upon the scene of the severest conflict. With
a sword in one hand, and a pistol in the other, the
officer leaped over the dead bodies of two soldiers,
and a headless seaman, and rushing to the front of
the house, flew along the piazza, to an open window
in the farthest wing. The sight that here met his
eyes appalled him!
Upon a couch, in the extremity of the apartment,
lay the corpse of the old man, cold and rigid.
The floor was covered with pools of blood, and the
dead body of a dragoon, with a pistol-wound in the
forehead, lay under the window.
A deadly sickness came over his soul, as he
gazed upon the horrid spectacle—his hand fell
powerless, at his side, and he leaned against the
window for support.
His more youthful companion, sprung into the
room, and laid his hand upon the heart of the old
man; but pulsation had ceased!
“He has been a long while dead,” he said.
“Dead!” mournfully repeated the officer, half
unconsciously, “dead, is he—and poor Constanza!
is she living? or worse?” he added, in a hollow
voice. “Oh, merciful heaven, blast me not, at one
stroke, and so cruel a one!”
“To the rescue, to the rescue!” after a moment's
silence, he suddenly shouted, in a voice like
a trumpet, “ho! my men, all!—Alas, alas, Constanza!”
he added, in a changed voice, “vain, vain,
all in vain—but—there—is—revenge!” he slowly,
and with strange distinctness, articulated. “I will
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revenge you, terribly revenge you,” and his eye
lighted up with a fierce light, his form dilated, and
his glowing features wore a fearful sublimity as he
spoke.
Approaching the couch, he placed his hand
upon the marble brow of the corpse.
“Señor Velasquez, your death, your grievous
wrongs, shall be avenged. I make this cause of
mine and yours, a sacred one!” and he kissed, as
he spoke, the cold forehead, and the crucifix, which,
grasped in the old man's hand, lay upon his breast,
“You have not died, by ball or steel—deep griefs
have killed you. Terribly! most terribly, you shall
be avenged!”
“Ha! what more?” he exclaimed, as distant
voices, and the tramp of horses' feet fell upon his
ear. Springing to the window he saw, wheeling
rapidly around the ruined wing of the building, a
troop of horsemen, who drew up on the terrace,
while their leader dismounting, and followed by
two or three of his men, hastily approached the
gallery.
The Frenchman immediately stepped forth to
meet them.
“What, who have we here?” he exclaimed,
cocking a pistol, which he had drawn from his
holsters, as he alighted; but, observing the gentlemanly
air of the stranger, and detecting his naval
attire, he modulated his tone, to one of more courtesy.
“Your pardon, Monsieur! you are the Count
D'Oyley, commander of the French frigate, in the
bay, if I mistake not?”
The stranger bowed.
“This has been an unpleasant business,” he
continued; “a party of buccaneers, with Lafitte at
their head, came last night, in strong force, robbed
the old man, who, also, I am told, is dead, shot his
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nephew, and carried off his daughter. We have
been out, part of the night, in pursuit of them.
Since our return, we find that, after a hard fight
with another detachment, he escaped to his vessel,
with the old Don's child, and immediately put out
to sea.”
“Are you ill, sir?” he inquired, observing the
face of the officer grow pale at his recital.
“No, Monsieur, no!” replied the Count, recovering
himself; “I thank you, for the interest you
have taken in this affair. The old Castillian and
his daughter, were not unknown to me. He once
saved me from a conspiracy, aimed against my life.
It was in Mexico. He now lies in that room,
dead; and his daughter—Oh, Alphonse, Alphonse,
where were you, in that evil hour?—But there is
vengeance,” said he, looking upward, “there is
just vengeance of Heaven, and I will be its instrument!
Adieu, Monsieur; I leave the burial of Se
ñor Velasquez to your kindness. I must away!
the business, which brought me here, is ended—
alas, how ended! Adieu, Monsieur,” he said,
warmly pressing the hand of the sympathizing
Englishman. Then hastily descending to the terrace,
“Messieurs, adieu!” he added, raising his
cap, as he passed the mounted dragoons; and then
silently, and rapidly, accompanied by his young
friend, he hastened to the shore.
After walking steadily onward, for many minutes,
they emerged from the forest, on to the bluff,
and on turning an angle in their path, encountered
the officer whom Lafitte had wounded. He was
slowly moving towards the villa, faint and weary.
“Gentlemen, for the love of God,! a little water!
I am dying of thirst!” he said, addressing them as
they appeared.
Again the humanity of the stranger, was called
into exercise; and for the moment, forgetting his
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own sorrow, in sympathy for the distressed soldier,
he stopped, kindly supported him to the shade of a
large tree, and despatched his companion back,
to communicate his situation to the party at the
villa.
“Can you tell me aught of Lafitte?” he inquired
of the wounded man, as they awaited his
return.
“Much, much,” he replied, “he has left his
mark, as he calls it, here!” and pointing, as he
spoke, to his mutilated arm, he attempted to smile.
“You saw him, then! did he gain his vessel, as
they tell me, with, with,” and he hesitated, while
his chest beat with emotion.
“Yes, I both saw and felt him! He fought like
a tiger at bay, a better swordsman never handled
steel. Had he been less than Lafitte, or the devil,
he would not have escaped me—but he did escape
me.”
“And—and, with him—?” The Frenchman
could say no more; his tongue cleaved to the roof of
his mouth; but he was understood.
“The lady, whom we, at the post, call the Castillian
nun, the Señorita Constanza! but she had
fainted, and was unconscious of her situation,” replied
the dragoon.
“Oh, my God, my God!” ejaculated his listener,
and groaning, he struck his temples fiercely and
bitterly; and, deeply agitated, he paced the ground
under the tree, in silence, until the arrival of Montville
and a party of the wounded man's troop.
“Describe his craft, if you please!” he asked, of
the dragoon, as he turned to go.
“A schooner with a fore royal—long, black, and
very low in the water, with the masts much
raking.”
Bowing his thanks, he pursued his way, along
the cliff, with increased rapidity, and recklessly
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descending to his boat, he was, in a few moments,
on the deck of his frigate.
His orders were given, to get under weigh, with
a startling energy that surprised the crew, and
infused into them additional activity. In a
few seconds, the heavy anchor hung from the
bows, the broad top-sails were unloosed, and extended
to the breeze, and the tall masts, covered
with folds of canvass. The commander, then accompanied
by Montville, left the ship, for the
schooner, which also, immediately got under weight.
At first, the frigate moved slowly and heavily,
but gradually gathering power, as sail after sail
was displayed to the wind, she increased her speed,
the waves dashed from her foaming path, and with
a velocity that seconded the impatience of their
commander, the two vessels sailed out of the bay,
and stood westward.
The schooner, which now contained the commander
of the frigate, immediately after gaining
the offing, sailed in the direction of Carthagena,
while the frigate hauled her wind, and bore up for
the island of St. Domingo.
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Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1836], The pirate of the gulf volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf156v1].
