Chapter X: Part IX (2)

Mulford’s boat seemed to fly, and glided ahead at least three feet to that of Spike’s two. The direction of the channel it was in, brought it pretty close to the wind, but the water was quite smooth, and our mate managed to keep the sail full, and his little craft at the same time quite near the weatherly side of the rocks. In the course of ten minutes the fugitives were fully a mile from the brig, which was unable to follow them, but kept standing off and on, in the main passage, waiting the result. At one time Mulford thought the channel would bring him out into open water again, on the northern side of the reef, and more than a mile to the eastward of the point where the ship-channel in which the Swash was plying commenced; but an accidental circumstance prevented his standing in far enough to ascertain the fact. That circumstance was as follows.

In running a mile and a half over the reef, in the manner described, Mulford had left the boat of Spike quite half a mile astern. He was now out of gun-shot from the brig, or at least beyond the range of her grape, the only missile he feared, and so far to windward that he kept his eye on every opening to the southward, which he fancied might allow of his making a stretch deeper into the mazes of the reef, among which he believed it easiest for him to escape, and to weary the oarsmen of his pursuers. Two or three of these openings offered as he glided along, but it struck him that they all looked so high that the boat would not lay through them—an opinion in which he was right. At length he came abreast of one that seemed straight and clear of obstacles as far as he could see, and through which he might run with a flowing sheet. Down went his helm, and about went his boat, running away to the southward as fast as ever.

Had Spike followed, doubled the same shoal, and kept away again in the same channel as had been done by the boat he chased, all his hopes of success must have vanished at once. This he did not attempt, therefore; but, sheering into one of the openings which the mate had rejected, he cut off quite half a mile in his distance. This was easy enough for him to accomplish, as a row-boat would pull even easier, near to the wind, than with the wind broad on its bow. In consequence of this short cut, therefore, Spike was actually crossing out into Mulford’s new channel, just as the latter had handsomely cleared the mouth of the opening through which he effected his purpose.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the two boats must have been for a few minutes quite near to each other; so near, indeed, did the fugitives now pass to their pursuers, that it would have been easy for them to have conversed, had they been so disposed. Not a word was spoken, however, but Mulford went by, leaving Spike about a hundred yards astern. This was a trying moment to the latter, and the devil tempted him to seek his revenge. He had not come unarmed on his enterprise, but three or four loaded muskets lay in the stern-sheets of his yawl. He looked at his men, and saw that they could not hold out much longer to pull as they had been pulling. Then he looked at Mulford’s boat, and saw it gliding away from him at a rate that would shortly place it another half mile in advance. He seized a musket, and raised it to his shoulder, nay, was in the act of taking aim at his mate, when Rose, who watched his movements, threw herself before Harry, and if she did not actually save his life, at least prevented Spike’s attempt on it for that occasion. In the course of the next ten minutes the fugitives had again so far gained on their pursuers, that the latter began to see that their efforts were useless. Spike muttered a few bitter curses, and told his men to lay on their oars.

“It’s well for the runaway,” he added, “that the gal put herself between us, else would his grog have been stopped forever. I’ve long suspected this; but had I been sure of it, the Gulf Stream would have had the keeping of his body, the first dark night we were in it together. Lay on your oars, men, lay on your oars; I’m afeard the villain will get through our fingers, a’ter all.”

The men obeyed, and then, for the first time, did they turn their heads, to look at those they had been so vehemently pursuing. The other boat was quite half a mile from them, and it had again tacked. This last occurrence induced Spike to pull slowly ahead, in quest of another short passage to cut the fugitives off; but no such opening offered.

“There he goes about again, by George!” exclaimed Spike. “Give way, lads—give way; an easy stroke, for if he is embayed, he can’t escape us!”

Sure enough, poor Mulford _was_ embayed, and could see no outlet by which to pass ahead. He tacked his boat two or three times, and he wore round as often; but on every side shoals or rocks, that actually rose above the surface of the water, impeded his course. The fact was not to be concealed; after all his efforts, and so many promises of success, not only was his further progress ahead cut off, but equally so was retreat. The passage was not wide enough to admit the hope of getting by his pursuers, and the young man came to the conclusion that his better course was to submit with dignity to his fate. For himself he had no hope—he knew Spike’s character too well for that; but he did not apprehend any great immediate danger to his companions. Spike had a coarse, brutal admiration for Rose; but her expected fortune, which was believed to be of more amount than was actually the case, was a sort of pledge that he would not willingly put himself in a situation that would prevent the possibility of enjoying it. Strange, hurried, and somewhat confused thoughts passed through Harry Mulford’s mind, as he brailed his sail, and waited for his captors to approach and take possession of his boat and himself. This was done quietly, and with very few words on the part of Spike.

Mulford would have liked the appearance of things better had his old commander cursed him, and betrayed other signs of the fury that was boiling in his very soul. On the contrary, never had Stephen Spike seemed more calm, or under better self-command. He smiled, and saluted Mrs. Budd, just as if nothing unpleasant had occurred, and alluded to the sharpness of the chase with facetiousness and seeming good humor. The females were deceived by this manner, and hoped, after all, that the worst that would happen would be a return to their old position on board the Swash. This was being so much better off than their horrible situation on the wreck, that the change was not frightful to them.

“What has become of the schooner, Mr. Mulford?” asked Spike, as the boats began to pass down the channel to return to the brig—two of the Swash’s men taking their seats in that which had been captured, along with their commander, while the other two got a tow from the use of the sail. “I see you have the boat here that we used alongside of her, and suppose you know something of the craft itself.”

“She capsized with us in a squall,” answered the mate, “and we only left the wreck this morning.”

“Capsized!—hum—that was a hard fate, to be sure, and denotes bad seamanship. Now I’ve sailed all sorts of craft these forty years, or five-and-thirty at least, and never capsized any thing in my life. Stand by there for’ard to hold on by that rock.”

A solitary cap of the coral rose above the water two or three feet, close to the channel, and was the rock to which Spike alluded. It was only some fifty feet in diameter, and of an oval form, rising quite above the ordinary tides, as was apparent by its appearance. It is scarcely necessary to say it had no other fresh water than that which occasionally fell on its surface, which surface being quite smooth, retained very little of the rain it received. The boat was soon alongside of this rock, where it was held broadside-to by the two seamen.

“Mr. Mulford, do me the favor to step up here,” said Spike, leading the way on to the rock himself. “I have a word to say to you before we get on board the old Molly once more.”

Mulford silently complied, fully expecting that Spike intended to blow his brains out, and willing the bloody deed should be done in a way to be as little shocking to Rose as circumstances would allow. But Spike manifested no such intention. A more refined cruelty was uppermost in his mind; and his revenge was calculated, and took care to fortify itself with some of the quibbles and artifices of the law. He might not be exactly right in his legal reservations, but he did not the less rely on their virtue.

“Hark’e, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, sharply, as soon as both were on the rock, “you have run from my brig, thereby showing your distaste for her; and I’ve no disposition to keep a man who wishes to quit me. Here you are, sir, on _terrum firm_, as the scholars call it; and here you have my full permission to remain. I wish you a good morning, sir; and will not fail to report, when we get in, that you left the brig of your own pleasure.”

“You will not have the cruelty to abandon me on this naked rock, Captain Spike, and that without a morsel of food, or a drop of water.”

“Wather is a blessed thing!” exclaimed Biddy. “Do not think of lavin’ the gentleman widout wather.”

“You left _me_, sir, without food or water, and you can fit out your own rock—yes, d—e, sir, you left me _under fire_, and that is a thing no true-hearted man would have thought of. Stand by to make sail, boys, and if he offer to enter the boat, pitch him out with the boat-hooks.”

Spike was getting angry, and he entered the boat again, without perceiving that Rose had left it. Light of foot, and resolute of spirit, the beautiful girl, handsomer than ever perhaps, by her excited feelings and disheveled hair, had sprung on the rock, as Spike stepped into the boat forward, and when the latter turned round, after loosening the sail, he found he was drifting away from the very being who was the object of all his efforts. Mulford, believing that Rose was to be abandoned as well as himself, received the noble girl in his arms, though ready to implore Spike, on his knees, to return and at least take her off. But Spike wanted no solicitation on that point. He returned of his own accord, and had just reached the rock again when the report of a gun drew all eyes toward the brig.

The Swash had again run out of the passage, and was beating up, close to the reef as she dared to go, with a signal flying. All the seamen at once understood the cause of this hint. The strange sail was getting too near, and everybody could see that it was the sloop-of-war. Spike looked at Rose, a moment, in doubt. But Mulford raised his beloved in his arms, and carried her to the side of the rock, stepping on board the boat.

Spike watched the movements of the young man with jealous vigilance, and no sooner was Rose placed on her seat, than he motioned significantly to the mate to quit the boat.

“I cannot and will not voluntarily, Capt. Spike,” answered Harry, calmly. “It would be committing a sort of suicide.”

A sign brought two of the men to the captain’s assistance. While the latter held Rose in her place, the sailors shoved Harry on the rock again. Had Mulford been disposed to resist, these two men could not very easily have ejected him from the boat, if they could have done it at all, but he knew there were others in reserve, and feared that blood might be shed, in the irritated state of Spike, in the presence of Rose. While, therefore, he would not be accessory to his own destruction, he would not engage in what he knew would prove not only a most harassing, but a bootless resistance. The consequence was that the boats proceeded, leaving him alone on the rock.

It was perhaps fortunate for Rose that she fainted. Her condition occupied her aunt and Biddy, and Spike was enabled to reach his brig without any further interruption. Rose was taken on board still nearly insensible, while her two female companions were so much confused and distressed, that neither could have given a reasonably clear account of what had just occurred. Not so with Jack Tier, however. That singular being noted all that passed, seated in the eyes of the boat, away from the confusion that prevailed in its stern-sheets, and apparently undisturbed by it.

As the party was sailing back toward the brig, the light-house boat towing the Swash’s yawl, Jack took as good an observation of the channels of that part of the reef as his low position would allow. He tried to form in his mind a sort of chart of the spot, for, from the instant Mulford was thus deserted, the little fellow had formed a stern resolution to attempt his rescue. How that was to be done, however, was more than he yet knew; and when they reached the brig’s side, Tier may be said to have been filled with good intentions, rather than with any very available knowledge to enable him to put them in execution.

As respects the two vessels, the arrival of Spike on board his own was not a moment too soon. The Poughkeepsie, for the stranger to the northward was now ascertained to be that sloop-of-war, was within long gun-shot by this time, and near enough to make certain, by means of her glasses, of the character of the craft with which she was closing. Luckily for the brig she lay in the channel so often mentioned, and through which both she and her present pursuer had so lately come, on their way to the northward. This brought her to windward, as the wind then stood, with a clear passage before her. Not a moment was lost. No sooner were the females sent below, than sail was made on the brig, and she began to beat through the passage, making long legs and short ones. She was chased, as a matter of course, and that hard, the difference in sailing between the two crafts not being sufficiently great to render the brigantine’s escape by any means certain, while absolutely within the range of those terrible missiles that were used by the man-of-war’s men.

But Spike soon determined not to leave a point so delicate as that of his own and his vessel’s security to be decided by a mere superiority in the way of heels. The Florida Reef, with all its dangers, windings, and rocks, was as well known to him as the entrances to the port of New York. In addition to its larger channels, of which there are three or four, through which ships of size can pass, it had many others that would admit only vessels of a lighter draught of water. The brig was not flying light, it is true, but she was merely in good ballast trim, and passages would be available to her, into which the Poughkeepsie would not dare to venture. One of these lesser channels was favorably placed to further the escape of Spike, and he shoved the brig into it after the struggle had lasted less than an hour. This passage offered a shorter cut to the south side of the reef than the main channel, and the sloop-of-war, doubtless perceiving the uselessness of pursuit, under such circumstances, wore round on her heel, and came down through the main channel again, just entering the open water, near the spot where the schooner had sunk, as the sun was setting.

[_To be continued._

* * * * *

CAROLAN’S PROPHECY.

BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER.

(INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL LOVER, ESQ.)

The castle hall is lighted—
Its roof with music rings,
For Carolan is sweeping
The clairsheck’s quivering strings;
And, catching inspiration
From faces fair around,
His voice is richer far than gush
Of instrumental sound.

Of Erin’s banner, green and bright,
Of Tara’s mighty kings,
Who never to invader knelt,
Exultingly he sings;
And on the glittering sands that edge
The blue and bellowing main,
Beneath the blade of Bryan falls
The yellow-bearded Dane.

The master touches other chords—
His brow is overcast—
And tears, from his old, withered orbs,
Are falling warm and fast:
In soul he looks on Athunrée,
Disastrous field of gore!
The glory of O’Conner’s house
Expires to wake no more.

As died, in mournful echoings,
The wond’rous strain away,
Approving smile and word requite
The minstrel for his lay;
And by the hand of high-born maid
The golden cup was filled,
Commotion in a heart to hush
By grief too wildly thrilled.

When tuned to lighter airs of love
His harp of magic tone,
Quoth Carolan—“What bard will not
The sway of Beauty own?
Kind hostess! I will now compose
A planxty, promised long,
In honor of thy daughter fair,
Oh! matchless theme for song!”

A few preluding notes he woke,
So clear and passing sweet,
That, timing to the melody,
The heart of listener beat;
But when the white-haired bard began
His tributary lay,
The Soul of Music from the strings
Wild Discord drove away.

Thrice, with the same result, his hand
Upon the chords he laid—
He turned the keys, but harsher sound
The trembling clairsheck made:
In honor of the mother, then,
A planxty he composed,
And perfect was the harmony
Until the strain was closed.

Then other ladies urged the bard
To celebrate their charms,
But he replied—“No rapture now
My fainting spirit warms;
By shadows from another world
My soul is clouded o’er—
Oh! would that I might never see
The light of morning more!”

“What gives a paleness to thy cheek,
Meet only for the dead—
What sorrow weighs upon thy heart?”
His noble hostess said:
The minstrel whispered in reply—
“_The daughter of thy heart,_
_Before the flowers of summer-time_
_Are faded, will depart._”

Ere morning dawned, old Carolan
Went sadly on his way;
To bid green Erin’s Flower farewell
He could not, would not stay;
But sought, ere vanished many days,
That lordly hall again,
And through its gateway, moving slow,
Defiled a funeral train.

NOTE.

It is related of Carolan, Twalogh, the Irish Handel, that in his gayest mood he could not compose a planxty on a Miss Brett, the daughter of a noble house in the county of Sligo.

One day, after a vain attempt to compose something in honor of the young lady, in a mixture of rage and grief he threw his clairsheck aside, and, addressing her mother in Irish, whispered—“Madam, I have often, from my great respect to your family, attempted a planxty to celebrate your daughter’s perfections, but to no purpose. Some evil genius hovers over me, there is not a string in my discordant harp that does not vibrate a melancholy sound—I fear she is not long for this world.” Tradition says that the event verified the prediction. _See Sketch of Carolan in the Edinburgh Encyclopedia._

* * * * *

THE LOVE-CHASE.

A TRUE STORY.

BY MRS. CAROLINE H. BUTLER.