"Surely not that last, my Lord," said Coventry, impulsively raising his hand in deprecation.
The admiral hesitated, looked long and earnestly at his handsome son. "You may leave off the part about conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, Pearson," he answered.
"Thank you, sir," said Coventry, gratefully.
"Good heavens, my Lord!" cried Pearson; "the punishment is death-I pray you-"
"Silence, sir!" he cried sternly; "you have your order. Shall I be more merciful to this gentleman than to the poor marine I would have had shot a moment since for less than he has done?"
"But he is your son. Have mercy on him, my Lord!"
"So much the more imperative that he should receive justice-not mercy from me. Besides, from this hour he is no longer son of mine," said the old man, inflexibly. "Let the prisoner be confined under double guard; you will see that he at least does not escape you."
"It is just," said Coventry, no less resolutely than his father; "I expected it. It was for her I did it."
There was a sudden bustle upon the deck forward.
"Sail ho! Light ho! Light ho!" rang out from a dozen rough throats.
"Where away?" said the officer of the watch.
"Off the starboard quarter," was the reply, – "there, coming up from Flamborough Head."
"They will be the Bon Homme Richard and the rest of that scoundrelly pirate squadron, Captain Pearson. I saw them off Bridlington Bay this afternoon," said the admiral.
"We will go out and meet them at once, with your permission, my Lord," cried the captain, enthusiastically. "All hands up anchor! Mr. Pascoe, show the signal for the Scarborough to get under way. Lively! we have him now, men! This is our chance at last! There's prize money and honor for you by yonder lights!"
With wild cheers the eager crew broke for their stations. The capstan bars were shipped and manned, and the clanking pawls clicked merrily as the men heaved away as lustily as a crew homeward bound from a foreign station.
"Good luck to you, Captain Pearson," said the admiral, turning away. "Bring him back a prisoner or sink him, and I will pledge you my word your king's sword shall be laid upon your shoulders. Would that I were younger and might go with you! but my duties, as well, prevent me. Good-bye."
"Sir-my Lord-my father!" said Coventry, who had stood unnoticed in the excitement of the moment.
"Do I see you still here, sir?" answered the admiral, coldly.
"I would ask a favor of you, sir-as-as-as my father."
"Ask no favors of a father, sir; you have none!"
"Let me beg of the man, then," said Coventry, resolutely. "We are about to engage the enemy. For God's sake, sir, for the love of my mother, do not condemn me to inaction now! Let me serve as the humblest volunteer! You shall not regret it."
The old man hesitated. He was a father in spite of what he had said, and he could not forget it. His heart was throbbing beneath his iron exterior and appearance of outward composure.
"Go!" he replied at last. "You are free of any charges until to-morrow. When next I see you I shall have to prefer them, therefore let me not look upon your face again, sir. Do you understand?"
"Yes, yes; good-bye, sir!" said the young man, brokenly. "I thank you and bless you for this. To-morrow I shall plead my cause in a higher court. Think of me kindly, sir."
"And you have done this work and wrecked yourself for a woman! You have been a fool, sir; what woman that ever lived was worth it?" said the admiral, shortly.
"This one," replied his son. "I loved her; I love her still."
The two men looked at each other in silence. The admiral relented a little, – it was for the last time, – and drew the boy to him. He lifted his head to the sky in silent prayer.
"All hands make sail!" hoarsely cried the boatswain at the instance of the executive officer. "Lay aloft, topman!"
The admiral turned away, and Coventry was alone. He walked over to Captain Pearson.
"Father gives me a chance to die," he said. "Please assign me to some duty."
"I am glad to hear it," said the captain, his face lighting up. "We are short a lieutenant; I confide to you the forward division of the main-deck battery. Do your best with it."
"I hope to serve it well," said the young officer, saluting proudly, and springing toward his station.
"Anchor's away, sir!" cried the officer forward on the forecastle.
"Man the topsail sheets and halliards, let fall, sheet home, hoist away!" roared the captain, himself seizing the trumpet. As the broad folds of canvas dropped from the wide-reaching yard-arms, the noble ship gathered way and sailed out to try her fortune.
BOOK IV
THE SELFISHNESS OF LOVE
CHAPTER XVI
In the Line of his Duty
AS soon as they had drifted some little distance from the Serapis, O'Neill rose, threw off the boat cloak, and stepped aft around the oarsman to the stern-sheets of the boat, where Elizabeth sat motionless, holding the tiller. He knelt down before her.
"Elizabeth, dearest, we have actually escaped!" he said softly, stooping toward her. "I did not think it possible." She released the tiller, took his head in her hands, and kissed him in wild exultation.
"Free! Free!" she murmured, "and together-my own, my own!" Her words, her look, her caress, set his blood bounding again.
"Yes, yes; is it not heavenly, and with you. Oh, my soul, how can I repay you?" he whispered, giving back kiss for kiss, and stretching out his hands toward her. There was a little pause, broken by a rough voice, which its owner evidently tried to render more gentle; in a hoarse whisper the man at the oars asked, -
"Where are ye a-headin' of the boat, yer Leddyship?"
"I know not!" she answered wildly, seizing the tiller again; "only away from that awful ship!"
"Who is this man at the oars?" asked her lover, rising and sitting down by her when he took the tiller from her nervous hands.
"Well, yer Honor," said a low, deep voice, with a smothered laugh in it, "my name ashore, w'ere I was left by Cap'n Jones t'other night to look arter you, mought be Smith, or Brown, or any old name; but yere in this boat it's Price-William P. Price-w'ich is wot my mother told me, at any rate, though I ain't got no evidence but her word fur it, an' she's dead, an' God be thanked I see yer Honor alive."
"Price! You!" exclaimed O'Neill, in great surprise. "How did you find him, dearest?"
"I found her, please yer Honor," replied the man. "I seed her Leddyship a-comin' down to the beach, an' I ups and captures a small boat from the English, w'ich the man'll be awful disappinted like, w'en he don't find her to-morrow, an' then I ups and offers to take her off, an' I tells her I knows you, an' we fixed it up, and here y'are!"
They were not yet so far from the Serapis, even by this time, but that the quick ear of the girl detected the confusion on her decks: the shrill piping of the boatswain and his mates, the sharp commands of the officers, the trampling of many feet, were easily heard; she clutched her lover nervously, all alert at the thought of a possible further danger to him.
"Oh!" she whispered, "they are doing something on the ship. Our escape is discovered. They will come after us!"
"Not with the whole ship," he answered, smiling, though listening with straining apprehension as well.
"I think they're a-gittin' under way, sir," said the old seaman. "Listen to the clankin' o' the pawls, yer Honor."
"You are right; it cannot be after us, though; a cutter or two would suffice for that."
"It'll be fur the Richard an' the rest of 'em. Cap'n Jones, he said he'd capture them ships afore the mornin' watch, an' if you wasn't hung afore that time, he'd trice up the whole d-n-w'ich I beg pardon, yer Leddyship, but he said it-crowd to the yard-arms, unless they'd let you go free! Our wessels ought to be a-comin' up from Flamburry putty soon, now. But if I mought make so bold, w'ere are ye headin' fur now, sir?"
"We head for the Richard, of course," said the young man, promptly.
"That's w'ere we b'long," said the sailor, joyfully; "I don't want no fightin' goin' on, an' I ain't there!"
"Nor I," replied O'Neill. "I would put you ashore, Elizabeth, before we go; but-"
"'Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people,'" she quoted softly. "Whom have I now but you? To whom can I go but to you?" she murmured, laying her hand upon his own. It was dark on the boat, but if it had been broad daylight he could not have helped it, – he kissed her.
"Oh, to be worthy of it all, to be worthy!" he answered.
William grinned sympathetically, wiped his mouth wistfully with the back of his hand, and tried to look away. Presently, unshipping the oars, the two men stepped the mast and hoisted the small sail. The little boat, under the freshening breeze, began to draw through the water rapidly. In order to win out of the mouth of the harbor, they would have to pass in a direction which would bring them once more near the moving Serapis. They could hardly hope to escape discovery. They had, of course, gained a good start on the frigate; but as she was soon covered with sails, and her great height enabled her to catch the freshening breeze blowing over the hills, which was lost to the smaller craft, she literally rushed down upon them.
A noble picture she made to those on the boat. Ghostlike and eerie in the pale moonlight, shining fitfully through the overcast heavens, the great white ship towered above them, her soaring masts covered with clouds of snowy canvas stretching far out on either side on the spreading yard-arms. Her sails swept the skies; her keel ploughed the deeps; the wind sang in the top-hamper; the white water, shot with sparks, piled up in front of her, bubbled and played around her forefoot, and rolled away on either side in broad sheets of foamy phosphorescence. The yellow lights of the battle lanterns streamed through her open ports; a drum was grimly rolling the call to battle on her decks. Dark forms passed to and fro; men leaped hither and thither in casting loose the double row of great black guns; sometimes a vivid flash in the moonlight proclaimed a drawn sword. Presently the cries and orders died away; the men settled down at their stations; silently the huge fabric, a splendid example of that power which for twice two hundred years had ruled the seas, swept toward them. O'Neill watched her in generous admiration.
"A fit antagonist even for our great captain," he cried, all his enthusiasm aroused by the ship, "and nobly handled," he added. "Mark the discipline; see the order!"
"Ay, sir, that'll be a hard one to take; but we'll take her, never fear!" said the old seaman, sharing his officer's ungrudging approbation of their gallant foe.
"How can you speak so?" said the girl. "To me she is nothing but a prison-a menace-a horror!"
"You are a woman, dearest; I hope to be on the old Richard before long, and I feel from such a ship as that there is much honor to be gained."
"And death, too," she answered, shuddering.
"It may be; death and honor often go hand in hand," he replied gravely; "but she nears us; you must lie down until she passes."
It was a new thing for her to be commanded; she found it altogether a sweet experience-then. Later it might be another matter. So, though protesting because she was a woman and had prescient eye to the future, Elizabeth dutifully obeyed her lord and lay down in the boat, resting her head against his foot. As they drew toward the mouth of the harbor the wind came stronger. The little boat fairly roared through the white-capped waves. She heeled over until the water trickled in on the lee side; but O'Neill resolutely and skilfully held her up to it. He could not afford to lose an inch of distance to leeward, for the water shallowed rapidly in that direction, and abounded in rocks as well. The Serapis was alongside now; they had not yet been observed. The attention of the men on the frigate was fixed upon the approaching ships to the southeast, now plainly visible. O'Neill fairly held his breath as he congratulated himself that they were to be passed by unnoticed. Suddenly a sharp cry rang out just as the Serapis drew ahead.
"Sail ho! Boat ahoy, there!" For a moment the small boat lay right in the path of light cast by the brilliantly illuminated stern-ports of the frigate.
"'Tis the prisoner, he that escaped!" shouted a powerful voice.
"Sentry, give him a shot from your piece," cried Captain Pearson himself, springing on the rail and leaning over toward them. Old Price shook his fist at the frigate in stout defiance. The sharp crack of a musket rang out in the air. The bullet seemed to have struck something forward in the boat; a shudder swept through the little craft, a hoarse, frightful cry quivered through the night, there was splash, the boat struck something, and that something, whatever it was, rasped along her keel as she drove ahead.
"Clear away the second cutter," cried another voice on the frigate.
"Keep all fast!" shouted Pearson. "We have bigger game to-night," and then he hollowed his hand and cried out as the Serapis drew rapidly away, -
"We'll take care of you, sir, in the morning, when we return." A few more musket-shots were fired at them from different parts of the ship; one bullet tore through the sail and whistled by the ear of the young lieutenant, but did no harm.
"We are saved again!" cried Elizabeth, sitting up and looking gratefully at her lover.
"But not without a cost," said the young man, solemnly.
"What mean you? Are you hurt; are you wounded?" she cried.
"Price!" called O'Neill, softly, though he knew it was useless. There was no answer.
"Oh, that awful cry!" said Elizabeth, shuddering.
"It was he," added O'Neill, gravely. "He was hit by the first shot, and went overboard. Did you not feel him strike the keel?"
"Is there no hope for him?" she queried anxiously. "Could we not put back and seek him?"
"None," replied the young lieutenant, shortly. "There was death in his voice; it's all over with him. Well, he died in the line of his duty; 'tis a sailor's cherished hope."
"He helped me-both of us-in time of need; our way to liberty and happiness," she cried piteously, "seems to be over the bodies of those who love us."
"So it has ever been in the world, – a thousand deaths to make one life, a thousand griefs to make one joy," he answered, laying his hand tenderly upon her head, which she had buried in her hands.
"But what come what may," she added, looking up resolutely, with all the selfishness of love, "I have you, at least, and we are together again."
"Ay, let us pray it may be forever, sweetheart."
They were out of the harbor now; and while the Serapis was stretching along to the northeast to gain an offing, with the Scarborough some distance ahead of her, and to leeward, the lighter draft of the small boat permitted O'Neill to head her directly for the oncoming American ships, whose lights, and the ships themselves, were now plainly visible in the moonlight.
CHAPTER XVII
Differing Standards
"The battle which will take place to-night yonder between those ships decides my fate. I hope to God I may arrive in time to take my part in it! The Richard is fearfully short of officers at best; Landais, who has the Alliance, is crazy and a coward; Cottineau in the Pallas is an unknown quantity, and the rest have fled. Jones has only Richard Dale and a lot of midshipmen with him upon whom he can absolutely depend, and there are over two hundred prisoners in the hold. He needs me. If this breeze hold on, I think we may intercept the Richard before the battle is joined. Pray, dearest, as never before, for the success of our arms! It means life, and you, for me."
"It means life for me as well," she answered, nestling against him and nerving herself up to the inevitable confession. How he would take it she did not know, or rather she would not permit herself to say. She was conscious only of an impelling necessity to tell him the whole story, though she had deliberately waited until she believed he could do nothing.
"Ah, yes, 'tis sweet of you to say so, but not the same. Me they will hang, but not you," he answered fondly.
"Yes, they will," she replied. "I-I-I must confess it to you before we go further; it weighs upon me. I also am guilty."
"Guilty! You! Of what, pray? Of loving me too much?" he queried, laughing in pure lightness of heart.
"No, not that," she answered, "but that-that order-your reprieve. It was-the admiral did not sign it," she added desperately.
The secret was out.
"And who did it, then?" he asked, still unsuspicious of her meaning.
"I did it myself," she answered, with averted head.
"It is not possible!" he exclaimed, withdrawing from her a little in his astonishment.
"'Twas for you-for you I did it-reproach me not; nay, you shall not!" she cried, on fire to defend herself and her love, now the truth was told. "Captain Jones said six hours' delay and you were saved. There was no other way. I begged, implored, entreated the admiral-he left me; went away-I saw the man fixing that block-the rope-I ran to him to make one more appeal-he was not there. On his desk was an order giving me permission to see you, which he had intended to give me and had refused at the last moment and left unsigned. His watch was there and his seal. I added the rest and signed and sealed it myself; do not shrink from me!" she pleaded with changed mood again. "Your anger-your disapproval-kills me. Is there no excuse that you can find for me?" Her appeal was so tender, her affection so apparent, she was her own justification.
"No man would have done it," he said irresolutely, wavering.
"But every woman would," she replied promptly, pressing her advantage. "Why are you so silent; Your precious honor is safe, and as for mine-"
"'Twas nobly done," he answered at last, in complete surrender. "There is not a woman in the world but would honor you for it; not a man who would not love you. You have done that which I could not, and for me. My heart before, and now my life is yours, my heart's dearest."
"I knew you would not like it," she answered simply, "but there was no other way. I confess I was terrified when Edward-"
"Good heavens!" cried O'Neill. "He saw the order?"
"Yes," said the girl, cowering before him again. In truth, this phase of the transaction had actually escaped her memory.
"Captain Pearson accepted it without questioning him?" he queried. She would have given all the world to lie to him, but even in the darkness she could not be further untrue, in his very presence, though now like a flash she saw it all.
"He-he doubted it," she whispered hesitatingly. "He handed the paper to Edward, and asked him if it-if it was all right."
"And Coventry?"
"He took it and looked at it, looked at me-I had forgotten him, I must confess, – " she went on brokenly, – "and then he handed it back to Captain Pearson and-and said it was correct-the signature, I mean."
"He knew, think you?" asked her lover, with deadly calmness.
"Yes, he knew," she faltered.
"And the sentry-our unheeded escape?"
"Edward took his place-I might as well tell you all now," continued the girl, desperately.
"Ah!" he said, coldly and sternly; "and do you know, Lady Elizabeth, what the penalty is for such actions as his?"
"No," she replied, in alarm; "I never thought. They will not harm him. He is the son of the admiral-what is it?"
"They will shoot him, or hang him like a dog to the very yard-arm prepared for me!" he answered with stern emphasis.
"No, no! It is not possible!" she cried, appalled at the naked fact.
"Ay, but it is," he replied; "and it is through your actions, and my blind acquiescence therein, that this honorable gentleman is done to death. This puts another face on the whole thing. You have made me a craven; I am dishonored, his life is sacrificed for me!"
"I did not mean to do it; I did not know," she wailed, stricken to the heart by his bitter reproach.
"Ay, but you should have known; but when women meddle in affairs of state the consequences oft exceed their narrow views. Pray God, there may yet be time to rectify the frightful happening," said O'Neill, bitterly, putting the helm hard over as he spoke. The boat swept around, the sail gybed, and they headed for the northeast.
"What is it that you would do?" cried Elizabeth, in alarm, laying her hand on the tiller.
"Follow the Serapis," he answered shortly.
"For what?"
"To give myself up if possible, and thus insure his freedom."
"I knew-I knew it would be so," she whispered. "I loved him," she murmured, turning away, "I have sacrificed everything for him, and he repudiates, reproaches me. O my God, why hast thou forsaken me!" she wailed in unconscious imitation of a greater Sufferer. She drew away from him and knelt down in the boat, and buried her face in her hands, leaning upon the weather gunwale. He looked at her a moment, and before the pathetic abandonment of her grief his anger melted. She was a woman; with her, love was all.
"Elizabeth," he said tenderly, "the bitterness of having caused that good man's death, his apparent dishonor, overwhelmed me. I love you, as you know, more than life itself. You are a woman; you see things differently. There is nothing above love in a woman's heart. Come back to me; your place is here, whatever happens. I love you the more for your great sacrifice, but now we must undo it if we can. Heaven has not smiled upon our meeting; perhaps, if we go hand in hand before God together, we may find mercy, perhaps joy!"
She made no answer, but nestled against him forgiven, contented. For a time they sailed the sea in silence. The clouds had broken and left a clear sky, whence the moon had flooded the ocean with her silvery light; but the breeze came fitfully and gradually died away where they were now under the lee of the land. It was such a night as lovers dream of. They loved and they were together, side by side, alone, in the soft autumnal night, adrift on a summer sea. There was that in the past which kept them silent; and yet in their very proximity, in the hands that touched and clasped each other, the head that nestled on his shoulder, the arm that encircled her waist, the lips that met, the eyes that spoke, – there was a sweetness which neither had ever known before. The gentle wind whispered of love. The curling, lipping waves caressed the keel with sounds like kisses, and to it all their hearts kept time. It was a respite, – a lull between two phases of the conflict; there was love and there was peace in the little boat, and war and tumult were far off on the horizon.
By and by Elizabeth slipped down from the thwart, and crouched down in the boat at his feet. O'Neill held the tiller with one hand; the other lightly stroked her golden head. She was perfectly content; everything was out of her heart but he and the present; she was very still. He could see the soft curve of her cheek resting upon her sweet white hand in the moonlight. After one of the little intervals of silence, he looked down upon her again. She made no motion, and did not reply to a word he said softly, and he discovered that she was asleep.
He did not wonder. The experiences of the past few days would have killed any ordinary woman. How heroic she had been! With what abandon she had put aside everything for the purpose of saving him! She had hesitated at nothing. His love for her was measured by his honor; hers for him was boundless. 'Twas ever so; and he had reproached her, spoken harshly to her, upbraided her, turned away from her! How could he have been so cruel! she was so young, his heart yearned over her. He vowed that if God did permit them to escape from the perils which environed them, he would make up to her for every unkind word spoken, every reproach, every cutting glance, by an eternity of devotion.
The night, the ocean, the loneliness, impressed him. What had he ever done to be so blessed in the love of this noble woman? His life, as he had said, had been an idle one. In the courts he had played at hearts as he had played at war on the ships for the fun of the game. With her a serious purpose had entered his life and was before him. The silence of the night was broken only by the soft splash of the waves, as the little boat rocked gently through them. The gentle wind grew fainter and fainter; presently the flap of the idle sail against the mast apprised him that it had gone.
The white Serapis and her consort were far, far ahead, going fast and leaving a long white wake across the sea. They seemed to have kept the breeze which had failed the small boat. Coming up from the southward he could see the black shapes of the Richard and her attendant ships. What would he have given to be upon the deck by the side of that dauntless captain! But even could he approach the two ships, that privilege would be denied him, for honor demanded that he present himself upon the deck of the Serapis without delay. It might be that it would be too late even then to save Coventry, but he would go and do his best. When the boat lost way, he sat a moment in indecision. He was so loath to awaken the tired girl, but it was necessary. Gently he raised her head.
"Why, my dearest," she said, "was I asleep? What has happened? Oh!" it came back to her, "you are going back to the Serapis." Then she looked eagerly forward. The ships were far off now, several miles away; and as the breeze still held with them, the distance was increasing with every passing moment.
"We do not advance," she cried, a note of joy in her voice, as her ear detected the flapping of the sail; "the wind has died out." She laughed triumphantly, "We shall never reach them."
"And poor Coventry?" said O'Neill.
"I cannot help it," she answered simply. "I think only of you. Now if I could go back alone and take his place and let you go free, I would cheerfully do that."
"What advantage would that be to me?" he asked her.
"Well, there is little use in our discussing it any more," she answered, "for you cannot reach either ship now before it is over. The wind has gone over to them, and we are still."
"Ah, but I have another way of getting along."
"How is that?"
"I shall row," he said quietly. "Will you take the tiller?"
"No!" she replied defiantly, folding her arms. "I will not help you at all!"
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" he murmured.
"I will not, I tell you!" she said. "Frankly, I do not wish to. What is Edward, what are those ships, what is the whole wide world to me beside your safety?"
"I must do it alone as best I can, then," said O'Neill, leaving her side and going forward and unstepping the mast and thrusting out the oars, which he handled with the skill of long practice and strong arms. The difference of speed between the boat and the two ships was now of course greater than before.
"Why fatigue yourself unnecessarily?" she said to him at last, after he had been rowing for some time. "You gain nothing; 'tis useless."
"No matter," was his reply as he desperately tugged at the oars. "I shall at least have the consciousness of knowing I did what I could." But after pulling hard for an hour, he leaned over the handles of the oars and turning his head looked forward. She was right; it was a perfectly hopeless task. The nearest ships were now ten or a dozen miles away, and going farther, when a flash of light pierced the darkness on the horizon, followed some time after by the roar of a heavy gun.