The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

“Well, John,” said Captain Marston, “I hope that you have made up your mind to join us. I can offer you a respectable position. We have very nearly fifty men, all told. I shall form thirty of these into a company of marines, and offer you the post of commander of this newly-made corps. But, before I proceed any farther, let me introduce you to some of your new shipmates. This old friend of ours, whom you know now, I suppose, as my first-mate, Mr Dempster, becomes my first lieutenant, Mr Seacome, when we enter the tropics; at the same time your humble servant takes the more convenient name of Captain Vance, and this good brig, the Sea-bird, becomes the Falcon– the free rover. This is my second mate, Mr Afton, who prefers to change, under such circumstances, his title only, and to be called Second-lieutenant Afton.”

This burly and savage-looking individual growled an oath or two about not being afraid of his own name.

“This joyous individual,” continued the captain, motioning his hand towards another of the party, “is my third-mate, or lieutenant, and selects his sobriquet for his roving name – that is, Third-mate Brown becomes Third-lieutenant Bowsprit. You have already met this jolly person. You are also, I presume, well acquainted by this time, with this young gentleman, Master Revere, my clerk.”

At mentioning this last name, Captain Marston, with a slightly sarcastic expression of countenance, waved his hand towards Ada Revere. She cast her eyes to the deck, and a vivid blush spread over her beautiful face. Even in the midst of his own trouble, John could not help feeling pity for the poor girl. Often had the questions recurred to him: “What is her real position on board of this vessel? What is her history?” Sympathy with her lonely condition and the wrongs which he felt that she must have received from one leading member, at least, of the brig’s company, strengthened the indignation which he experienced on account of his own injuries, and probably caused him to forget all prudence in answering Captain Marston’s addresses to him.

“You, Captain Marston,” he said, in a firm and perfectly collected manner, and with a certain intensity of voice which intimated that he felt more than he spoke, “address me in calm tones and familiarly, as if you had done me no wrong to destroy the intimacy and kind feelings which existed between us in past years. In speaking thus, you add insult to injury; your words, manner, and voice suggesting that I am so simple, so very weak in intellect, as not to be able to appreciate the inexpressibly gross outrage which has been committed against me.”

“You do me wrong,” said Captain Marston, “in supposing for a moment that I doubt that you possess a very unusual degree of intellect. I have always considered you one of the most remarkably endowed men, both in mind and body, with whom I ever met. In what other manner could I have spoken? and what was the use of my speaking with excitement? That you must remain with us is a fixed fact. You have learned things the public knowledge of which would ruin Mr Ashleigh, implicate – if an investigation should take place – the character of some gentlemen of the highest standing in Baltimore, or even endanger their safety – to say nothing of the security and interests of those among whom you are now standing. Self-preservation is the first law of nature; and you obliged us to make and hold you a prisoner, by informing yourself wilfully of secrets important to us, and of not the least concern to you. You have yourself alone to blame for the situation in which you are placed.”

“Every citizen,” replied the spirited young man, “has not only a right, but it is his duty, if an opportunity occurs, to investigate whatsoever appears to him to be a breach of the laws of his country.”

“That remark does not affect us at all,” answered Marston, “although it may have justified, to yourself and others, your curiosity and interference. Our duty is to defend ourselves against the laws.”

“With the view which you take of the matter,” retorted John, feeling offended and irritated by Marston’s application to him of the words “curiosity and interference,” and determined to retort at all hazards to language which appeared to him personally insulting, “I should not have so much cause to complain had I been captured by open force; but my kind feelings towards yourself were played upon in a treacherous and cowardly manner to work out my own injury.”

A dark and lowering scowl came upon the face of Captain Marston, and he placed his right hand in his bosom as if to draw a weapon.

At the same instant Afton drew a pistol from one of his pockets and raised it.

“Do you dare,” he cried, “to call our captain a coward?”

Captain Marston, however, who seemed not yet to have overcome his rage sufficiently to speak, suddenly grasped Afton’s weapon, and drew it from his hand.

“This is courage, truly!” said young Coe, with bitter irony expressed in his voice, and addressing Afton. “You are very brave in assaulting an unarmed man. You would feel and act very differently if you and I were alone, and equally armed.”

“Captain,” exclaimed Afton, “what is the use of bandying words with this fool? Let us settle the matter at once by shooting him, and throwing him overboard. We needn’t fear his betraying us then. ‘Dead men tell no tales.’”

“Leave him to me,” said Captain Marston, moving his hand towards Afton. Then, addressing John, he continued – “You take advantage, John Coe, of our relative positions; you know that I, as a brave man, cannot, while surrounded by my band, resent an insult from an unarmed prisoner. If I am a smuggler – and, perhaps, even what you would call a pirate – you know that I cannot so sacrifice my manhood as to take advantage of the means at my command to punish the gross insult which you have offered me.”

“If you boast so much of your manhood, which word also implies your honour, such as it is,” said John, “and feel so wounded at what I have said, the same power which you possess over your band to bring them against me, should also be strong enough to prevent them from interfering while I render you the satisfaction for which you seem to long. Here, in the sight of your men, with no friend to see what is called fair play, I am willing to fight you with sword, pistol, or gun. Yes, I will do so, even though they may kill me, should I defeat you, the moment after; for I had as lief die as be debarred my liberty, or be obliged to yield my actions to the expediency which is merely suggested by opposing force.”

“I thank you for your proposition,” said Captain Vance, “and accept of it. You shall have a fairer contest, too, than you seem to expect. Here, Dempster, Afton, Brown.”

The officers addressed drew around their captain.

“Promise me,” said Marston, “by all the pledges that bind our association together, that if Mr Coe should succeed in killing me, he shall receive no injury for doing so; and further, that, upon his mere pledge of honour to keep secret what he has learned about us, you will land him at any port, near to our course, at which he may wish to disembark. Promise, moreover, under the same pledges, that you will not interfere in the combat about to take place between Mr Coe and myself, by deed, word, or look.”

The officers addressed, even the brutal Afton, gave the pledges required unhesitatingly, being perfectly assured that their captain would gain the victory.

“What weapons do you choose, Mr Coe?” asked Marston.

“It is for you to choose,” said John; “you have the right as the challenged party.”

“I select swords, then,” said Captain Marston; “the conqueror with that weapon is not obliged to injure his adversary.”

“You seem to consider it as granted, by that remark,” observed our hero, “that you will be successful?”

“By no means,” answered Marston.

John turned upon his adversary an inquiring and rather threatening look; but he said nothing more on the subject.

Lieutenant Dempster, or Seacome, was sent into the captain’s cabin for a pair of small-swords.

Ada Revere had looked imploringly upon Marston and Coe alternately, while the quarrel had been growing to its present condition. Anxiety and terror were both plainly expressed in her face; she had seemed, hitherto, desirous of interfering, but fearful of doing so; no doubt she had learned from much experience the danger of attempting to check Captain Marston in any of his acts. Now the prospect of an immediate conflict seemed to rouse her to action. She threw herself upon her knees between the two foes.

“Oh! I beseech you,” she cried, “let this quarrel go no farther. You know, Captain Marston, why I feel an interest in you; but you do not know that this gentleman, Mr Coe, rendered me, many years ago, one of those services which can never be forgotten. Think, gentlemen, what horror it would be to me to see one of you injured, or perhaps even killed by the other, and have pity upon me.”

John Coe raised her from her kneeling position with evident tenderness.

“I do not fully know what you mean, madam,” he said, “and cannot, therefore, make use of your meaning to put a stop to what is going on. But I can feel for your evident suffering without knowing its cause.”

“Master Revere,” said Marston, with sadness and yet something of sternness in his voice, “if I could, I would consult your feelings in this matter. But what you say comes too late, even if it were fully explained. Mr Brown, do me the favour to lead this young gentleman to his state-room door.”

Mr Bowsprit advanced, and taking the hand of Ada led her away. She retired, still extending her disengaged hand towards the intended combatants, with an imploring glance.

Story 2-Chapter VIII.

The Ship Duchess

She was a vision of delight.

    Ballad.

These treasures are for you, my own beloved one —

Laid up for you by your own father’s hand.

    Foxglove.

Antonio. A long, low, black and rakish vessel, say you?

Pietro. Yes, captain; she’s a pirate beyond doubt.

Antonio. We’ll have a fight or e’er she capture us.

    The Storm.

The truth of my history obliges me to relate some occurrences powerfully bearing upon John’s fortunes.

It was in the early part of the month of June, in the year 1817, when the ship Duchess left the port of Kingston, in the island of Jamaica, bound to the port of Havre, in France. She had been chartered for this voyage by a French merchant by the name of Jules Durocher.

Jules Durocher had settled, when a young man, as a planter in the island of Hayti; but, dissatisfied with a planter’s life, he had sold his land in that island, and afterwards removed from Hayti to Kingston, where he established himself as a merchant. Here he had succeeded in making a large fortune, when he was but little more than forty years of age. Having lost his wife, an English lady, whom he had married in Jamaica, and to whom he was much attached, and his health, which had for many years seemed to be good, failing at length suddenly from the insidious and slowly-working effects of the climate, he had determined to retire from business, to realise his gains, and to pass the remainder of his days in his native France, with his only child Louise.

He had now so far carried out his intentions as to have converted into gold and bills of exchange all his large fortune, except the comparatively small portion which had been required to purchase a cargo of the native products of Jamaica for the ship he had chartered. So uncertain, however, are the calculations of men, that now, when the quietude in which he had long hoped to pass his declining years appeared almost certain of realisation, his health began rapidly to decline; and his state was so weak, when the lading of the Duchess was completed, that he had to be taken from his bed on land and carried to one on board of the ship. Such was the state of things in which Jules Durocher and his daughter Louise left their home of many years in Kingston, to transfer their fortunes to the father’s native France.

Louise Durocher was very beautiful; but her beauty was not of the kind which we generally attribute to French ladies, and which is characterised by sparkling black eyes, raven-hued tresses, and a brunette complexion. Her loveliness was a direct antithesis to this description. Her hair deserved fully the title of “golden” on account of both its colour and its lustre, and held smoothly round her head by a plain riband, fell in a mass of rich curls over her shoulders. Her softly bright eyes, dark, but decidedly and purely blue, exhibited in every glance a tender heart and an intelligent mind. A soft rose-tinge upon her cheeks illustrated by a delicate contrast the pearly fairness of her complexion.