Читать книгу The Gold Brick - Ann S. Stephens - Страница 8

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They were far out to sea, the New England brig which lay in the harbor of Port au Prince on that terrible night, with the unhappy and helpless creatures who had found protection under its flag. Thrasher, who was the commander now, sat in his cabin at breakfast. He held a cup of coffee in one hand which seemed to have excited his disfavor, for setting it on the table and dashing the spoon so angrily into the coffee that it scattered the drops all around, he called out,

"Come here, you brat."

Paul, the little boy whom Captain Mason had saved, came reluctantly forward, his black eyes heavy with fear, and his delicate limbs trembling, as you see those of an Italian greyhound when driven into the cold.

"Why don't you move—what do you stand there shaking like a thief for?"

These coarse words were made even more brutal by the base French in which they were uttered. At any time the boy could with difficulty have understood them; in his fright he could only stand still, with his terror stricken face turned away from the man who persecuted him.

"Why don't you move, I say?" repeated the commander.

"What for, monsieur—what shall I do?" asked the child.

"What shall you do?" answered the man, mimicking the gentle terror in the child's voice with a rough drawl of mockery. "What shall you do? why go to Jube, your father, and tell him to come here this instant! I'll teach him to send coffee like that to a gentleman's table. Bah, it's bitter as gall and thick as mud. Go call your father, I say."

"My father!" said the boy—"my father!" and his beautiful eyes were instantly flooded with tears.

"Yes, that nigger, Jube."

"But Jube is our slave, not my father."

"What! don't let me hear you tell that again or I'll give you a taste of the cat-o-nine-tails, no humbug with me, now I tell you."

The boy shrank back, but gleams of fire shot through the tears that still trembled in his eyes; he felt that the man was insulting him, but did not quite comprehend how.

"Go call your father, I say," repeated his tormentor.

"I'll call Jube if you want me to," said Paul, with the dignity of a little prince, "but if I were to call ever so long my father—oh, my father!—will never, never come."

The pale face of the child burned red as he began to speak, but it was pallid again before he closed, and his proud voice broke into sobs.

"Take that, and mind how you howl when I speak to you again," cried the tyrant, giving that pale cheek a blow with the palm of his hand.

The little fellow staggered back and uttered a faint cry, but in an instant the dignity of blood aroused itself even in that childish heart. He stood up bravely, pride of race sparkling through his tears.

"I am not a slave, and you have struck me."

The mate laughed.

"Well done, my little bantam rooster, give us another fling."

The boy's face flamed red under the insulting laugh.

"I am only a little boy; besides, papa says gentlemen never fight with their fists, so if I were a man it would be all the same—but Jube can fight like you—he knows how—yes, I'll call Jube."

"Not till I've knocked all the infernal pride out of your little body," exclaimed Thrasher, starting up and making a dash at the boy.

He was too late. The little fellow had cleared the cabin stairs with the leap of a fawn, and rushing across the deck where Jube was standing, seized him by the garments.

"Jube, good Jube, you can fight—that man down-stairs wants you—he struck me here on my face, the very spot my mother kissed—with his hands so—he struck me."

There was no need for the boy to say this, for three blood red finger marks glowed like living fire across his delicate cheek.

The gladiator broke into Jube's eyes as he saw these marks. His hand clenched and unclenched itself, and he ground his white teeth in ferocious rage. The savage African was fully aroused in him then.

"Look," he said, towering upward, till his athletic person was revealed in all its powerful proportions—"look, your master has struck my master's son—I'll kill him!"

"You will, ha!" cried the loud voice of Thrasher, who had followed the boy on deck. "You will, lump of ebony, will you? Well, let's begin at once. I say, Rice, take that fellow to the rigging, and give him a couple of dozen. I'll let him know that white folks have the say here."

Jube did not understand this order, for it was given in English, but he guessed something of the truth when the group of sailors, that had stood looking on, broke up in a commotion, and two of the strongest came toward him menacingly.

"What is it, tell me—what are you going to do with Jube?" inquired the boy, going up to Rice, who, with all the men who had been trading to St. Domingo for years, had a rude knowledge of French.

"Go away, shaver, get down below, nobody wants to hurt you, and if they did I wouldn't let 'em by jingo! but the nigger there, mutinied, and he'll have to catch it."

"Don't, don't hurt Jube," cried the boy in an agony of fear, "what has he done?"

"He's threatened the captain—that is, he's threatened the one who took the captain's place, and that 'ere's mutiny on the high seas, do you understand?"

The sailor put Paul aside as he gave the desired information, and joined his comrade who had seized upon Jube, who inquired fiercely what they wanted with him.

"Don't stand to talk, but lash the nigger up, and give him an extra dozen for his impudence!" shouted the captain; "no parley, but go to work."

While Jube stood half at bay, doubtful of the evil that threatened him, the two sailors sprang upon him, and began to take off his outer garments, while half a dozen others stood ready to aid them, should the poor fellow resist. There was a desperate struggle, but it lasted only a few moments; great as Jube's strength was, it proved nothing opposed to the powerful force arrayed against him. In a few moments the poor fellow stood with his bare shoulders glistening in the sunshine, and all his muscles quivering with the fierce restraint that had been put upon them. Each hand was manacled by the iron gripe of his captors, who were stern but not mocking, while Thrasher, who looked on with a cold smile, muttered:

"Yes, my fine fellow, we'll teach you the difference between this deck and Port au Prince—here white folks are white folks."

Paul stood looking on, wild with terror. "What were they doing? Would they kill Jube before his eyes? Had he been the cause of this?"

The men dragged Jube away, heedless of his broken cries. With them a punishment at the rigging was no very extraordinary occasion, and when exercised on a negro was not altogether a disagreeable excitement. But Rice, more merciful than the rest, came back, and attempted to persuade the child away from the deck, but Thrasher confronted him at the gangway, and ordered him back.

"Let the youngster stay and see the fun; it'll do him good," he said; "if he keeps up that whimpering I'll give him a dose, too."

Rice stood a moment with something of revolt in his eyes, but seemed to think the question not worth a quarrel, and slowly retreated, dragging the child with him. The mate did not deem it prudent, perhaps, to urge the seaman too far, so Rice withdrew to the remotest part of the deck, and lifting the child in his arms, pretended to point out a ship which he persisted was hovering on the line of the horizon.

But this humane ruse was of no avail. With the little heart quivering in his bosom like a wounded bird, and every sense awake to the danger of his friend, Paul was not to be interested in any thing. His white face was turned anxiously over the sailor's shoulder, and he listened keenly.

It came at last, a sharp, cutting twang. The boy uttered a shriek, and struggling from the sailor's arms, fell upon the floor, shuddering all over. Again, again, and again; harder, fiercer, and with a biting sharpness that made the blood curdle in that young heart, the blows fell, then a cry, shrill with agony.

The boy leaped to his feet, and breaking away from the kind hold of the sailor, went staggering across the deck, pale and wild, stung almost to death with the pain of those lashes.

The captain stood near the masthead, smoking a cigar. He did not lose a single puff—nay, between the lashes he would sometimes retain the smoke with his lips, and emit it enjoyingly, as the blows fell, thus keeping lazy time with the torture he was inflicting.

Half blind, almost dead, the boy came toward him, and fell at his feet, clasping his hands and holding them up in dumb, pitiful entreaty, for the voice was dead within him, and his pale lips uttered moans instead of words.

"Ha! you have come to, have you?" exclaimed the mate, taking the cigar from his mouth, and winding a loose fragment of tobacco leaf around it. "I thought as much. Well, never mind, the music's nearly half over now—then your turn shall come."

Those little hands dropped, and the child fell forward on his face; a faint quiver which followed each crack of the lash was all the sign of life he gave.