Читать книгу Ronald Morton; or, the Fire Ships - William Henry Giles Kingston - Страница 14

“To my mind it wad ha’ been better for one and a’ of us, if Miss Hilda had gone and wed with a true, honest-hearted Shetlander, instead of this new-found foreigner, for all his fine clothes, and fine airs, and silk purse; it’s few times I have seen the inside of it.” This was said by old Davie Cheyne to Nanny Clousta, about two weeks after Hilda and her husband had taken up their abode at the castle. “What Sir Marcus will say about the matter, it makes me tremble to think of. It’s my belief he’ll be inclined to pull the house down about our ears, or to send us and it flying up into the sky together. I wad ha’ thought she might ha’ found a young Mouat, or a Gifford, or a Bruce, or Nicolson. There are mony likely lads among them far better than this captain, now; I can no like him better than does Mr. Lawrence, and that’s a sma’ portion indeed.”

“You’re too hard, Mr. Cheyne, on our new master,” answered Nanny; “if ye had seen the gold piece he gave me the day we came back to the castle, and the beautiful silver one which he put into my hand only yesterday, with the two pillars on it, you wad no say a’ that against him. No, no, Mr. Cheyne, he’s a fine gentleman, and a right fit husband for our young mistress.”

For more than a fortnight Don Hernan had not set his foot on board the “Saint Cecilia.” Both officers and crew had, however, begun to complain at being left so long in so uninteresting a spot in perfect inactivity; Don Hernan accordingly ordered the ship back to Brassay Sound under charge of Pedro Alvarez.

Strange as it may seem, the news of Don Hernan’s marriage with Miss Wardhill had not yet reached Lerwick. There was at no time any very regular intercourse kept up between the islands, and that which was usual had been interrupted by the bad weather.

Rolf Morton, like a wise man, resolved to keep his knowledge of the matter to himself, and to say nothing, while Father Mendez, the only person belonging to the ship who, from being able to speak English, could have communicated it, was not likely to say a word about the matter, unless he had some object in doing so. Bailie Sanderson of Lerwick was a staunch Presbyterian, and a warm hater of Episcopacy and Popery; and it was a sore struggle in his mind how far he was justified in having any dealings with the only representative of the latter power, who had for many a long year ventured to set foot on the soil of Shetland; in vain he tried to make the purser understand him. Stores for the ship of all sorts were wanted, but no arrangements could be made, and at length Father Mendez was called to their councils. The bailie believed himself so fully guarded against any of the doctrines held by the priest, that he had no fear as to any attempts he might make to change his own opinions; but the truth was, that Father Mendez understood him far better than he understood Father Mendez, who, had he thought it worth his while, would not have made his approaches in a mode the bailie was at all likely to discover till the foundations of his fortress had been sapped and undermined. The priest, however, had not the slightest intention of making an attack on the bailie’s religious principles, whatever might have been his mission to those northern regions. There were some who did not fail to assert that he had ulterior views; but he made himself generally so very popular, that the greater number considered him a very well-behaved, harmless, kind gentleman, who was ready to smile at all their amusements, even though he might not partake in them, and was conversable and affable with every one.

For nearly three weeks or more the “Saint Cecilia” remained at Lerwick, and while her officers were busy gaining golden opinions from the people, they spent a good many golden pieces among them.

“And after a’ the real goud is the best thing o’ the twa,” as Bailie Sanderson observed. “The one, unless, maybe, it’s the deil’s pay, will rest in the purse, or bring something substantial in return, and is muckle like the snow in the spring time; it looks very white and glittering, but quickly vanishes awa.”

At length Rolf Morton arrived from Whalsey with an order from Don Hernan to Pedro Alvarez to carry the ship back to Eastling Sound. The corvette was instantly got under weigh, and tide and wind suiting, she stood back towards Lunnasting Castle. The inhabitants of Lerwick saw her departure with no little astonishment, as not a word had been said to lead them to suppose she was going. Some had their misgivings on certain material points. Bailie Sanderson, especially, was very uncomfortable; he had furnished a large amount of stores—far more than any one else had done; but though he had got in his hands several bills, in the shape of long bits of paper, accepted by Don Diogo Ponti, purser of His most Catholic Majesty’s ship, the “Saint Cecilia,” and by Don Hernan de Escalante, captain of the said ship, he had received very little hard cash, and several of his friends, when they had looked at those strips of paper, and turned and twisted them about, in a variety of ways, with an expression in their countenances which betokened commiseration, hoped that he might, by the mercy of Providence, get the siller for them, but that it would be next a miracle if he did. In a moment all his airy castles and the delightful profits he had anticipated were scattered to the wind, while no one to whom he applied could afford him the slightest consolation.

The most trying time in Hilda’s existence had arrived. She had given her heart to Don Hernan, and she had married him; but she had never dared to reflect on the consequences of her doing so. When at length he told her that the last packet from the south had brought him peremptory orders to proceed on his voyage, the news came on her like a sudden thunder-clap. No longer had she the power of acting, as of yore, according to her own untrammelled will. She had discovered that already. What would he determine? To let him go from her, and leave her alone, were worse than death. When might he return? Would he ever come back? What numberless chances might intervene to prevent him. Yet the thought of leaving the castle, placed under her charge, was naturally revolting to her feelings. Her father had intrusted her with his property. Could she betray that trust without meriting his just censure? Yet had she not already done enough to make him discard her altogether?

“Yes, I have,” she exclaimed, with some degree of bitterness. “How can I stand the storm of rage, and then the scornful sneers with which he will assail me? Accompany Hernan, I will, come what may of it. If he refuses he shall not leave behind a living bride. Scorn, pity, or anger, would be insufferable, and to all shall I be exposed if I remain.”

To such a resolution it might have been expected that a woman of ardent temperament and untrained mind, like Hilda, would have arrived, whatever course of doubt and hesitation she might have first gone through.

Don Hernan returned with a clouded brow from his first visit to his ship. He found Hilda seated in her turret-chamber. He threw himself on a sofa by her side.

“There has been discontent and well-nigh mutiny among my people,” he exclaimed in an angry tone. “I might have known that it would have been so; idleness does not suit the fellows—I must take care that they have no more of it; they will have plenty to do in future. Well, Hilda, our happy days here must now come to an end. They have flitted by faster than I could have expected.” Hilda gazed in his face, trembling to hear what might follow. He spoke calmly: “Yes, a few short weeks seem not longer than as many hours; and now I fear, dearest, we must part, though it may be but for a short period. I may obtain leave to return with the ‘Saint Cecilia,’ or you must travel south by a shorter route through England, and thence on to Spain. I cannot shield you, I fear, from some of the inconveniences to which sailors’ wives are exposed.”

“Leave me! Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Hilda, passionately. “Take me with you. I cannot be parted from you! You tell me you love me: it would be but cruel love to kill me; and I tell you I could not survive our separation. I speak the truth—oh, believe me, Hernan—I do!”

The Spanish captain looked at her as if he doubted her assertion; but he would indeed have been a sceptic as to the depth of the power of woman’s affection had he longer continued to doubt when he saw her beseeching and almost agonised countenance turned on him, waiting for his decision.

“But can you, Hilda, endure all the hardships and dangers we may have to go through?” he asked. “We may be exposed to furious tempests, and perhaps have to fight more than one battle, before we reach a Spanish port.”

“Yes, yes, I can endure everything you have to suffer,” she answered, taking his hand in one of hers, while she placed the other on his shoulder, and looked up into his face as if she would read his inward soul. “Why should I fear the tempest when you are on board, or the battle, while I can stand by your side? Take me with you, Hernan. Prove me, and I shall not be found wanting.”

“Hilda, you are a brave woman—you have conquered my resolution. We will go together,” he exclaimed, clasping her to his heart.

The shriek of joy she gave showed the intensity of her anxiety, and how it had been relieved by this announcement.

Still Don Hernan lingered. Was it that he was unwilling to tear himself away from a spot where he had spent some of the brightest moments of his existence? Had he other less ostensible motives for delay?

Hilda’s announcement of her intended departure was received in silence by Sandy Redland, the factor, and David Cheyne, the old butler. The former, perhaps, was not ill-content to have the entire management of the estate left in his hands. Nanny Clousta, without hesitation, agreed to accompany her mistress, and thus the only person who really grieved for Hilda’s departure was Bertha Eswick. She walked about the castle in a state of bewilderment very different to her usual collected manner, and was continually asking herself if she could not have prevented the result for which she mourned. The only person who seemed totally unconscious that any unusual event was about to occur was Lawrence Brindister. He treated his cousin and Don Hernan with a mock courtesy which was excessively annoying, the more especially as it was utterly impossible to resent it.

The hour of her departure arrived. Hilda had made every preparation for it in her power; still the utter want of propriety in the step she was taking pressed heavily on her spirits. Except her own garments and a few of her books, she took nothing with her. “It shall not be said that I am spoiling my father’s house,” she exclaimed, with some bitterness, as she showed Bertha everything she wished packed up.

Don Hernan’s barge was in readiness at the landing-place, where Sandy Redland stood ready to receive the keys. As she left the castle, she looked, as old Davie Cheyne afterwards remarked, “more like Mary Queen of Scots, or some other great lady, going to execution, than a bride accompanying her husband to his home.” As she was about to step into the boat she took Bertha’s hand.

“Dear nurse and cousin,” she whispered, “you know I loved you more than any other human being, but I dare not show it lest my feelings should run riot with me. Farewell! The future is all obscure and uncertain. I dare not talk of when we may meet again.”

Don Hernan took her hand and helped her into the boat. The word was given to shove off—the oars were dipped into the water—when down from the castle gate rushed Lawrence Brindister, followed closely by Surly Grind.

“Ha! ha!” he exclaimed, in a hoarse, angry voice. “Fare-thee-well, cousin Hilda—fare-thee-well! though you would leave your kinsman without saying as much to him. And you, Don Hernan, fare-thee-well, too. You think you have wedded with the heiress of Lunnasting. It’s a pleasant dream to believe that you will some day be master of those lordly towers. Dream on as you please, but know the truth: ‘The prince will hae his ain again! the prince will hae his ain again!’ ”

These words he continued singing at the top of his voice, pointing derisively at the boat as long as she continued in sight.

Don Hernan urged the crew to give way, and with lusty strokes they sent the boat flying through the water, till she was far out of hearing of Lawrence’s voice. Hilda sank back in her husband’s arms, and hid her eyes while she was passing under the walls of the dwelling she believed that she was leaving for ever. With shouts of welcome the Spanish crew received their captain’s bride. Scarcely had she stepped on board than the anchor, which had been hove short, was run up to the bows, the sails were let fall, and, with a light breeze from the westward, the corvette stood out of Eastling Sound.

Rolf Morton was on board as pilot. He bowed to Hilda, but his duty in attending to the steering of the ship prevented his speaking. As she looked at him, she felt that he was the last link which yet united her with the past, and she almost dreaded the moment that he would have to leave the ship. “Yet, after all, from what do I sever myself?” she thought. “From associations only. Begone all such recollections. Let me enjoy the delightful present, and the no less happy future I trust.”

No day could have been more beautiful in any latitude than that on which the “Saint Cecilia” sailed from Shetland. The sea was smooth, just broken with a slight ripple, which glittered brightly in the rays of the sun as the ship slipped quickly through it with a gentle breeze abeam. The arrangements, also, which Hilda’s husband had made below for her accommodation were perfect. He, too, was kind and courteous in the extreme; and had she been a princess, the officers could not have treated her with greater respect. Over and over again she said to herself, “I should indeed be ungrateful if I am not happy.”

Having given a good offing to the Out Skerries, so as to avoid the dangers near Feltar, the corvette stood to the northward, it being the intention of the captain to round the northern end of Shetland, and by that course to enter the Atlantic. Rolf Morton’s boat was towing astern, and he agreed to remain on board to see the ship clear of the land. The weather was beautiful, the sea was smooth, the wind was light, and there was every prospect of a pleasant commencement of a voyage, as he finally wished her God-speed.

Soon after Rolf Morton had left the corvette, the wind, after veering about for a short time, had got round to the southward, so that she was able to haul up to the southward of west. This appeared a great advantage gained, as it enabled her to keep exactly on her proper course. How short-sighted truly are mortals in discovering what is really to their advantage! The sun sunk in an angry glow of ruddy hue which suffused the whole eastern sky, and cast an ensanguined tint on the foaming crests of the fast-rising waves. Then, as if it had gone to hurry on the storm, there rushed up from the dark bank of clouds numerous detached masses, which flew rapidly across the sky, one chasing the other in their headlong speed.

Don Hernan and his officers saw the storm coming, but they were anxious to get as good an offing as possible before it had time to burst on them, and therefore kept the ship under all the canvas she could carry. On she flew, right into the eye of the rising tempest, so it seemed, though as yet the wind held to the southward. The topgallant masts bent and twisted like wands; still the captain would not allow the sails to be taken in. The wind whistled more and more shrilly through the rigging; each sea that rose seemed to increase in height, and to strike the bows with greater force as the ship, frantically it seemed, forced her onward way, while white driving foam flew in dense masses over her forecastle, and sprinkled with its lighter showers the greater part of the deck. A few stars came out and shone brightly overhead, but they were quickly obscured by the gathering clouds; the darkness increased, till nothing could be seen on either hand but the dark, tumbling seas with their white foaming crests.

Pedro Alvarez had been watching the signs of the weather with anything but a satisfied look. “We shall have it down upon us, Don Hernan, before long,” he remarked, going up to the captain. “If it catches us with all this canvas spread, some of our masts will go, I fear.”

“We may hold on yet for some time, I hope,” was the answer. “I have not forgotten yet the look of that rocky coast.”

“Nor I either; and I therefore would try to keep my sticks to beat it off,” muttered the first lieutenant, as he turned away. It appeared, however, that he was over-cautious; for some time longer there was no alteration in the weather.

“After all, I am in hopes that the squall will pass over, and by the time we have made good our westing we may get a favourable change of wind,” observed the captain, as the first lieutenant approached him. “I am going below; call me, should anything occur.”

“You will not have long to wait,” said Pedro Alvarez, bluntly.

He was right. The captain’s head was scarcely below the companion hatch, when the ship, which had been heeling over to starboard till the scuppers were under water, righted suddenly, and her sails flapped loudly against the masts.

“Hands aloft, shorten sail!” shouted the first lieutenant, with an energy that made every one start to obey the order. “Let fly topgallant sheets! Be smart, my men.”

The sails were being quickly handed. The officer had ordered topgallant-yards to be sent down, and topgallant-masts struck, when a vivid flash of forked lightning darted close ahead, across the ship’s course, followed by a terrific crash of thunder, which startled all on board. Many thought the electric fluid had struck the ship. The captain sprang on deck. He was just in time to see the ship taken aback by the long threatening gale, which came down with greater fury from its continued delay. Stern first she drove, the rising seas threatening to engulph her. Pedro Alvarez was shouting out the necessary orders to bring her round, so as once more to get headway on her. But the men were aloft endeavouring to execute the previous order issued to them, and some were obeying one order, some another. In vain Don Hernan endeavoured to aid in restoring order. The object was to reduce the after sails, so that those ahead might have greater influence. All the masts were crowded with the labouring crew; fiercer blew the tempest; there was a crash; wild shrieks, rising high above the howling of the storm, rent the air. The mizenmast had gone by the board, and falling over the starboard side had carried all those upon it into the boiling ocean.

There was a second crash; the mainyard had gone, and it seemed likely, from the way in which the mainmast bent and quivered that that also would go. In vain many of the poor fellows cast from the mizen-mast struggled for life; their shipmates were too busily occupied to afford them assistance. Some had clung desperately to the rigging, and had managed to regain it, and were endeavouring to haul themselves on board again. Now one succeeded; now another, with a cry of despair, was washed off, as the seas dashed furiously up against the corvette’s quarter, threatening to drive in her counter, or to carry away her taffrail.

All the time the butt end of the mizen-mast was striking like a battering-ram against the side of the ship, with every chance of speedily making a hole in it. The main-yard, too, had fallen across the deck, still held by lifts and braces from going overboard, more dangerous in that position than if it had done so. The sudden blast which had caused the destruction was only the first of the tempest. Stronger and stronger it grew. It would be difficult truly to picture the scene of tumult and confusion which the deck of the corvette presented, all the time driving stern first at a fearful rate, now lifted high up by the sea, now rushing downward into the watery gulf, the opposite sea looking as if it would overwhelm her. The officers, with loud shouts, were issuing orders in different parts of the ship; the men, called off from their regular stations, rushing here and there, not knowing which to obey, but still seeing clearly that each order imperatively demanded to be instantly executed. In vain Don Hernan, speaking-trumpet in hand, endeavoured to reduce the confusion into order. At this juncture a flash of lightning revealed a tall figure, with flowing white drapery, standing near the companion-hatch. He shuddered with a superstitious feeling of dread. The next instant he saw that it was his wife; he hurried up to her to entreat her to go below. The darkness concealed the look of astonishment and dismay with which she regarded the scene around her. In a moment Don Hernan was by her side—

“Hilda, my beloved, this is no place for you. Oh, go below, I entreat you, I command you. Any moment your life may be sacrificed.”

“Why should I shun dangers, Hernan, to which you must be exposed?” she exclaimed. “But what does this mean—what has happened?”

“A mere accident, to which all ships are liable,” he answered. “There is nothing to fear, if you will remain calmly in your cabin.”

“But shrieks and cries for help reached my ears, and terrific blows,” said Hilda. “Oh! do not deceive me, Hernan; surely some sad calamity has occurred.”

The captain saw that he could not deceive her, and not till he had explained how matters really stood, could he induce her to return to her cabin. Meantime Pedro Alvarez had succeeded in bracing round the head yards and furling all the after sails. Slowly the ship answered her helm and fell off; but as she did so, two seas in quick succession struck her abeam, dashing across her deck, and carrying away the boats stowed on the boom, and part of the lee bulwarks. Again shrieks for help were heard; but the darkness prevented it being seen from whence they came, though there was too much reason to fear that the same seas which had washed away the boats, had carried off more of their unfortunate shipmates. Once more the ship went ahead, but it was before the wind, and she was flying back towards that iron-bound coast of Shetland, from which all on board had been so eager to escape. Every effort was now made to bring the ship on a wind either to heave her to, or to stand to the northward or southward, so that, should the gale continue, she might weather one end or the other of the islands. After a time it was decided to haul up on the port or larboard tack, as it was believed that she had made but little southing, and was in consequence, nearer the northern than the southern end of Shetland.

On ploughed the “Saint Cecilia” through the darkness, and many a heart on board dreaded the sight which daylight would reveal to them.