Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 5 November 1848

Lieutenant Morris paced the deck in very pleasant companionship with his thoughts. He did not believe that Julia's father would strenuously oppose their marriage, if he saw that his daughter's happiness was concerned, though he might very naturally prefer that she should marry one of her own countrymen.

He was disturbed in his meditations by the cry of "sail ho!" from the foretop-crosstrees. He ordered the man at the helm to bear away for the strange craft. As the two vessels rapidly approached each other, she was soon hull above the water, and Morris perceived through his glass, that the stars and stripes floated at her mast-head. A thrill of pleasure, like that which one feels at meeting an old friend in a distant land, shot through his veins. Signal-flags were shown and answered from each vessel, and the approaching sail proved to be the Hornet, of the American navy. Each of the two vessels were laid in stays as they drew near each other, and a boat from the privateer was soon alongside the Hornet, and after a while returned with several of the officers of the latter, who were desirous to pay their respects to the lady on board the privateer. They were all highly accomplished gentlemen, as well as gallant officers; and in after years, when Julia heard of the fate of the Hornet and her noble crew, she wept none the less bitterly that words of courtesy had passed between her and the officers of the devoted vessel, on the broad ocean, where such kindly greetings seldom were met or returned.

From the Hornet Lieutenant Morris heard that a convoy of merchantmen were not far to windward of him, protected by an English frigate.

"If you keep a bright eye open," said a gay young midshipman, as he stepped into the boat which was to reconvey him to his vessel, "you may cut out one or two of them, for they sail wide apart, and the frigate keeps heaving ahead, and laying-to for the lubberly sailers."

And with a touch of his hat, and a wave of his hand to the fair Julia, on whom his eye lingered as if she had reminded him of another as bright and fair as she, whom he had left behind him, the gallant boy sprung into the boat, and was soon upon his own deck, which he left only for the deep bosom of the ocean, when, not long afterward, the Hornet went down with all sail standing, and the stars and stripes at her mast-head, in the midst of a terrible storm, against which she could not stand. There were eyes that long looked anxiously for the return of the loved and lost – hearts that sighed, and spirits that sunk with the sickness of hope deferred; but there was no return for those who slept

"Full many a fathom deep,In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!"

CHAPTER VIII

FLORETTE

In consequence of the information obtained from the Hornet, the head of the Raker was turned more to windward, in order to intercept the convoy of merchantmen; but, owing to miscalculations of their bearings, she lost them entirely, and after keeping her course several days, hauled up again, and bore off on her former track.

Florette had wasted away like a flower in midsummer. Each succeeding hour seemed to bear off upon its wings some portion of her beauty and bloom, as the winds steal away the fragrance from the rose, and leave it at length withered and dying. Her mind seemed also to waste with her body – her brain was fevered, and the form of the pirate seemed to be always before her gaze.

The night had set in calm and beautiful, though the wind blew strong, and the waves were high, yet the heavens were cloudless, and the bright stars glided along the upper deep, like bubbles bathed in silver light.

Julia sat by the side of Florette, in the cabin, gazing with anxious melancholy upon her wan yet beautiful countenance, and striving to direct her wandering thoughts by her own counsel.

"Florette, you seem happier to-night?"

"O, yes! I am happier – do you not see how he smiles upon me; his face is not dark to me. See! he beckons me to follow him!"

And rising, she began to ascend the steps that led from the cabin.

"Florette, where are you going?"

"With William."

Julia seized her hand and led her gently back to her seat.

"Come, you are not well enough to go upon deck – let us talk of something else. Do you not long to see France again?"

"France, la belle France?" murmured the poor girl.

"Yes, your own France."

"I see the home of my childhood; O, is it not beautiful! How full the vine-tree hangs with the clustering grape, and the village girls are dancing on the green. I see myself among them – and I look smiling and happy; but, O! there is William! how dark he looks as he gazes through the vines upon me; he beckons me away. I will come! I will come!"

Julia wept as she looked sorrowfully upon this wreck of happiness and beauty.

"My dear Florette, I hope you will yet again dance with your village girls beneath the bower of vines you seem to see."

"O, never, never! Did I not tell you I should never see France again? No, no! I am going to William, he is impatient. See! he frowns!" and again she strove to break from Julia, but suffered herself to be restrained by the gentle violence of her companion.

"Come, Florette, will you not sleep?"

A gleam of intelligence seemed to pass across her countenance, and her eyes lighted as if with a sudden resolve. She was too weak to escape from Julia, and with the cunning which so often characterizes the fevered mind, she determined to attain by deception, what she saw could not be done otherwise.

"Yes, lady, I will sleep."

And with a smile upon her lips she closed her eyes, and wrapping her long scarf about her, fell back upon the couch.

Julia watched her long. In the dim light of the cabin-lamp she did not perceive that occasionally those bright eyes were half opened, and fastened upon her impatiently.

Satisfied at length that she was asleep, Julia gently left the cabin, and stole upon the deck, where Lieutenant Morris anxiously awaited her.

The moment her light form vanished, the invalid rose from her couch, and, with a triumphant smile, gazed round the vacant cabin.

"There is no one here now, William, but you and I. Now I will go with you to your beautiful home in the sea. Stay a moment, let me arrange my toilette. I do not look as well as I did, William, or this glass deceives me; but it matters not, you look kindly on me still, and I am happy now – happier than I have been for a long time. There, William, I am ready!" and following the shadow of her imagination, she glided with a stealthy step to the deck.

Lieutenant Morris and Julia were slowly pacing the deck, with their heads bent forward, forgetful of every thing but themselves; a light step was heard close behind them, and the low rustling of garments. They turned to look, but too late; Florette sprung past them, her foot rested on the gunwale, and with the cry, "I follow you, William!" the form of the girl disappeared over the side of the brig.

Lieutenant Morris sprung forward, and the cry of "man overboard!" was heard from the look-out; the sails were immediately thrown a-back, and the boat lowered – but the body of Florette was not found. Her long scarf was picked up, stained with blood; the worthy tar shuddered as he gazed upon it.

"Jack, I told you that shark was not following us for nothing; he's been in our wake now these ten days. I knew somebody on board had got to go to Davy Jones's locker."

"Poor girl! but heave ahead, Bill, it's no use after this, you know."

Julia was terribly shocked at the dreadful fate of Florette, and retiring to the cabin, she wept sadly, and long, for the poor girl – this last victim of the scourge of the ocean, murdered no less by him than were the hundreds his bloody hand had struck dead with the sword. Even the rude seamen shed tears for the lost and ill-fated girl; and a silence like that of the death-chamber reigned on board the little brig, as it swept noiselessly over the waters. No class of people are more proverbially light-hearted and thoughtless than seamen. The sad event of the preceding night seemed to have passed from the memories of all on board the Raker with the morning's dawn – from all save Julia. She, indeed, often thought of the unfortunate Florette, and her eyes were red, as if from much weeping, long after the pirate's mistress had been forgotten by all others.

To Lieutenant Morris it was but an event in an eventful life, and if not wholly forgotten by him, yet slumbered in his memory with other deeds he had witnessed, as melancholy and appalling as the death of the poor girl – for his thoughts were too entirely occupied by his love for Julia, and the necessary duties of his station, to find room for other and sadder recollections.

Mr. Williams, who had just finished his morning glass, and with a pipe in his mouth, was reclining in the stern-sheets, a little melancholy, to be sure, but apparently wholly occupied in watching the long curls of smoke, which the wind bore off to leeward, to mingle with the purer air of ocean, was a little surprised when the young officer approaching him, requested a moment's conversation on business of importance.

"Certainly, certainly, sir."

"Mr. Williams, I am anxious to know if you approve of my attentions to your daughter?"

The old gentleman, who had been blind to the progress of the attachment between his daughter and Morris, seemed not to comprehend him, which his inquiring gaze evinced.

"Would you be willing to accept of me as a son-in-law, sir?"

The worthy merchant had just drawn in a mouthful of smoke as this question made the matter clear to him; the pipe fell from his lips, and no small quantity of the smoke seemed to have gone down his throat, as, instead of giving any intelligible answer to the proposition, he was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

The anxious lover folded his arms with a half smile upon his countenance, and waited till his desired information could be obtained.

"Whew!" exclaimed the merchant; "excuse me, sir. Confound the smoke! I understand you, sir; but it took me by surprise. Have you said any thing to Julia about this?"

"She has herself referred me to you, if your answer is favorable, I shall have no reason to despair."

"Ah! has it gone so far as this?"

"I trust you do not regret it, sir."

"You are not an Englishman, Lieutenant Morris, I believe."

"Well, sir – that is one objection."

"You are an enemy of England, are you not?"

"I can't deny it, sir."

"Well, there's two objections – and I suppose I might find more; but it seems to me that's enough."

As the old gentleman said this with a very decided air, he picked up his pipe, and began filling it again.

"I do not think those are strong objections, sir; if I am not myself an Englishman, my forefathers were, and of good old English blood; and if I am an enemy of England, I am neither your enemy nor your daughter's."

"Well, that's all true, but it don't look natural, somehow, that my daughter should marry an American."

"Such things have happened, however."

"I suppose likely; but, young man, I am not rich. What little I had was taken away by the pirate, and I havn't seen it since."

"I care nothing for that, sir."

"But I do."

"I mean, Mr. Williams, that my love for your daughter will not be influenced one way or the other by the riches or poverty of her father."

"You seem to be a whole-souled man, anyway, Lieutenant Morris; and if you were only an Englishman, you should have my daughter for that speech, if for nothing else, you should, by St. George! I recollect when I was rich, the young men were round Julia as thick as bees; and when I failed, Lord! how they scattered!"

"My dear sir, I am rich enough for us all; beside a large amount of prize-money, my family estate is not small."

This last remark seemed to produce a deeper effect upon the old gentleman than any thing that had been said.

"Well, well, boy, I will think of it."

Lieutenant Morris was wise enough to say no more at that time; he saw that he had nearly, if not quite, secured the old gentleman's assent; and leaving him, he went forward.

Mr. Williams followed his manly form with his eyes, as he stepped lightly over the deck.

"Pity he's not an Englishman – confounded pity. He's a fine-looking fellow – never saw a better; rich, too. Well, I'll go and talk with Julia. After all, it will be pretty much as she says about it, I suppose."

That same evening Julia told her lover that her father would not oppose their marriage after the war had closed, but that he was strongly opposed to its taking place any sooner."

"But it may last forever, Julia."

"Well, I hope not."

"If it does?"

"Why then I'll make father change his mind, I think."

Morris laughed, and clasped her to his bosom, the broad main-sail hid them from observation, and he impressed upon her lips a kiss, warm as his devoted love – not the first kiss of love, for he had been a poor suitor, indeed, if that had been the first. He then tried to persuade Julia that she and her father should remain with the Raker, and go with him to the States; but he did not expect compliance with this request, and soon desisted from it, devoting the remainder of the evening to such converse as was most delightful to him and Julia, but which, doubtless, would be uninteresting to all others.

He had been afraid each morning that he should hear the cry of "Sail insight!" for he had lost his ambition in his love; and he knew that the first vessel they captured would be given to the crew of the Betsy Allen, and that with them Julia and her father would depart. It was with a feeling, then, that partook more of sadness than any other emotion, that he heard the long-expected cry.

The sail in sight proved to be an English merchantman, which, as she was a lazy sailer, was speedily overhauled. A gun brought her to. As if determined, however, not to surrender without a shot, she replied with as powerful a broadside as she could command, immediately striking her flag. The only effect of her fire was to frighten poor John, who had rashly remained upon deck. That courageous personage fell upon his face, so suddenly, that his friend, Dick Halyard ran to him, really supposing he was hit; there was, however, no other expression than that of fear in the upturned countenance of John.

"O, lud, Dick! you are safe – how many are killed?"

"You are the only one, I believe, John."

"Me? I aint hit, be I?"

"Pshaw, John, get up," said Mr. Williams, approaching him angrily; "don't you see everybody is laughing at you?"

John rose slowly, anxiously eyeing the merchantman, as if ready to dodge the first flash.

"A fortunate escape, Dick."

"Yes, another adventure to tell the girls in Lonnon."

"Don't now, Dick."

The merchantman was richly laden, and the honest captain, who doubtless had his own interest in her cargo, actually shed tears as he saw the greater portion of it removed to the privateer. The crew of the latter could not but pity his distress, but they thought, and none could dispute the truth, that an English cruiser would have hardly been moved by the sorrow and complaints of one of their own captains, if he should fall into his hands. It was, moreover, in accordance with the law and usage of nations at war, and the English captain felt that he was kindly dealt with, when informed that he would be allowed to depart with his vessel, on condition of conveying a number of his own countrymen to their native shore. He contented himself, therefore, with cursing the war, and all who caused it. As the peaceful mariner, he neither knew why the two nations were at war, nor could he feel the justice of any laws which involved him in ruin while quietly following his avocation, content to let others alone if the same privilege could be extended to him.

Strong arguments have indeed been urged against the right of the system of privateering! It is no part of our task either to defend or to condemn it, yet it would seem evident that, looking at it as a means of crippling an enemy more efficacious than any other that can be devised, thereby hastening a return to peace, it cannot in its broadest sense be deemed unjust or cruel. Private individuals must suffer in every war, and fortune had ordained that the poor merchantman should be one of them. It would doubtless have been difficult to have persuaded him that he was suffering for the good of his country. He certainly did not look nor feel remarkably like a patriot, and would have much preferred not to have been used as a means to accomplish the end of war, and the restoration of peace between the two great contending powers.

He received Captain Horton, his crew and passengers, however, with much affability, and when his ship had parted from the Raker, after cursing the Yankees awhile in good old Saxon, his countenance was restored in great measure to its wonted expression of good humor.

Julia and Lieutenant Morris had parted sorrowfully, yet full of hope for the future. A heavy box was also conveyed to the merchantman by orders of Lieutenant Morris, who told Mr. Williams it contained an equivalent for his loss by the pirate. It did indeed contain a sum in gold, which Mr. Williams would never have accepted had he had an opportunity to refuse. It produced on his mind precisely the effect which, without doubt, the young lieutenant intended that it should, awakening a feeling of obligation, which would prevent his opposing very strenuously the suit of the young American, which there was some reason to fear might be the case after he had been separated from him and returned to his own land.

In a short time the two vessels were out of sight of each other. The merchantman reached England in safety, and Mr. Williams determined to remain there, inasmuch as he was heartily sick of adventures on the ocean; and the sum of money left in his hands by Lieut. Morris enabled him to form a good business connection in London. With this arrangement Julia also was pleased, as she felt sure that as soon as the war closed her lover would be at her feet, and that the end of hostilities would be peace and happiness to them, as well as to the contending nations.

CHAPTER IX

The Arrow and the Raker

The immense injury done to the English service by American privateers, no less than the splendid victories obtained by our regular navy, had at length awakened in the mind of our adversaries a proper respect for American prowess. They had learned that the stars and stripes shone upon a banner that was seldom conquered, and never disgraced. At this period of the war their attention was more particularly directed to the privateers, who seemed to be covering the sea. Almost every merchantman that sailed from an English port became a prize to the daring and active foe. The commerce of England was severely crippled, and anxious to punish an enemy who had so seriously injured the service, several frigates were fitted out to cruise especially against the American privateers; these were chosen with particular reference to their speed, and one which was the admiration of every sailor in the service, called the Arrow, had spoken the merchantman, just as it was entering the channel, a few days after its capture by the Raker. No definite information as to the present position of the privateer could be obtained from the merchantman, but having learned her bearings at the time she was lost sight of, the Arrow bent her course in the same direction, confident that if he could once come in sight of her he would find little difficulty in overhauling her.

It was a black, murky, windy day, with frequent gusts of rain, and a thick fog circumscribed the horizon, narrowing the view to a few miles in each direction. Toward evening the fog rose like a gathered cloud to westward, leaving that part of the horizon cloudless, and shedding down a bright light upon the waters. Had the look-out on the Arrow been on the alert he might have seen, directly under this clear sky, the topsails of the American privateer, but the honest sailor had just spliced the main-brace, and having deposited a huge quid of tobacco in his cheek, was lying over the crosstrees, in a state as completely abandon as a fop upon a couch in his dressing-room.

All on the Raker, however, were on the broad look out, they knew they were nearing the shores of England, and liable at any time to come within sight of an enemy's cruiser as well as merchantman.

Lieut. Morris had for some time been anxiously scanning the horizon with his glass, and had caught sight of the frigate's topsails almost as soon as the fog lifted. As Captain Greene's wounds still in a great measure disabled him, the lieutenant still kept the command of the privateer. Unable to determine whether he had been seen by the frigate or not, he at once gave orders to bear off before the wind, hoping that even if such were the case, his little brig would prove superior in speed to the frigate.

As his brig wore off, with her white sails glittering in the flood of light, the worthy look-out on the Arrow had just raised his head to eject a quantity of the juice of the weed. His eyes caught sight of the sails as they rose and fell like the glancing wings of a bird; rubbing his eyes, he took another careful look, and then cried "sail in sight." The officer of the deck, as soon as he had got the bearings from the sailor, could plainly see her himself, and after swearing slightly at the look-out for not seeing her sooner, gave orders that all sail should be set in pursuit. As the fog rapidly lifted from the ocean, each vessel was able to determine the character of the other, and when the sun went down, leaving a cloudless sky, it was evident that the Arrow had gained on the privateer. Lieutenant Morris felt that his brig must be overhauled unless the wind should slacken. The breeze was now so powerful that, while it bore the frigate onward at its best speed, it prevented the privateer from making its usual way. Before a light breeze, Lieutenant Morris felt quite confident that he could sail away from any frigate in his majesty's service. He therefore calmly ordered every rag to be set that he thought the little brig would bear, and kept steadily on, trusting the wind would die away to a light breeze after the middle watch. It did indeed die away almost to a calm, and when the day broke, although the Raker had put a considerable distance between herself and the frigate, yet she lay in plain sight of her, the sails of both vessels flapping idly in the still air.

Morris knew that he must prepare for an attack from the frigate's boats, and consequently every gun on board was loaded with grape and canister, and carefully pointed; the captain of each gun receiving orders to be sure his first fire should not be lost, for that is always the most effective, and indeed often wins the battle, as many sea-fights will attest. Every sail was kept set, as this was a conflict in which it would be no disgrace for the privateer to run if favored by the wind.

The frigate had by this time lowered three boats, which were speedily filled by her brave seamen, and impelled by vigorous oarsmen toward the privateer. As it would occupy them nearly two hours to make the passage between the two vessels, the crew of the Raker paid no immediate attention to their progress, but quietly partook of their breakfast, and then girded themselves with their boarding cutlases, and made ready to defend to the death the little bark they all loved so well.

Lieutenant Morris watched with some anxiety for the moment to give orders to fire. If he could cripple and sink two of the boats, he felt confident that he could beat off all who would then attempt to board, as that would reduce the number of his foe nearly to his own number. The boats had now approached within half a mile of the privateer, evidently making vigorous efforts each to take the lead. All was silent on board the Raker, not the silence of fear, but of suspense. They looked with a feeling somewhat akin to pity upon the gallant seamen, many of whom were hurrying to death. Lieutenant Morris himself stood by the long gun, holding the match in his hand, and frequently taking aim over its long breech – another moment and the fatal volley would be sped, but even as he was about to apply the match, his quick eye saw the sails filling with the breeze, and with the true magnanimity of a generous heart he stayed his hand.