Chapter 47

LILIES AND SEA-WEED.

"Oh leave the lily on its stem! Oh leave the rose upon the spray! Oh leave the elder bloom, fair maids, And listen to my lay!"

"When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks."

By day and night, under sun or moon, and in breeze or calm--by the resounding shore--on the rippling water--in saloon and grove, picnicking and boating--under vine or awning--all around in the whirling waltz, the measured contra-danza--amid the tinkle of guitar or trill of piano, the rattle and crash of the full band on board the frigate--gently rocking on the narrow deck of the "Rosalie," or down in the brig of teak, there was ever a white arm linked in the arm of blue--now timidly, then with a confiding pressure--now a furtive look of blue eyes into dark, then a fixed, steady gaze from the brown to the light--here a palpitating pause, and then the blue arms wound around the waving stem--two white arms clasping, with a passionate caress, the neck of the weed--and, yes! the lily floating on the white cheek of the pond had been caught by the strong weed, and with the reacting tide was going out to sea! Ay! the sailor had won the maiden!

But while the lily rocked hither and thither on the pond, with its blond leaves and petals of blue, and its pliant stem in danger at every tide, did the fond mothers watch it from the bank? That they did, thinking of the time when they were lilies of the pond themselves, with no fears of danger near. But at last it came, and, like blooming flowers, they swung to and fro in the rain, dropping a tear or two from their own rosy leaves--more in dewy sorrow than in fear--and waiting for sunshine; bending their beautiful heads of roses the while one toward another, peeping out with their dark violet eyes, and listening, as the wind shook them, with a tremble of apprehension, and clinging hopefully to the straight support on which they reclined.

By day and night, in burning sun with not a drop to drink, and in the sultry night with no morsel of food to eat--through the searing sand in the streets and lanes, down by the quays--to every vessel in the crowded harbor--in every hotel and lodging-house in Kingston--up and down Spanish Town--away off to Port Royal--occasionally going on board the frigate for gold, then on shore again--in ribald wassail and drunken dance, gaming hells especially, and low crimping houses, maroon and negro huts, and wretched haunts of vice--scattering gold like cards, dice, rum, and water--no end to it--in large yellow drops too--and still striding on, questioning, gleaming with those revengeful eyes--never resting brain or body, without drink or meat--went Paul Darcantel.

Oh, Paul, that cowardly villain saw you from the very moment you took that pinch of snuff out of his blue enameled box--ay, even before, when you walked your mule slowly up the broken road, while a goaded barb was curbed back in the gloomy forest till you had passed, with his rider's finger in his waistcoat pocket. And in all your ceaseless wanderings, by day and night, that now timid, terror-stricken villain has been following you; dodging behind corners--under the well-worn cloths of monté banks--in the back rooms of pulperias--hiding in nests of infamy--every where and in all places steering clear of you.

Oh, Paul! what a deceived man you are!

And while you are doing all this, just turn your eyes out to the calm spot off Montego Bay, where that leaky old brigantine is bobbing about. The dirty, surly _capitano_ kicking and beating the hands from taffrail to bowsprit, particularly one great tall fellow, without a hat, and but a few dry thin hairs to shield his skull from the scorching sun; cursing him, as he puffs a cigarette, for being the most idle scoundrel of a skulk on board! But he--the scoundrel!--laughing with a hollow laugh up the sleeve of his filthy shirt, with never a dollar in his belt or an extra pair of trowsers in the forecastle, with bare feet, and still, cold eyes, now turned to green--eating nasty jerked beef and drinking putrid water--never sleeping for vermin--kicked and cuffed about the decks.

But yet he smiled with a devilish satisfaction, Paul, for he has escaped _you_, and was bound to St. Jago de Cuba! From there he would charter--steal, perhaps--a small boat, and run over to the Doçe Léguas Cays, where there were ten thousand pounds in mildewed gold!--if nobody had discovered it, which was not probable--and he--the scoundrel!--would gather it up in bags, and slink away to some other part of the world.

You must be very quick, Captain Brand, for the leaky brigantine does not sail so fast as the "Centipede," and your ancient compadre, Don Ignaçio, is just out of prison. His old, fat, banana wife is very sorry for it, but that's none of your business.

And you, Doctor Paul! don't you pity that flying, dirty wretch, with his mutilated hand, and soul-beseeching gaze out of those greenish frozen eyes, where a ray of mercy never entered, but whose icy lids fairly crack as your shadow stamps across them?

No, not a ray of pity or mercy for the infamous villain; not even a twitch of the little finger of his bloody, mutilated white hand! No, not the faintest hope of pity! He shall die in such torments as even a pirate never devoted a victim.

But you are worn out, Darcantel; your prey has escaped you. The people think you mad, as you are, for revenge; and though your stride is the same, and your frame still as nervous as a galvanized corpse, yet flesh and blood can not stand it. Go on board the "Monongahela," and talk to that true friend whose counsels you have ever listened to since you were rocking in your cradle; or take that noble, gallant youth in your arms and console him--for he needs consolation--and think of the mouse who gnawed the net years and years ago.

Well, you will, Paul Darcantel; but before you do, you will step into that jeweler's shop and buy a trifle for old Clinker there, out at Escondido. You want a ring, the finest gem that can be found on the island of Jamaica. There it is--its equal not to be bought in the whole West India Islands, or the East Indies either.

"I gave a military man an ounce for the setting alone, but the sapphire-looking stone may be glass. He was going to sail the next morning in a Spanish brigantine for St. Jago de Cuba, and wanted the money to pay his bill at the lodging-house adjoining. The señor might take it for any price he chose to put upon it."

What made that old dealer in precious stones and trinkets turn paler than his old topaz face as he yelled frantically for his older Creole wife? The señor had seized the ring as he broke his elbows through the glass cases which contained the time-honored jewelry, and dashed a yellow shower of heavy gold ounces over the floor of the little shop, smashing the glass door of that too in his exit! And when the little toddling fat woman appeared in the most indecent dress possible to conceive of, with scarcely time to light her paper cigar, she exclaimed,

"_Es lunatico, hombre! ay, demonio con oro!_ A crazy man--a demon with gold!" And forthwith she picked up the pieces and looked at them critically to be sure of their value. "_Son buenos, campeche!_ All right, old deary; we'll have such a podrida to-day! Baked duck, with garlic too! So shut the door. There's the ounce you gave the officer man for the ring, and I'll guard the rest."

That old woman did, too; and that very night she won--in the most skillful way--from her shaky old topaz, in his tin spectacle setting, his last ounce, and locked all up in her own little brass-nailed trunk for a rainy season for them both, together with their daughter's pickaninnies.

Paul Darcantel whirled and spun round the corners and along the sandy streets till he reached the landing, moving like a water-spout, and clearing every thing from his track. There he sprang into the first boat he saw, seized the sculls, despite the shrieks and gesticulations of the old nigger whose property it was, and who jumped overboard with a howl as if a lobster had caught him by the toe, and paddled into a neighboring boat, where, with the assistance of another ancient crony, they both let off volley upon volley of shrieks, which alarmed the harbor, while the boat went shooting like a javelin toward the men-of-war.

However, those old stump-tailed African baboons found a gold ounce in their boat after it had been set adrift from the American frigate. What a jolly snapping of teeth over a tough old goose stuffed with onions that night, with two respectable colored ladies and a case-bottle of rum beside them! You can almost sniff the fragrant odor as it arises, even at this distance. I do, and shall, mayhap, many a time again, in lands where stuffed goose and comely colored ladies abound.