Part 8

Within a week of Christmas it became manifest that the ‘Sirocco’ was destined to encounter some bad weather. There had been sullen calms succeeded by fitful bursts of storm, but the good ship had crept on and on until she had reached the verge of the Bay of Biscay. The bay, although it bears such a bad character, is suggestive of nearing home to those who come from afar, and consequently the passengers were high-spirited, notwithstanding that it was pretty certain that a good deal of knocking about was in store for them.

One night during the middle watch a furious squall suddenly burst upon the vessel, and as she had all sail set she heeled over almost on to her beam ends. Several sails were rent to fragments by the force of the wind, and the long strips flying out in the tempest made a tremendous cracking like the cracking of stock whips. ‘All hands’ were called on deck, and there were all the noise, and shouting, and uproar incidental to a sudden squall in the dead of night. To the timid and the inexperienced this is particularly alarming, for as the ship flies along on her side the waters hiss in a strange manner, the shouting and tramp of the sailors, the orders given hastily and in stentorian tones, the cracker-like reports of the torn sails, the groaning and creaking of the rudder chains, the indescribable howling of the wind, and the extreme angle of the vessel, are sufficiently alarming to produce nervousness even in those whose acquaintance with the sea is not of recent date. And this is more particularly the case when such a squall occurs at night; then the sky is inky in its blackness, and nothing can be seen save the spectral-like outlines of the rigging and the masts, and such objects as are immediately near the spectator. When this particular squall struck the ship it happened that the Red Lily’s cabin was on the weather side, and so suddenly did the ship heel over that Lily narrowly escaped being thrown from her bunk. Although this was not her first experience of a squall at night she felt unusually alarmed, for the vessel was lying over at such an unusual angle, and there was so much noise on deck.

Hastily throwing on a few articles of clothing, and covering them with a dressing-gown, she encased her feet in slippers, and rushed over to her mother’s cabin, which was on the lee side. Undisturbed by the shock Mrs. Hetherington was sleeping soundly, and so, not wishing to wake her, the first impression of alarm having passed away, Lily closed the cabin door gently, and then went up the companion-way and peeped out into the darkness. The white waters were flying past, and the vessel was lying over almost to her lee scuppers. Lily stepped on to the deck, holding on to the handle of the companion-way door. There was a babel of mingled sounds, and the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane. She had stood there but a few minutes when suddenly she became aware that Cornell was standing beside her. He was superintending the stowing of the mizzen to’gallant sail. He was evidently surprised to see her there. She was about to descend again, for his presence brought back all her old fears, when he caught her arm, and with gentle force restrained her.

‘This is fortunate,’ he said. ‘The opportunity I have longed for this squall has at last given me.’

‘Let me go,’ she exclaimed, ‘or I will scream.’ She was trembling with fear and excitement, but he still held her.

‘You dare not,’ he answered in a strange tone. Then, after a pause, he added, ‘You have been cruel to me, but you must be so no longer or I shall die. I cannot live without you.’

‘Are you mad?’ she said with a shudder.

‘Perhaps I am. If I am you have made me so.’ He passed his arm round her waist and held her closely.

She struggled to free herself, but she was powerless in his strong grasp. The mysterious influence he exercised over her now kept her tongue tied so that she could not scream, could not cry out. He bent low and pressed his lips to hers, and yet that did not break the spell which bound her.

‘You are to be married on Christmas Day,’ he said in a whisper. ‘I hope before then _he_ or I will be dead. If I live you shall become _my_ wife. Do you hear? my wife. You may think I am talking mere words, but you will see.’

He released her and she found herself in her cabin. How she got down she did not know. She was burning with indignation and shame. His polluting lips had touched hers, and she shivered as she thought of it. She rubbed her lips with her handkerchief as though he had left some stain which she was trying to wipe away. She yearned to go at once to Fenton’s cabin and tell him all, but a deadly fear of Cornell withheld her, the spell of his extraordinary power was upon her, and she felt that she _dare not_ open her mouth to tell aught of what had occurred. The man’s influence, whatever it was, was paramount. She feared and hated him, and yet dare not denounce him. Of course she was weak, but then he was no ordinary man. His strength of will was enormous, and subdued her.

During the rest of the night she could not sleep, and she longed for Christmas Day to come, so that, as Dick’s wife, she might be free from the persecutions of the mysterious Cornell.

When the morning broke the storm had died away, leaving a gentle wind that wafted the ship along at about eight knots an hour.

‘We shall have steady weather now,’ the captain observed at breakfast time, as he examined the barometer that swung over the cabin table.

His prognostication proved correct. The wind increased day by day until it was blowing a strong gale, but as it was favourable a large spread of canvas was carried upon the ship.

The day preceding Christmas Day arrived; the ‘Sirocco’ was in the Bay of Biscay, off the inhospitable Cape Finisterre. By Christmas Eve the wind had increased very much, so that the ship was ‘snugged down.’ Extra lookouts were kept, for a great number of outward and homeward bound vessels were in the Bay. The night promised to be a very ‘dirty one,’ but there was merriment on board, and many a toast to ‘Sweethearts and Wives’ was drunk, both in the cabin and in the forecastle, for a liberal allowance of grog had been served out to the crew.

The preparations for the wedding were all complete. The saloon was gaily decorated, and it was arranged that the marriage ceremony was to be performed at eleven o’clock in the morning. But before eleven o’clock strange things were to happen.

The night waned, and as eight bells sounded Dick Fenton went on deck to smoke a cigar before turning in. The ladies had all retired, and only a single night lamp burned in the saloon. The wind had drawn ahead a good deal, and the vessel could only carry close-reefed main-topsail and fore-topsail, so that she was making very little way, simply ‘forging,’ as sailors say, at the rate of about two knots an hour. A favourite seat with Dick when he went on deck to smoke his cigar was on the rail near the mizzen shrouds. There he was under the shelter of the captain’s gig, which was slung outside on davits, and his feet rested on a hencoop that ran along the poop. Sitting there now pensively dreaming of his Red Lily, and the happiness that awaited him on the morrow when she would become his wife, he had no thought of danger. There was music in the rush of the wild waters and the screaming sweep of the wind. The vessel had that short, jerky motion which a ship has in a rough sea when under reefed topsails.

Suddenly there rose up before Dick’s vision the dark figure of a man.

‘Hallo! is that you, captain?’ exclaimed Dick.

‘No,’ was the answer, and in the gruff voice Dick recognised the second mate.

‘Oh, it’s you, Cornell,’ he said. ‘This is a wild night. Do you think the wind will free at all before the morning?’

‘It may, and may not,’ was the somewhat surly answer, and in the husky tones Cornell betrayed that he was the worse for liquor. ‘I suppose you were thinking of the Red Lily,’ he remarked.

‘Really, Mr. Cornell, you are a little familiar,’ Dick said, not unkindly, for he was willing to make every allowance at such a time.

‘Bah, why am I familiar?’ sneered the second mate. ‘I suppose the night before his marriage every man thinks of the woman who is to be his wife.’

‘I suppose he does,’ Dick answered curtly, for he was not anxious to prolong the conversation seeing the strange humour Cornell was in.

‘You have quite made up your mind that she is to be your wife?’ asked Cornell.

‘Well, please God that nothing happens between now and the morning, Miss Hetherington will certainly become Mrs. Fenton.’

‘But it is destined that _something_ shall happen,’ Cornell exclaimed, ‘and you will never see the morrow.’

The words were spoken rapidly, and with a lightning-like movement he threw the whole weight of his body against Dick, who, unprepared for such an assault, was pressed backwards, and falling between the boat and the side of the vessel was lost in the dark, hissing waters.

‘A man overboard!’ cried the second mate with all the power of his lusty lungs, and instantly the dreadful cry was taken up, and the watch came rushing aft. The captain, who was in his cabin, tore on deck, and in a moment all was confusion.

‘Who is it, who is it?’ exclaimed the captain.

‘Mr. Fenton, I think, for I saw him sitting on the rail a few minutes before,’ said Cornell.

‘Clear away the boat, men, quick!’ cried the captain. Then he and Cornell cut away lifebuoys and cast them into the sea.

‘I will try and save him, sir,’ said Cornell, as he divested himself of his heavy sea boots and his oil skins.

Divining his motives the captain laid hold of his arm and said:

‘Are you mad, man? It is enough that one life should be sacrificed.’ But Cornell, making no reply, shook himself free, mounted the rail, and dived headlong into the black waters.

The excitement was now intense. Everyone on board knew what had happened, but everyone did not know that it was Dick who had gone. The Red Lily was in this state of blissful ignorance, though she with the other ladies crowded up the companion-way, and waited in breathless and painful anxiety.

The boat was manned and lowered. Lamps were brought and held up so as to throw a light as far as possible over the sea. The boat was away about an hour. It was a fearful agony of suspense that hour. The ship was hove to, and everything done that could be done. The searchers returned at last, bringing with them the second mate in an exhausted condition, but not Dick; he had gone, and as nothing more could be done, sail was again set, and the ‘Sirocco’ went upon her way with one soul less.

Christmas morning dawned. The gaiety was changed to sorrow, and the marriage decorations were taken down and signs of mourning appeared.

Tenderly and gently the sad news was broken to the Red Lily, and those who told her did not fail to tell how ‘nobly’ the second mate had risked his life to try and save that of her lover. Tenderly as the news was broken, the shock stunned her, and for days she lay in a state of partial coma. But there were loving hands to tend, and loving voices to soothe, and gradually she came round. All the sunshine, however, seemed to have gone out of her nature, and she was a crushed woman.

For the first time for many days she went on deck, and was propped with pillows in a sofa-chair, and for the first time since that terrible night she saw Cornell. All her feeling of revulsion for him had changed, and, stretching forth her white hand to him, she said in her loving, sweet voice:

‘Mr. Cornell, I have been unjust to you. You must forgive me. You are a brave and generous man.’

He took her hand and answered:

‘I grieve with you, Miss Hetherington. I did my best to save him, but it was not to be. No man can prevent his fate. It is not for me to say why, at such a moment, your lover should have met his doom. It was Destiny; but, though I battled with the waves and the darkness of the night, it was not my destiny to drown.’

Lily shuddered. The man spoke so strangely. There was such a weird appearance about him, and his influence over her was as strong as ever. And yet a fearful thought came to her. Was it not probable that Cornell had hurled her lover into the sea, and then, seized with sudden remorse, had dived after him?

Oh, how that dreadful thought troubled and pained her! She struggled with it for days, and wept and wept and wept again. At one moment she resolved to take her mother into her confidence, and tell her all. But whenever this feeling came upon her the mysterious Cornell seemed to be at her side, and then all her will power went again. She felt that she hated him one moment, but the next she could and would have grovelled at his feet, overcome by a curious fascination, mingled with a sort of admiration, for the daring, reckless, wicked, iron-willed fellow.

* * * * *

A week later the ship was in the London docks.

Lily and her mother went on shore at Gravesend. The poor girl was bowed with sorrow, and she felt as though she would never again hold up her head. Before she left the ship Cornell begged hard to be allowed to call upon her. She wanted to refuse him, but could not, and, with the consent of her mother, she gave him permission to do so, for the mother felt she was indebted to him.

Lily and Mrs. Hetherington went to reside in the west-end of London, and Cornell, availing himself of their permission, was almost a daily visitor. He announced his intention of not going to sea again for some time, and the old fascination he had exercised over Lily was exerted now to a greater degree; and though she was sure she possessed no love for him, she felt drawn towards him in a strange manner. One day, four months after their arrival home, he pressed her to become his wife, and she reluctantly gave her consent. She would have said ‘No’ if she could, but she was powerless; and believing that she had previously misjudged him and done him a wrong, she said:

‘I will be a dutiful and faithful wife to you, but you must never hope to win my love. _That_ is buried in the cruel sea.’

It was arranged that the wedding was to take place in a few months’ time. He objected to the delay, but she was firm on the point, for she felt that it would not be respectful to her dead love to marry so soon after the calamity. Many a girl who knew Lily and her lover envied her. Cornell was so ‘handsome,’ so ‘fascinating,’ so ‘manly,’ ‘such a splendid type of a sailor’; but when her friends congratulated her she only sighed. She felt as if she were sacrificing herself; but then her affianced husband had so nobly risked his life for her lover’s sake, notwithstanding his previous strange conduct, and on that account alone she was going to give him her hand. She little dreamed that his jumping overboard was only part of his diabolical plan, and was meant to avert suspicion--which it did most effectually. So far as the risk to himself was concerned, it was reduced to a minimum, for he was a magnificent and powerful swimmer, and before he took the leap he was careful to see that plenty of lifebuoys had been dropped over, and that the boat was all ready for lowering.

In the course of the next few months Mrs. Hetherington and her daughter removed to the village of Bowness, on the banks of Windermere, as they had friends living there; and it was arranged that the marriage should take place in the parish church of that place.

The wedding day came. It was a glorious summer’s morning, and the air was filled with the music of birds and the scent of flowers. The wedding was to be very quiet, and but few guests had been invited. Those who knew Lily well said that the ‘Red Lily had drooped.’ All the brightness was out of her life, for she felt that her heart was beneath the waves of the Bay of Biscay.

The wedding party had assembled in the church, and the ceremony had commenced. When the grey-haired clergyman asked if anyone knew any just cause or impediment why the man and woman should not be joined together in the bonds of holy matrimony, there rose up a man in the body of the church, and in a loud and steady voice exclaimed:

‘I forbid this marriage.’

Had a thunderbolt fallen through the roof the consternation and confusion could not have been greater. With a great cry the Red Lily threw up her arms, and then fell forward on her face in a swoon. For a few moments Cornell stood as if petrified. His face was ghastly pale. By this time the man had come forward to the altar rails, and then Cornell found tongue.

‘Good God!’ he exclaimed, ‘is it possible that the dead can come to life?’

‘No; but the living can thwart the machinations of a villain, and I am here to do that,’ said Dick Fenton, for he it was. ‘This man,’ continued Dick, addressing the astonished spectators, ‘attempted to murder me.’

No one moved. They were dumb with amazement, for they naturally thought a madman was amongst them. Dick himself stooped and lifted up the inanimate form of the Lily, and bore her into the vestry. Taking advantage of the confusion--for everyone seemed bewildered--Cornell stole from the church, got clear away, and was never heard of more.

It was some time before Lily recovered consciousness. It is better to leave the reunion of the lovers to the imagination of the reader, for words always fail to convey anything like an adequate notion of such a scene. The news of the affair had rapidly spread over the village; an enormous crowd had gathered about the church, and the uproar was immense. The wedding party had to wait a considerable time before they could get back to their homes; then explanations were given.

On that dreadful night in the Bay of Biscay Dick had escaped death almost by a miracle, as it were. He was a good swimmer, but was a little stunned by striking his head against the side of the vessel in his descent. He had a recollection, however, of making a powerful effort to swim, and in a little while he felt something touch his hand, and found it was a lifebuoy. On this he supported himself for a long time--it seemed to him two or three hours. Then he saw the outlines of a vessel, which he took to be the ‘Sirocco,’ and he shouted with all his might, and presently had the satisfaction to hear the plash of oars. He had only a faint recollection of hearing a human voice, and feeling the grasp of hands about him. Then ensued a blank. When next he opened his eyes he found himself in a comfortable cabin, and he soon learnt that it was not the ‘Sirocco’ that had picked him up, but an outward bound ship, called the ‘Golden Fleece.’ She was bound for the Cape, and so Dick was mortified to find that he must accompany her there, unless a homeward bounder should be fallen in with, and he could get on board. This chance did not occur, and so to the Cape he went, but the vessel made a long voyage. As soon after arrival as possible he took ship for England, and on reaching there he soon discovered to his amazement that the Red Lily was on the eve of being married to Cornell. He hurried down to the Lake district, and was there a whole week determining not to declare himself until the last moment, so that the discomfiture of his enemy might be the more complete.

For some months after this strange and startling incident Lily remained in such delicate health that grave fears were at one time entertained. Sudden joy is almost as bad as great sorrow at times, and the unexpected return of her lost lover had been too great a shock. Care, attention, and change of air, however, gradually restored her, and again she made preparations for her marriage, which was to take place on Christmas Day, twelve months after the terrible scene in the Bay of Biscay, when Dick was hurled into the sea.

The day came at last--cold, crisp, and bright. The earth was wrapped in a robe of spotless white, and the church was decorated with holly and winter flowers. As the bells pealed forth merrily, and the winter sun shone out from the dull sky, Dick Fenton led his bride down the pathway to the carriage that waited them at the gate, and the crowd of villagers that had gathered in the old churchyard declared that no bonnier bride had ever been seen than the Red Lily.

V

THE PIRATE’S TREASURE

A TRUE AND DRAMATIC STORY OF THE SEA

At the time the startling events I am about to relate occurred, I had but recently passed my final examination in medicine, after what I may modestly say was a successful course of study in Glasgow, of which city I am a native. For some time I had been anxiously expecting my diploma, which would give me the right to practice my profession, and I was trying to obtain an appointment as surgeon on board a splendid East Indiaman, known as the ‘Clydesdale.’ Singularly enough, on the very day that I received the intimation that my application had been favourably considered, I was placed in possession of a letter from a dear friend in London, asking me if I would proceed on his behalf with all possible speed to Surinam, on a very delicate and important mission. For an hour or two I was exercised in my mind as to the proper course I ought to pursue in my own interests; that is, whether I should accept the ‘Clydesdale’ appointment, or undertake my friend’s commission. Something prompted me to choose the latter, and I immediately communicated my decision to London. In a post or two I received my instructions, with a bank draft for my expenses, and I was told to secure a berth in a vessel if possible proceeding direct to the place where my business was to be transacted. I therefore lost no time in making inquiries about a ship, and at last heard of one called the ‘Ariadne.’ She had been chartered by a Glasgow company, and was then loading up at the West Quay, and was to sail in a few days. I at once secured a passage in her, and went down to see the vessel for the first time the very day she was to leave. Little did I dream then how strangely my destiny was to be affected by the fact of my having undertaken my friend’s commission. While I stood examining her from the pier, two sailors, who seemed to be roaming idly about, stopped and began to converse by my side.

‘Has the “Ariadne” shipped all her hands, Jack?’ asked the one; ‘I see she has the Blue Peter flying. Somebody told me she has been sold to a Dutch firm now. How would you like to sail in her?’

‘Not me, mate,’ replied the other; ‘I know too much about her. I made a voyage in her four years ago, and a cleaner or livelier craft is not on the sea! But there is a limb of the devil in her as skipper that is enough to cause her to sink to the bottom. It was in my voyage that he did for Bill Burnet with the pump-sounding rod, because the little fellow snivelled a bit, and was not handy to jump when he was ordered aloft to set the fore-royal. It was his first voyage, and the boy was mortal afraid to venture; but the captain swore he would make him, and in his passion hit him a rap with the iron rod and killed him. When he saw what he had done he lifted the body while it was still quivering and hove it over the side; and many a long day the men wondered what had become of little Bill, for they were all below at dinner, and none but myself saw the bloody deed. It was needless for me to complain and get him overhauled, as there were no witnesses; but I left the ship, and berths would be scarce before I would sail with him again or put my foot on the deck of his ship. I tell you, mate, there’s a curse on her, and them as sails in her will come to grief.’