Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Madman and the Pirate
Chapter Eight
Let us return, now, to our miserable and half-hearted pirate, far out upon the raging sea.
It must not be supposed that the Pacific Ocean is always peaceful. No—there are days and nights when its winds howl, and its billows roar, and heave, and fume, with all the violence and fury of any other terrestrial sea.
On one such night, the pirate’s barque was tossed like a cork on the Pacific’s heaving bosom, while the shrieking winds played, as it were, fiendishly with the fluttering shreds of sails which they had previously blown to ribbons.
Richard Rosco stood beside the weather-bulwarks holding on to one of the mizzen back-stays. His mate Redford assisted the man at the wheel.
Upwards of three years of Rosco’s rule had subdued Redford to the condition of a hypocritical and sly, but by no means a submissive, savage. One or two spurts at the commencement of their career had satisfied the mate, as well as the men, that the only way to overcome Rosco was to take his life; and as Redford had not sufficient courage, and the men no desire, to do that, they pursued their evil courses in comparative harmony. Nevertheless, the pirate captain knew well that the savage Redford was more acceptable to the pirates than himself so he determined to carry out intentions which had been simmering in his brain for some time, and rid the pirate crew of his presence.
“We will sight the island to-morrow afternoon, sir, if this holds,” said the mate.
“I know it,” answered Rosco.
“There is no good anchorage around it,” continued the mate.
“So you have told me before,” returned the captain, “but it matters not; we shall not anchor.”
“Not anchor!” repeated Redford in surprise. “I understood that we were to land there to ship sandal-wood. The crew thought so too, and I’m quite sure—”
“Well—go on—what are you sure of?”
“Oh! nothing—only sure that Captain Rosco understands his own intentions best.”
Rosco made no reply, and nothing further passed between the inharmonious pair at that time. Next day the gale abated, and, as Redford had predicted, Sugar-loaf Island was sighted in the afternoon.
Running close in under the shelter of the mountain, the barque was hove-to and a boat lowered.
“The crew will take arms with them, I suppose, sir?” asked the mate.
“Of course, though there will not be occasion for them, as there are no natives at this part of the island. I merely wish to ascend the hill to reconnoitre. You will go with me. Put your pistols in your belt, and fetch my rifle. We may get some fresh meat among the hills.”
Breech-loading rifles had just come into fashion at that time, and the pirate captain had possessed himself of a double-barrelled one, with which he became wonderfully expert. This weapon was put into the boat with a large pouch full of cartridges. No comments were made in regard to this, the pirates having been accustomed to see their commander land in various places for a day’s shooting, the result of which was usually an acceptable addition of fresh food to their larder.
“Remain by the boat, lads, till we return,” said Rosco, leaping out when the keel grated on the shore. “Come with me, Redford.”
The mate obeyed, following his commander towards the same ravine where, about four years before, they had seen poor Zeppa disappear among the recesses of the mountain. Redford felt a little surprise, and more than a little discomfort, at the peculiar conduct of his captain; but he comforted himself with the thought that if he should attempt any violence, there was a brace of pistols in his belt, and a cutlass at his side. He even for a moment meditated using the pistols when he looked at Rosco’s broad back; but he knew that some of the men in the boat had a sort of sneaking fondness for their captain, and refrained—at least till he should get out of sight of the boat and into the shelter of the woods where his actions could not be seen, and any account of the affair might be coloured to suit his convenience.
Richard Rosco divined pretty well what was passing in his mate’s mind. He also knew that as long as they were in sight of the boat, his enemy would not dare to injure him; he therefore threw his rifle carelessly over his shoulder, and walked with the most easy air of nonchalance over the strip of level land that lay between the sea and the forest that fringed the mountain base.
On the instant of entering the mouth of the ravine, however, he wheeled suddenly round and said—
“Now, Redford, you will lead the way, and I will direct you.”
The mate was startled, and his right hand moved, as if by involuntary impulse, toward the handle of a pistol.
Instantly the muzzle of the captain’s rifle was pointed at his breast.
“Drop your hand!” he said sternly. “Another such threat, and I will shoot you with as much indifference as I would a sneaking dog. Now go on and do as I bid you.”
Redford gave in at once. He was at Rosco’s mercy. Without a word he passed on in advance, and ascended the ravine with a quick, steady step. To say the truth, he knew well that while his commander, on the one hand, would not threaten what he did not mean to perform, on the other hand he would never shed human blood needlessly. He therefore felt less troubled than might have been expected.
They soon reached a small eminence or rocky plateau, from which was obtained a splendid view of the sea, with the barque floating like a large albatross on its surface. From that point the boat could also be clearly seen, and every step of the path by which they had reached the eminence.
“Now, Redford,” said Rosco, throwing his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, so as to bring the muzzle full on the mate’s chest, while, with the forefinger of his right hand, he lightly touched the triggers, “draw your pistols from your belt, and be very careful how you do it—very careful—for if, even by chance, you touch hammer or trigger, you are a dead man.”
There was something of banter in Rosco’s manner, yet this was associated with an air and tone of such calm decision that the mate felt curiously uncomfortable. He obeyed orders, however, promptly, and stood with a pistol in each hand. It must have been a tantalising position, for, had they been cocked, he could have blown out Rosco’s brains in a moment. Indeed, he was sorely tempted to break the half-cock catch on the chance of one or both going off, but his commander’s eye and muzzle forbade it.
“Drop them,” said Rosco, suddenly.
If they had been red-hot irons, the mate could scarcely have let them go more quickly. It almost seemed as if his guilty desire had passed into the weapons and intensified the laws of gravitation—they came to the rock with such a clatter.
“That will do. Now, two paces step—back, march! Splendid. Why, Redford, I had no idea you were so well up in your drill,” said Rosco, stepping to the spot beside the pistols, which the mate had just vacated. “You are fit to act fugleman to the British army. Now, clasp your hands behind your back, and don’t unclasp them till I give you leave. It’s a new piece of drill but not difficult to learn.”
The cowed pirate was too much alarmed to be amused by this last sally. He stood, sulkily it is true, but anxiously, awaiting further orders.
“Look here, Redford,” continued the pirate captain. “I want to prove to you that the distance from this spot to the boat is about five hundred yards. You see that gull on the water? It is about the same distance off as the boat—well—”
He sighted his rifle for five hundred yards, took a rapid aim, fired, and the gull, leaping its own height out of the water, fell back dead.
“Oh! don’t start my fine fellow, you forget the other barrel!”
The reminder was in time to check an unwise impulse on the mate’s part.
“Now,” continued Rosco, assuming a more serious tone, “I have brought you here for a last conversation. You have long desired to command that vessel, and I have long desired to resign the command. We shall both have our desires gratified this day. I intend to take up my abode here; you are free to go where you please—but not to come here again. Lay my words to heart, now, and let me advise you to impress them on your crew. If you ever venture to come to this island again, I promise you to shoot every man that puts his foot upon the shore, and to shoot all that follow, as long as my ammunition lasts. And, you see, I have brought a pretty large bag of it on shore, which I do not mean to waste on gulls, or anything else. I mean to keep it entirely for your benefit, my worthy friend—so, after this warning, you will please yourself, and take your own course. Now, go down to the boat; row straight back to your ship, tell your crew whatever you choose as to our interview, and go where you please. But bear in mind that my rifle will cover you during every step that you take from this spot down to the beach, ay, and after you have left the beach too, until you are safe on board. Remember, also, that the rifle is sighted for one thousand yards, and that the barque is not much farther off than that. Go!”
The last word was uttered in such a tone, that Redford instantly turned, and, without even a word of reply, retraced his steps to the shore. Then he promptly embarked, and the men promptly shoved off while Rosco sat on the rocky eminence, quietly watching them.
No words did Redford speak to his wondering men, except such as were needed to direct the boat. On gaining the vessel, he sprang up the side, ordered all sail to be set and the guns to be loaded. When the vessel had increased her distance a few hundred yards from the shore, he brought her broadside to bear on the land, and then, having carefully laid the guns, gave the word to fire.
The hull of the pirate vessel was instantly enveloped in a snowy curtain of smoke, and, next moment, the echoes of the hills were rudely startled by a thunderous crash, while a dozen or more iron balls burst like bomb-shells on the cliffs immediately above the spot where Rosco sat, sending showers of rock in all direction; and driving the sea-mews in shrieking terror from their nests.
“A mere waste of ammunition,” murmured Rosco, with a contemptuous curl of his lip, as he rose. “But the next may be better aimed, so I’ll bid you good-bye, Redford!”
Descending into the ravine, he was soon safe from the iron messengers of death, of which the enraged Redford sent another group ashore before finally bidding the island farewell.
Now, it so happened that Zeppa was ascending the Sugar-loaf mountain on its other side, when all this cannonading was going on. He was naturally surprised at such unwonted sounds, and, remembering that cannon implied ships, and that ships were necessary to deliverance from his enforced exile, he naturally hastened his steps, and experienced an unusual degree of excitement.
When he reached his favourite outlook—a ledge of flat land on the southern face of the hill, partially covered with bushes—he saw the pirate vessel sailing away from the island, and the smoke of her two broadsides rising like two snowy cloudlets into the blue sky. At first an expression of disappointment flitted across Zeppa’s countenance, but it quickly passed, leaving the usual air of childlike submission behind. He sat down on a ledge of rock, and gazed long and wistfully at the retreating vessel. Then, casting his eyes upwards to the blue vault, he gave way to an impulse which had been growing upon him for some time—he began to pray aloud.
It was while he was engaged in this act of devotion that Richard Rosco came upon the scene.
At the first sound of the madman’s deep voice, the pirate stopped and listened with a feeling of superstitious dread which seemed to check the very action of his heart—for, at the moment, a few bushes concealed his old enemy from his sight. Stepping cautiously forward, he could see through the interlacing boughs without himself being seen; and then the blood forsook his visage, and his limbs trembled as if he had been a paralysed old man.
Could the man before him, in tattered garments, with the dishevelled mass of flowing, curly, iron-grey hair, with the long, heavy beard and moustache, the hollow cheeks, and the wonderfully solemn eyes—could that be Zeppa? It seemed impossible, yet there was no mistaking the well known and still handsome features, or the massive, sinewy frame—still less was it possible to doubt the deep, sonorous voice. But then—Zeppa had been seen on Ratinga Island, and the description given of him by those who had seen him had been so exact that Rosco had never doubted his return home and recovery of reason.
Whatever he thought or felt, however, the pirate’s whole being was soon absorbed in the madman’s prayer. It was simple, like himself. He asked for permission to return home, and made a humble confession of sin. From the tenor of it, there could be no doubt that poor Zeppa had come to regard his exile as a direct punishment from God. Then the prayer changed to a petition for blessings on his wife and son and the deep voice became deeper and full of tenderness.
The pirate experienced a shock of surprise—was the son, then, still alive? And, if so, how came Zeppa to know? He could not know it! The man before him must either be the creature of his own disordered fancy, or a real visitant from the world of spirits!
As these thoughts coursed like lightning through the pirate’s brain, he was suddenly startled by the sound of his own name.
“And Rosco,” said the madman, still looking steadily up into the sky, while a dark frown slowly gathered on his brow—“Oh! God, curse—no—no, no. Forgive me, Lord, and forgive him, and save him from his sins.” He stopped abruptly here, and looked confused.
The mention of the pirate and his sins seemed to remind the poor father that his son had been murdered, and yet, somehow, he had fancied him alive, and had been praying for him! He could not understand it at all. The old look of mingled perplexity and patient submission was beginning again to steal over his face, and his hand was in the familiar act of passing over the troubled brow, when Zeppa’s eyes alighted on Rosco’s countenance.
It would be difficult to say which, at that moment, most resembled a maniac. The sight of his enemy did more, perhaps, to restore Zeppa to a spurious kind of sanity than anything that had occurred since the fatal day of his bereavement, and called up an expression of fierce indignation to his countenance. All memory of his previous prayer vanished, and he glared for a moment at the pirate with intense fury.
At the same time Rosco stood with blanched cheeks, intense horror in his eyes, his lower jaw dropped, and his whole frame, as it were, transfixed.
The inaction of both was, however, but momentary. The madman sprang up, clutched the heavy staff he was wont to use in climbing the hills, and rushed impetuously but without word or cry at his foe. The pirate, brave though he undoubtedly was, lost all self-control, and fled in abject terror. Fortunately, the first part of the descent from the spot was unobstructed; for, in the then condition of their feelings, both men would probably have flung themselves over any precipice that had lain in their way. A few moments, however, sufficed to restore enough of self-possession to the pirate to enable him to direct his course with some intelligence. He naturally followed the path by which he had ascended, and soon gained the beach, closely followed by Zeppa.
In speed the two men were at the time well matched, for any advantage that Zeppa had in point of size and strength was counterbalanced by the youth and superstitious terror of Rosco. At first, indeed, the madman gained on his foe, but as the impetuosity of his first dash abated, the pirate’s courage returned, and, warming to the race, he held his ground.
Like hare and greyhound they coursed along the level patch of ground that lay on that side of the island, until they came in sight of the swampy land, covered with low but dense wood which bounded the lands of the Raturans. Dismay overwhelmed the pirate at first sight of it. Then hope rebounded into his soul, and he put on a spurt which carried him considerably ahead of his pursuer. He reached the edge of the swamp-land, and dashed into its dark recesses. He had barely entered it a few yards when he plunged into water up to the neck. The heavy root of a tree chanced to hang over him. Drawing himself close beneath it, he remained quite still. It was his best—indeed his only—chance.
Next moment Zeppa plunged headlong into another part of the same half-hidden pool. Arising, like some shaggy monster of the swamp, with weeds and slimy plants trailing from his locks, he paused a moment, as if to make sure of his direction before resuming the chase. At that moment he was completely in the power of the pirate, for his broad back was not more than a few feet from the screen of roots and tendrils by which Rosco was partially hidden. The temptation was strong. The pirate drew the keen knife that always hung at his girdle, but a feeling of pity induced him to hesitate. The delay sufficed to save Zeppa’s life. Next moment he seized an overhanging branch, drew himself out of the swamp, and sped on his way; but, having lost sight of his enemy, he soon paused and looked round with indecision.
“It must have been a dream,” he muttered, and began to retrace his steps with an air of humiliation, as if half ashamed of having given way to such excitement. From his hiding-place the pirate saw him pass, and watched him out of sight. Then, clambering quickly out of the stagnant pool, he pushed deeper and deeper into the recesses of the morass, regardless of every danger, except that of falling into the madman’s hands.
Chapter Nine
Who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of Richard Rosco, the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal swamp?
The human spirit is essentially galvanic. It jumps like a grasshopper, bounds like a kangaroo. The greatest of men can only restrain it in a slight degree. The small men either have exasperating trouble with it, or make no attempt to curb it at all. It is a rebellious spirit. The best of books tells us that, “Greater is he that ruleth it, than he that taketh a city.”
Think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. Think of the conquerors of the world. Think of the “Great” Alexander, whose might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life in doing little else. Think of Napoleon “the Great,” whose armies ravaged Europe from the Atlantic to Asia: who even began—though he failed to finish—the conquest of Africa; who made kings as you might make pasteboard men, and filled the civilised world with fear, as well as with blood and graves—all for his own glorification! Think of these and other “great” men, and reflect that it is written, “He who rules his own spirit” is greater than they.
Yes, the human spirit is difficult to deal with, and uncomfortably explosive. At least so Richard Rosco found it when, towards the close of the day on which his enemy chased him into the dismal swamp, he sat down on a gnarled root and began to reflect.
His spirit jumped almost out of him with contempt, when he thought that for the first time in his life, he had fled in abject terror from the face of man! He could not conceal that from himself, despite the excuse suggested by pride—that he had half believed Zeppa to be an apparition. What even if that were true? Had he not boastfully said more than once that he would defy the foul fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart him? Then his spirit bounded into a region of disappointed rage when he thought of the lost opportunity of stabbing his enemy to the heart. After that, unbidden, and in spite of him, it dropped into an abyss of something like fierce despair when he recalled the past surveyed the present, and forecast the future. Truly, if hell ever does begin to men on earth, it began that day to the pirate, as he sat in the twilight on the gnarled root, with one of his feet dangling in the slimy water, his hands clasped so tight that the knuckles stood out white, and his eyes gazing upwards with an expression that seemed the very embodiment of woe.
Then his spirit lost its spring, and he began to crawl, in memory, on the shores of “other days.” He thought of the days when, comparatively innocent he rambled on the sunny hills of old England; played and did mischief with comrades; formed friendships and fought battles, and knew what it was to experience good impulses; understood the joy of giving way to these, as well as the depression consequent on resisting them; and recalled the time when he regarded his mother as the supreme judge in every case of difficulty—the only comforter in every time of sorrow.
At this point his spirit grovelled like a crushed worm in the stagnant pool of his despair, for he had no hope. He had sinned every opportunity away. He had defied God and man, and nothing was left to him, apparently, save “a fearful looking-for of judgment.”
As he bent over the pool he saw his own distorted visage dimly reflected therein, and the thought occurred,—“Why not end it all at once? Five minutes at the utmost and all will be over!” The pirate was a physically brave man beyond his fellows. He had courage to carry the idea into effect but—“after death the judgment!” Where had he heard these words? They were strange to him, but they were not new. Those who are trained in the knowledge of God’s Word are not as a general rule, moved in an extraordinary degree by quotations from it. It is often otherwise with those who have had little of it instilled into them in youth and none in later years. That which may seem to a Christian but a familiar part of the “old, old story,” sometimes becomes to hundreds and thousands of human beings a startling revelation. It was so to the pirate on this occasion. The idea of judgment took such a hold of him that he shrank from death with far more fear than he ever had, with courage, faced it in days gone by. Trembling, terrified, abject he sat there, incapable of consecutive thought or intelligent action.
At last the gloom which had been slowly deepening over the swamp sank into absolute blackness, and the chills of night, which were particularly sharp in such places, began to tell upon him. But he did not dare to move, lest he should fall into the swamp. Slowly he extended himself on the root; wound his arms and fingers convulsively among leaves and branches, and held on like a drowning man. An ague-fit seemed to have seized him, for he trembled violently in every limb; and as his exhausted spirit was about to lose itself in sleep, or, as it seemed to him, in death, he gave vent to a subdued cry, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”
Rest, such as it was, refreshed the pirate, and when the grey dawn, struggling through the dense foliage, awoke him, he rose up with a feeling of submissiveness which seemed, somehow, to restore his energy.
He was without purpose, however, for he knew nothing of his surroundings, and, of course, could form no idea of what was best to be done. In these circumstances he rose with a strange sensation of helplessness, and wandered straight before him.
And oh! how beautiful were the scenes presented to his vision! Everything in this world is relative. That which is hideous at one time is lovely at another. In the night the evening, or at the grey dawn, the swamp was indeed dismal in the extreme; but when the morning advanced towards noon all that was changed, as if magically, by the action of the sun. Black, repulsive waters reflected patches of the bright blue sky, and every leaf, and spray, and parasite, and tendril, that grew in the world above was faithfully mirrored in the world below. Vistas of gnarled roots and graceful stems and drooping boughs were seen on right and left, before and behind, extending as if into infinite space, while innumerable insects, engaged in the business of their brief existence, were filling the region with miniature melodies.
But Richard Rosco saw it not. At least it made no sensible impression on him. His mental retina was capable of receiving only two pictures: the concentrated accumulation of past sin—the terrible anticipation of future retribution. Between these two, present danger and suffering were well-nigh forgotten.
Towards noon, however, the sense of hunger began to oppress him. He allayed it with a few wild berries. Then fatigue began to tell, for walking from root to root sometimes on short stretches of solid land, sometimes over soft mud, often knee-deep in water, was very exhausting. At last he came to what appeared to be the end of the swamp, and here he discovered a small patch of cultivated ground.
The discovery awoke him to the necessity of caution, but he was awakened too late, for already had one of the Raturan natives observed him advancing out of the swamp. Instantly he gave the alarm that a “white face” was approaching. Of course the appearance of one suggested a scout, and the speedy approach of a host. Horrified to see a supposed enemy come from a region which they had hitherto deemed their sure refuge, the few natives who dwelt there flew to arms, and ran to meet the advancing foe.
The pirate was not just then in a mood to resist. He had no weapon, and no spirit left. He therefore suffered himself to be taken prisoner without a struggle, satisfied apparently to know that the madman was not one of those into whose hands he had fallen.
Great was the rejoicing among the Raturans when the prisoner was brought in, for they were still smarting under the humiliation of their defeat, and knew well that their discomfiture had been largely owing to the influence of “white faces.” True, they did not fall into the mistake of supposing that Rosco was the awful giant who had chased and belaboured them so unmercifully with a long stake, but they at once concluded that he was a comrade of Zeppa—perhaps one of a band who had joined their foes. Besides, whether he were a comrade or not was a matter of small moment. Sufficient for them that his face was white, that he belonged to a race which, in the person of Zeppa, had wrought them evil, and that he was now in their power.
Of course, the Raturans had not during all these years, remained in ignorance of the existence of Zeppa. They had heard of his dwelling in the mountain soon after he had visited the village of their enemies, and had also become aware of the fact that the white man was a madman and a giant, but more than this they did not know, because of their feud preventing interchange of visits or of news between the tribes. Their imaginations, therefore, having full swing, had clothed Zeppa in some of the supposed attributes of a demigod. These attributes, however, the same imaginations quickly exchanged for those of a demi-devil, when at last they saw Zeppa in the flesh, and were put to flight by him. His size, indeed, had rather fallen short of their expectation, for sixty feet had been the average estimate, but his fury and aspect had come quite up to the mark, and the fact that not a man of the tribe had dared to stand before him, was sufficient to convince a set of superstitious savages that he was a real devil in human guise. To have secured one of his minor comrades, therefore, was a splendid and unlooked-for piece of good fortune, which they resolved to make the most of by burning the pirate alive.
Little did the wretched man think, when they conducted him to a hut in the middle of their village and supplied him with meat and drink, that this was a preliminary ceremony to the terrible end they purposed to make of him. It is true he did not feel easy in his mind, for, despite this touch of hospitality, his captors regarded him with looks of undisguised hatred.
There was something of the feline spirit in these Raturan savages. As the cat plays with the mouse before killing it, so did they amuse themselves with the pirate before putting him to the final torture which was to terminate his life.
And well was it for Rosco that they did so, for the delay thus caused was the means of saving his life—though he did not come out of the dread ordeal scathless.
They began with a dance—a war-dance it is to be presumed—at all events it involved the flourishing of clubs and spears, the formation of hideous faces, and the perpetration of frightful grimaces, with bounds and yells enough to warrant the conclusion that the dance was not one of peace. Richard Rosco formed the centre of that dance—the sun, as it were, of the system round which the dusky host revolved. But he did not join in the celebration, for he was bound firmly to a stake set up in the ground, and could not move hand or foot.
At first the warriors of the tribe moved round the pirate in a circle, stamping time slowly with their feet while the women and children stood in a larger circle, marking time with hands and voices. Presently the dance grew more furious, and ultimately attained to a pitch of wild violence which is quite indescribable. At the height of the paroxysm, a warrior would ever and anon dart out from the circle with whirling club, and bring it down as if on the prisoner’s skull, but would turn it aside so deftly that it just grazed his ear and fell with a dull thud on the ground. Other warriors made at him with their spears, which they thrust with lightning speed at his naked breast, but checked them just as they touched the skin.
Two or three of these last were so inexpert that they pricked the skin slightly, and blood began to trickle down, but these clumsy warriors were instantly kicked from the circle of dancers, and compelled to take their place among the women and children.
When they had exhausted themselves with the dance, the warriors sat down to feast upon viands, which had, in the meanwhile, been preparing for them, and while they feasted they taunted their prisoner with cowardice, and told him in graphic language of the horrors that yet awaited him.
