The Madman and the Pirate by Robert Michael Ballantyne (each kindness read aloud TXT) 📕

from such a capacious chest. There was about the man an air of gentle urbanity and tenderness which might have induced a stranger to suppose him effeminate, had not his manly looks and commanding stature rendered the idea absurd. "In the first place," he continued, "my wife and I had hoped to show you some hospitality. You know we seldom have visitors to this out-of-the-way island. Then we wanted your advice with regard to the building of our church, which, you see, is progressing rapidly; and last, but not least, I wished to ask a favour, which it will be impossible to grant if you sail to-night."

"Perhaps not impossible," said Captain Daniel, whose gruff nature was irresistibly mellowed by the sweet spirit of the giant who addressed him. "What d'ye want me to do?"

"I meant to ask a passage in your vessel for my son and myself to the island of Otava. It is not far off, and you said yesterday that you intend to pass close to it. You see, I am something of a trader, as well as a missionary-schoolmaster; but if you sail to-night I have not time to get ready."

"If that's all your difficulty," returned the captain, "I'll delay till to-morrow night. A day won't make much difference--will it, Mr Rosco?" he said, turning to the mate.

"You know best" replied the mate somewhat sharply, "I don't command the schooner."

The captain looked at the officer with an angry frown, and then, turning quickly to Zeppa, said--

"Well, if that time will do, it is settled. You and your son may go with me. And, see here, I've brought a box of figs for your wife, since you won't take anything for the help you gave me this morning."

"You shall present it yourself," said Zeppa, with a pleased smile.

"Hi! Ebony," hailing the negro, "tell Marie to come here. She is in the palm-grove."

Ebony found his mistress and delivered his message.

Madame Zeppa was a pretty little fair woman, of French extraction. She had been a lady's-maid, and, having been born and brought up chiefly in England, spoke English fluently, though with a slightly foreign accent derived from her mother.

"Missis," said the negro, in a low voice, and with a mysterious look, as he followed her out of the palm-grove, "massa him wants to go wid schooner. Don' let him go."

"Why not, Ebony?"

"Kase I no likes him."

"You don't like the schooner?"

"No, de cappin ob de skooner. Hims bad man for certin. Please don' let massa go."

"You know I never give master his orders," returned madame, with a light laugh.

"Better if you did, now an' den," muttered the negro, in a tone, however, which rendered the advice not very distinct.

The fair little woman received the box of figs graciously; the captain and mate were invited to the abode of Zeppa, where they met the native missionary, and soon after returned to their vessel to make preparations for departure.

"Marie," said Zeppa that night as they, with their boy, sat down to rest after the labours of the day, "I expect to be away about three weeks. With anything of a wind the schooner will land us on Otava in two or three days. Business won't detain me long, and a large canoe, well manned, will bring Orlando and me back to you in a week or so. It is the first time I shall have left you for so long since our wedding. You won't be anxious, little woman?"

"I would not be anxious if I were sure you went with good people," returned Marie, with a slightly troubled look; "but are you sure of the captain?"

"I am sure of nobody except you, Marie," returned her husband, with a smile that contained a dash of amusement in it.

"And me, father," said Orlando, assuming an injured look.

"Well, Orley, I can't say that I am quite sure of you, you rascal," returned his father playfully. "That spice of mischief in your composition shakes me at times. However, we will leave that question to another time. Meanwhile, what makes you doubt the captain, Marie?"

"Ebony seems to doubt him; and I have great faith in Ebony's judgment."

"So have I; but he is not infallible. We should never get on in life if we gave way to groundless fears, dear wife. Besides, have we not the promise, `Lo, I am with you alway?'"

On the following afternoon a fresh breeze sprang up and the piratical-looking schooner, bowing gracefully before it, sailed across the now ruffled lagoon and stood out to sea, while Marie with the missionary and his wife, and a crowd of natives, stood at the end of the coral wharf, waving farewell to Zeppa and his son as long as their figures could be distinguished. After that, they continued to gaze at the diminishing vessel until it melted like a little speck at the meeting-place of sea and sky.

That night an event which had been long pending was precipitated.

Captain Daniel had given way to his fierce temper so often during the voyage, and had behaved with such cruel tyranny to his crew, that they had resolved to stand it no longer. His harsh conduct to the mate, in particular, who was a favourite with the men, had fostered the spirit of indignation, and the mate himself, being a man of no fixed principles, although good-natured enough when not roused, had at last determined to side with the men. He was a man of fierce passions, and had been roused by his superior's tyranny and insolence to almost uncontrollable fury; but he had not at that time been guilty of absolute insubordination.

When the vessel's course had been laid that night--which chanced to be a Friday, as some of the crew afterwards remembered--and the cabin lamp had been lighted, the captain sent for the mate, who saw by his looks that a storm was brewing.

"What did you mean, sir," began the captain at once, "by that insolent reply you made to me on shore yesterday?"

The young man might have answered temperately if they had been alone, but Zeppa was lying on a locker reading, and his son was also present, and Rosco knew that the captain meant to put him to shame before them. His spirit fired.

"Scoundrel!" he cried, "the measure of your iniquity is filled. You shall no longer command this schooner--"

Thus far he got when the captain, livid with rage, sprang up to rush at him. Zeppa also leaped up to aid in putting down what he clearly perceived was premeditated mutiny, but the mate sprang out of the cabin, and, shutting the door with a bang, locked it. At the same instant the man at the wheel--knowing what had occurred--closed and fastened the cabin sky-light. The captain threw himself several times with all his weight against the door, but it opened inwards and could not be forced.

There were two square windows in the stern of the schooner, one of which was open. Orlando perceived this, sprang up, clambered through it, gained the deck unperceived, and, running down the companion stair, past all the men, rushed against the cabin door, and burst it open.

Zeppa was endeavouring at the moment to wrench off the lock and was nearly thrown back. Recovering, he struck fiercely out at those who thronged the dark passage.

"Oh! father," groaned Orlando, as he fell before the blow.

With a terrible cry of consternation Zeppa stooped to pick up his child. He was felled with a handspike as he did so; the crew then rushed into the cabin and the captain was overpowered and bound.

"Overboard wi' them all!" shouted one of the men.

There were some among these villains who, having once given the reins to their rage, were capable of anything. These, ready to act on the diabolical suggestion, attempted to drag Zeppa and the captain up the companion ladder, but their great size and weight rendered the effort difficult. Besides, Zeppa's consciousness was returning, and he struggled powerfully. It was otherwise with poor Orlando. One of the ruffians easily raised the lad's light frame and bore him to the deck. Next moment a sharp cry and splash were heard. Zeppa understood it, for he had seen his son carried away. With a wild shout he burst from those who held him, and would certainly have gained the deck and leaped overboard had not a mutineer from behind felled him a second time.

When Rosco heard what had been done he ran furiously on deck, but one glance at the dark sea, as the schooner rushed swiftly over it sufficed to show him that the poor boy's case was hopeless.

But Orley's case was not as hopeless as it seemed. The plunge revived him. Accustomed to swim for hours at a time in these warm waters, he found no difficulty in supporting himself. Of course his progress was aimless, for he could not see any distance around him, but a friend had been raised up for him in that desperate hour. At the moment he had been tossed overboard, a sailor, with a touch of pity left in his breast had seized a life-buoy and thrown it after him. Orlando, after swimming about for a few minutes, struck against this buoy by chance--if we may venture to use that word in the circumstances.

Seizing the life-preserver with an earnest "thank God" in his heart if not on his lips, he clung to it and looked anxiously around.

The sight was sufficiently appalling. Thick darkness still brooded on the deep, and nothing was visible save, now and then, the crest of a breaking wave as it passed close to him, or, rolling under him, deluged his face with spray.


CHAPTER TWO.

When Antonio Zeppa recovered consciousness, he found himself lying on a mattress in the schooner's hold, bound, bleeding, and with a dull and dreadful sense of pain at his breast, which at first he could not account for. Ere long the sudden plash of a wave on the vessel's side recalled his mind to his bereavement; and a cry--loud, long, and terrible--arose from the vessel's hold, which caused even the stoutest and most reckless heart on board to quail.

Richard Rosco--now a pirate captain--heard it as he sat alone in his cabin, his elbows resting on the table, and his white face buried in his hands. He did not repent--he could not repent; at least so he said to himself while the fires kindled by a first great crime consumed him.

Men do not reach the profoundest depths of wickedness at one bound. The descent is always graduated--for there are successive rounds to the ladder of sin--but it is sometimes awfully sudden. When young Rosco left England he had committed only deeds which men are apt lightly to name the "follies" of youth. These follies, however, had proved to be terrible leaks through which streams of corruption had flowed in upon his soul. Still, he had no thought of becoming a reckless or heartless man, and would have laughed to scorn any one who should have hinted that he would ever become an outlaw and a pirate. But oppression bore heavily on his hasty, ill-disciplined temper, and now