The Pirate Island Read online

  At length, however, to his infinite relief, he chanced upon half a dozen men who, in consideration of the payment of fabulous wages, undertook to ship for the homeward passage. They were as lawless and ruffianly-looking a set of fellows as one need ever care to encounter; but, as Mr Bowles observed, they could at least pull and haul, and once at sea and away from the demoralising influence of the grog-shops, who knew but they might settle down into steady serviceable hands. At all events they would not want for a good example on the part of their shipmates, the remnant of the original crew, for these were without exception thoroughly steady, reliable men, although one of them was Boyd, the man who had been shot by Mr Carter for refusal to obey orders.

  These men secured, Captain Staunton resolved to avoid all further risk by sailing at once. It was true that the ship would be still rather short-handed—which was all the more to be regretted inasmuch as she was in light trim and a trifle crank—but he reflected that he might lie in port for the next six months without securing another man; and it therefore seemed to him best under the circumstances to make shift with what he had, and get away to sea forthwith. Hasty summonses were accordingly despatched to the few passengers who had taken berths; and these all coming on board next day, the anchor was hove up, and evening saw the Galatea standing off the land and heading to the eastward, with every sail set and dragging at her like a cart-horse.

  The passengers were this time only six in number, namely, Blanche and Violet, Messrs. Dale, Fortescue, and Brook, who had lost the contract which they went out in the hope of securing, entirely through the obstinacy of the head of the firm, and a Mr Evelin, formerly a captain in the Royal Engineers, who had thrown up his commission to go gold-digging, and who, thanks to his technical training, supplemented by arduous special study of geology, had been successful to an extraordinary degree, and was now returning home master of a handsome fortune.

  Launcelot, or Lance Evelin, was a tall handsome man of about thirty-five, with the physique of a Hercules, the result of some six months’ toil and exposure at the diggings, deeply bronzed, clear cut features, half concealed by a heavy moustache and beard of a golden chestnut hue, clear grey eyes, and wavy hair a shade darker than the beard. He proved an immense acquisition to the ladies, who would otherwise have been almost entirely dependent on Rex Fortescue for amusement; Mr Dale being altogether too savage at his recent failure to make an agreeable associate, which indeed he never was, even at the best of times; while Brook, willing though he was to do his best, was too pugnacious, ill-bred, and illiterate to be more than just barely tolerated. Rex Fortescue and Violet, it was perfectly clear, were daily sinking deeper into that condition wherein people are conscious of the existence of two individuals only—their two selves—in the whole world; so that poor little Blanche would soon have found herself quite out in the cold had not Mr Evelin taken compassion upon her and devoted himself to her amusement. He knew London well; and, on comparing notes, it soon transpired that he knew several people with whom Blanche was also acquainted; so they got on capitally together, especially as Lance possessed in an eminent degree the art of making his conversation interesting. Later on, too, when he had thawed a little, he would relate story after story of his adventures at the gold-fields, some of which convulsed his companion with laughter, while others made her shudder and nestle unconsciously a little closer to the narrator.

  But notwithstanding this Blanche still found time to chat occasionally with Bob. The lad was very fond of steering, indeed he had won the reputation of being the finest helmsman in the ship, and he was always ready to take a “trick” at the wheel during either of the dog-watches, and so give the rightful helmsman a chance to stay “for’ard” and amuse himself with his shipmates; and when this was the case Blanche generally used to seat herself in a deck-chair near him, and chatter away upon any topic which came uppermost.

  She had been thus amusing herself one evening when, as eight bells struck and Bob walked forward on being relieved from the wheel, Lance Evelin, who had been smoking his cigar on the break of the poop, and watching from a distance the “carryings-on” of the men upon the forecastle, sauntered to her side and opened conversation with the remark—

  “How singularly exact a repetition of the same features you will observe in some families; doubtless you have often noticed it, Miss Lascelles? Now, there is that fine young fellow Legerton, anyone would recognise him as a connection of yours, and I have often been on the point of asking you in what manner you are related to each, other. Am I unpardonably inquisitive?”

  “By no means, Mr Evelin. It is a question easily answered; I am not aware that we are related in the most remote degree.”

  “You are not?” he exclaimed in a tone of the greatest surprise. “I am sure I most earnestly beg your pardon; how very stupid of me to make such a mistake; but the resemblance between you two is so very striking that, although no one has ever said a word to lead me to such a conclusion, I have never doubted, from the moment I came on board, that you must be closely related. I am sure I am quite at a loss for words wherewith to express my apologies.”

  “No apology is necessary, I assure you, Mr Evelin,” returned Blanche. “On the contrary, I feel rather flattered by your supposition, for I greatly admire Robert’s many sterling qualities. And what a bold brave fellow he is too, notwithstanding his quiet unassuming manner. If you feel any curiosity as to his history Captain Staunton will be only too happy to furnish you with full particulars; he can enlighten you far better than I can, and the story is worth listening to; the manner of their first acquaintance especially is a romance in itself.”

  Lance’s curiosity was aroused; but, instead of referring to the skipper, he preferred to hear the story from Blanche’s own pretty lips; and sinking down into a deck-chair beside her he listened with interest to all that the fair girl could tell him respecting Bob.

  “Poor fellow!” he remarked when Blanche had finished her story, “and he has never been able to find a clue to his parentage! It is very singular; there surely must be relatives of his still in existence somewhere. Did the fishermen who saved his life never make any inquiries?”

  “No, it appears not,” answered Blanche. “According to Robert’s own account, though he always speaks with the greatest respect and affection of the old man who adopted him, the people among whom he was thrown are very simple and ignorant of everything outside the pale of their own calling, and it would seem that they really did not know how to set about instituting an inquiry.”

  “Well, what you have told me has interested me so much, and the lad himself has made such a favourable impression upon me, that I believe I shall really feel more than half-inclined to undertake the somewhat Quixotic task of seeking his relatives myself when we reach England. Who knows but that it might be my good fortune to gladden the heart of a father or mother whose life has been embittered for years by the loss of perhaps an only son?” half laughingly remarked Lance.

  “Ah! do not jest upon such a subject,” exclaimed Blanche. “You evidently have not the least idea what a complete blight such a loss may cast upon a parent’s life. I have. There is my poor uncle, Sir Richard, who has never held up his head since he lost his wife and child at sea. My mother has told me that before his terrible bereavement there was not a more genial light-hearted happy man living than uncle Dick; but he has never been known to smile since the dreadful news first reached him; and though he has always struggled bravely against his great sorrow, I feel sure he looks forward eagerly to the time when he shall be called away to rejoin his wife and his baby boy.”

  “How very sad!” remarked Lance in sympathetic tones. “I am slightly acquainted with Sir Richard Lascelles, that is to say, I have met him once or twice, and I have often wondered what great trouble it could be that seemed to be pressing so heavily upon him. If it would not distress you too much I should like to hear how he met with his terrible loss.”

  “I have no objection to tell you,” answered Blanche. “It o
ccurred very shortly after I was born. My uncle was then a younger son, with very little expectation of ever succeeding to the baronetcy, for there were two brothers older than himself, and he had a captain’s commission in the army. He had married a lady of whom, because she happened to have no money, his father strongly disapproved, and a serious quarrel between father and son was the consequence.

  “Shortly after his marriage my uncle’s regiment was ordered off to North America, and uncle Dick naturally took his wife with him. The regiment was moved about from place to place, and finally, when my uncle had been married about three years, was broken up into detachments; that which he commanded being sent, in consequence of some trouble with the Indians, to an important military outpost at a considerable distance up the Ottawa River.

  “Of course it was quite impossible for my aunt to accompany her husband into the wilds, especially as she was then the mother of a son some eighteen months old, and the question which arose was, What was she to do?

  “It was at first proposed that she should establish herself in Montreal until the return of the expedition; but a letter reaching her just at that time stating that her mother’s health was failing, it was hastily decided that my aunt should return to England, taking of course her little son with her.

  “Everything had to be done in a great hurry, and my uncle had barely time to pack his wife’s boxes and see her safely en route for Montreal before he set out with his detachment for the post to which he had been ordered.

  “My aunt arrived safely at Montreal, but failing to find there a ship ready to sail for England, went on to Quebec, which she reached just in time to embark for London. She had written to my uncle from Montreal, and she wrote again from Quebec, the letter reaching her husband’s hands as he was on the point of marching out of the fort on a night expedition against a band of hostile Indians who had been discovered in the neighbourhood.

  “An engagement took place, in which my uncle was desperately wounded and narrowly escaped falling into the hands of the Indians. His men succeeded, however, in saving him and making good their own retreat into the fort, where poor uncle Dick lay hovering for weeks between life and death. After a long and weary struggle his splendid constitution triumphed; and with the return of consciousness came anxious thoughts respecting his wife and child. He remembered the letter which had been handed to him as he marched out upon that ill-starred expedition, the letter which he had never had an opportunity to read, and he made eager inquiries respecting it. It was found in an inner breast-pocket of his uniform coat, but it had been so thoroughly saturated with his own blood, poor fellow, that it was practically undecipherable; by careful soaking and washing he at last succeeded in ascertaining that my aunt and her baby had actually sailed from Quebec, but on what date or in what ship it was quite impossible to learn. And that was the last news he ever heard of them.”

  “How very dreadful!” murmured Lance. “Of course he made every possible inquiry respecting their fate?”

  “Not immediately,” answered Blanche. “He waited patiently for news of my aunt’s arrival in England; but as mail after mail came without bringing him any intelligence he grew uneasy, and finally wrote to his mother-in-law asking an explanation of the unaccountable silence. This letter remained unanswered; but just when his uneasiness had increased to such a pitch that he had determined to apply for leave of absence in order to proceed to England, it was returned to him through the dead-letter office. This decided him at once. He applied for leave and it was refused. He then threw up his commission, and at once proceeded to England; the fearful conviction growing upon him that something dreadful had happened. He stopped at Quebec for a fortnight on his way home, making inquiry at all the ship-owners’ and brokers’ offices in the place, endeavouring to learn the name of the ship in which his wife had been a passenger; but, strange to say, he could gain no trace of them. Whether it was that the people of whom he inquired were careless and indifferent, or whether it was that passenger-lists were not at that time regularly kept as they now are, it is of course impossible to say, but it is a fact that he was compelled to leave America without the smallest scrap of information respecting his dear ones beyond that contained in the blood-stained letter.

  “On his arrival in England he proceeded direct to his mother-in-law’s former residence, to find it, as he feared, in the possession of strangers. He then, with considerable difficulty, hunted up the lawyer who had managed Mrs Percival’s (his mother-in-law’s) money matters, and learned from him that the old lady had died some seven months before. And in reply to his further inquiries he was informed that his wife and child had never reached Mrs Percival’s home. The old lady had certainly expected them, the lawyer said, but she had never received more than one letter which my uncle had hurriedly written mentioning the fact of their departure for England.

  “Poor uncle Dick now found himself completely at a loss; so, as the best plan he could think of, he put the affair into his lawyer’s hands, handing him also the blood-stained letter. This letter was soon afterwards intrusted to a chemist, who, in attempting to cleanse it, destroyed it altogether, and thus passed away the only clue which my uncle possessed. It is now rather more than sixteen years since my aunt sailed from Quebec, and poor uncle Dick has never succeeded in gaining a trace of her fate to this day.”

  “Poor fellow!” ejaculated Lance, in an absent sort of way. “I’m sure I sincerely pity and sympathise with him. What! going below already? Then allow me to conduct you as far as the companion.”

  Blanche bade Lance good-night at the head of the saloon staircase; he raised his smoking-cap, and then returning sauntered up and down the poop for over an hour, with his hands behind him, and his eyes fixed on the deck, apparently in a brown study.

  A few days after the narration of Blanche’s story, Lance Evelin, noticing Bob at the wheel, strolled up to him and asked him for his history.

  “Miss Lascelles gave me the outlines of it a night or two ago, and it struck me as so peculiar and interesting that I should like to hear full particulars,” he explained, puffing lazily at his cigar meanwhile.

  “Where would you like me to begin, Mr Evelin?” asked Bob.

  “At the beginning of course, my dear fellow,” laughingly answered Lance. “I want to know everything. Do you remember being found on board the wreck?”

  “Sometimes I think I do; and at other times I think it must be only the recollection of a dream which has produced a more than usually strong impression upon me,” answered Bob. “Now and then—perhaps not more than half a dozen times altogether—when I have been lying half asleep and half awake, a confused and indistinct idea presents itself of a ship’s cabin seen through a half-opened state-room door, with a lamp swinging violently to and fro; of a woman’s face, beautiful as—oh! I cannot describe it; something like Miss Dudley’s, only still more beautiful, if you can imagine such a thing. Then the dream, or whatever it is, gets still more confused; I seem to be in cold and wet and darkness, and I fancy I hear a sound like men shouting, mingled with the roar of the wind and the rush of the sea; then—then—I seem to have been kissed—yes—and the beautiful face seems to be bending over me again, but I am in the light and the warmth once more; and—then it all passes away; and if I try to carry my thoughts back to the first circumstance which I can distinctly remember, I see myself again with other boys, paddling about barefoot on the shore at Brightlingsea.”

  “Ah!” ejaculated Lance, contemplatively. “I have no doubt but that—if the truth could be arrived at, which of course it never can be in this world—this dream, or whatever you like to call it, is the faint recollection which still remains impressed on your memory of some of the incidents connected with the wreck of your ship—what was her name, by the by? The Lightning, of London! Um; that’s not a very difficult name to remember, at all events. And the beautiful face of which you spoke—is your impression of it clear enough to enable you to describe it? Or, supposing it possible for you to see a picture of
the original, do you think you would recognise it?—Do you mind my asking these questions? No; that’s all right; but if it is in the least painful to you, I will not put them. You see, Legerton, I have very little doubt that face was the face of your mother; and I confess I feel a trifle curious to know how far back a man can carry his remembrance of his mother. I cannot remember anything about mine previous to my fourth birthday.”

  “Well,” answered Bob, “I can scarcely remember the face clearly enough to describe it. All I can say about it is that it was very beautiful, with tender loving eyes and dark hair, which I am almost sure must have been worn in curls; but I think that if ever I saw a really good picture of it I should recognise it directly.”

  “You would, eh?” said Lance. “Very well, now go ahead—if you are not tired of talking—and tell me about the old fellow who found you, and the sort of life you led as a fisherman, and so on; it is all very interesting, I assure you; quite as much so as any of the novels in the saloon book-case.”

  Bob accordingly went ahead, his companion occasionally interrupting him with a question; and when the story was finished Lance rose and stretched himself, saying as he turned to walk away—

  “Thank you very much. Your story is so interesting that I think I shall make a few notes of it for the benefit of a literary friend of mine; so if you meet with it in print some day you must not be very much surprised.”