subdued feeling, and suffered the tears that had been suffusing her eyes to roll down her cheeks in large drops, till they bathed the deck.
“Yes, now, my love,” continued the colonel, “or I fail in my duty. I go shortly to stand face to face with your parents, my children; for the man who, dying, expects not to meet worthy Hugh Griffith and honest Jack Plowden in heaven can have no clear view of the rewards that belong to lives of faithful service to the country, or of gallant loyalty to the king! I trust no one can justly say that I ever forgot the delicacy due to your gentle sex; but it is no moment for idle ceremony when time is shortening into minutes, and heavy duties remain to be discharged. I could not die in peace, children, were I to leave you here in the wide ocean, I had almost said in the wide world, without that protection which becomes your tender years and still more tender characters. If it has pleased God to remove your guardian, let his place be supplied by those he wills to succeed him!”
Cecilia no longer hesitated, but she arose slowly from her knees, and offered her hand to Griffith with an air of forced resignation. Katherine submitted to be led by Barnstable to her side; and the chaplain, who had been an affected listener to the dialogue, in obedience to an expressive signal from the eye of Griffith, opened the prayer-book from which he had been gleaning consolation for the dying master, and commenced reading, in trembling tones, the marriage service. The vows were pronounced by the weeping brides in voices more distinct and audible than if they had been uttered amid the gay crowds that usually throng a bridal; for though they were the irreclaimable words that bound them forever to the men whose power over their feelings they thus proclaimed to the world, the reserve of maiden diffidence was lost in one engrossing emotion of solemnity, created by the awful presence in which they stood. When the benediction was pronounced, the head of Cecilia dropped on the shoulder of her husband, where she wept violently, for a moment, and then resuming her place at the couch, she once more knelt at the side of her uncle. Katherine received the warm kiss of Barnstable passively, and returned to the spot whence she had been led.
Colonel Howard succeeded in raising his person to witness the ceremony, and had answered to each prayer with a fervent “Amen.” He fell back with the last words; and a look of satisfaction shone in his aged and pallid features, that declared the interest he had taken in the scene.
“I thank you, my children,” he at length uttered, “I thank you; for I know how much you have sacrificed to my wishes. You will find all my papers relative to the estates of my wards, gentlemen, in the hands of my banker in London; and you will also find there my will, Edward, by which you will learn that Cicely has not come to your arms an unportioned bride. What my wards are in persons and manners your eyes can witness, and I trust the vouchers in London will show that I have not been an unfaithful steward to their, pecuniary affairs!”
“Name it not–say no more, or you will break my heart,” cried Katherine, sobbing aloud, in the violence of her remorse at having ever pained so true a friend. “Oh! talk of yourself, think of yourself; we are unworthy–at least I am unworthy of another thought!”
The dying man extended a hand to her in kindness, and continued, though his voice grew feebler as he spoke:
“Then to return to myself–I would wish to lie, like my ancestors, in the bosom of the earth–and in consecrated ground.”
“It shall be done,” whispered Griffith, “I will see it done myself.”
“I thank thee, my son,” said the veteran; “for such thou art to me in being the husband of Cicely–you will find in my will that I have liberated and provided for all my slaves–except those ungrateful scoundrels who deserted their master–they have seized their own freedom, and they need not be indebted to me for the same. There is, Edward, also an unworthy legacy to the king; his majesty will deign to receive it–from an old and faithful servant, and you will not miss the trifling gift.” A long pause followed, as if he had been summing up the account of his earthly duties, and found them duly balanced, when he added, “Kiss me, Cicely–and you, Katherine–I find you have the genuine feelings of honest Jack, your father.–My eyes grow dim–which is the hand of Griffith? Young gentleman, I have given you all that a fond old man had to bestow–deal tenderly with the precious child–we have not properly understood each other–I had mistaken both you and Mr. Christopher Dillon, I believe; perhaps I may also have mistaken my duty to America–but I was too old to change my politics or my religion–I-I- I loved the king–God bless him–“
His words became fainter and fainter as he proceeded; and the breath deserted his body with this benediction on his livid lips, which the proudest monarch might covet from so honest a man.
The body was instantly borne into a stateroom by the attendants; and Griffith and Barnstable supported their brides into the after-cabin, where they left them seated on the sofa that lined the stern of the ship, weeping bitterly, in each other’s arms.
No part of the preceding scene had been unobserved by Boltrope, whose small, hard eyes were observed by the young men to twinkle, when they returned into the state apartment; and they approached their wounded comrade to apologize for the seeming neglect that their conduct had displayed.
“I heard you were hurt, Boltrope,” said Griffith, taking him kindly by the hand; “but as I know you are not unused to being marked by shot, I trust we shall soon see you again on deck.”
“Ay, ay,” returned the master, “you’ll want no spy glasses to see the old hulk as you launch it into the sea. I have had shot, as you say, before now to tear my running-gear, and even to knock a splinter out of some of my timbers; but this fellow has found his way into my bread- room; and the cruise of life is up!”
“Surely the case is not so bad, honest David,” said Barnstable; “you have kept afloat, to my knowledge, with a bigger hole in your skin than this unlucky hit has made!”
“Ay, ay,” returned the master, “that was in my upper works, where the doctor could get at it with a plug; but this chap has knocked away the shifting-boards, and I feel as if the whole cargo was broken up. You may say that Tourniquet rates me all the same as a dead man; for after looking at the shot-hole, he has turned me over to the parson here, like a piece of old junk which is only fit to be worked up into something new. Captain Munson had a lucky time of it! I think you said, Mr. Griffith, that the old gentleman was launched overboard with everything standing, and that Death made but one rap at his door, before he took his leave!”
“His end was indeed sudden!” returned Griffith; “but it is what we seamen must expect.”
“And for which there is so much the more occasion to be prepared,” the chaplain ventured to add, in a low, humble, and, perhaps, timid voice.
The sailing-master looked keenly from one to the other as they spoke; and, after a short pause, he continued, with an air of great submission:
“‘Twas his luck; and I suppose it is sinful to begrudge a man his lawful luck. As for being prepared, parson, that is your business, and not mine; therefore, as there is but little time to spare, why, the sooner you set about it the better: and, to save unnecessary trouble I may as well tell you not to strive to make too much of me; for, I must own it to my shame, I never took learning kindly. If you can fit me for some middling berth in the other world, like the one I hold in this ship, it will suit me as well, and, perhaps, be easier to all hands of us.”
If there was a shade of displeasure blended with the surprise that crossed the features of the divine at this extraordinary limitation of his duties, it entirely disappeared when he considered more closely the perfect expression of simplicity with which the dying master uttered his wishes. After a long and melancholy pause, which neither Griffith or his friend felt any inclination to interrupt, the chaplain replied:
“It is not the province of man to determine on the decrees of the merciful dispensations of the Deity; and nothing that I can do, Mr. Boltrope, will have any weight in making up the mighty and irrevocable decree. What I said to you last night, in our conversation on this very subject, must still be fresh in your memory, and there is no good reason why I should hold a different language to you now,”
“I can’t say that I logg’d all that passed,” returned the master; “and that which I do recollect fell chiefly from myself, for the plain reason that a man remembers his own better than his neighbor’s ideas. And this puts me in mind, Mr. Griffith, to tell you that one of the forty-two’s from the three-decker traveled across the forecastle, and cut the best bower within a fathom of the clinch, as handily as an old woman would clip her rotten yarn with a pair of tailor’s shears! If you will be so good as to order one of my mates to shift the cable end-for-end, and make a new bend of it, I’ll do as much for you another time.”
“Mention it not,” said Griffith; “rest assured that everything shall be done for the security of the ship in your department-I will superintend the whole duty in person; and I would have you release your mind from all anxiety on the subject, to attend to your more important interests elsewhere.”
“Why,” returned Boltrope, with a little show of pertinacity, “I have an opinion that the cleaner a man takes his hands into the other world, of the matters of duty in this the better he will be fitted to handle anything new.–Now, the parson, here, undertook to lay down the doctrine last night that it was no matter how well or how ill a man behaved himself, so that he squared his conscience by the lifts and braces of faith; which I take to be a doctrine that is not to be preached on shipboard; for it would play the devil with the best ship’s company that was ever mustered.”
“Oh! no–no–dear Mr. Boltrope, you mistook me and my doctrine altogether!” exclaimed the chaplain; “at least you mistook—-“
“Perhaps, sir,” interrupted Griffith, gently, “our honest friend will not be more fortunate now. Is there nothing earthly that hangs upon your mind, Boltrope? no wish to be remembered to any one, nor any bequest to make of your property?”
“He has a mother, I know,” said Barnstable in a low voice, “he often spoke of her to me in the night-watches, I think she must still be living.”
The master, who distinctly heard his young shipmates continued for more than a minute rolling the tobacco, which he still retained, from one side of his mouth to the other, with an industry that denoted singular agitation for the man; and raising one of his broad hands, with the other he picked the worn skin from fingers which were already losing their brownish yellow hue in the fading color of death, before he answered:
“Why, yes, the old woman still keeps her grip upon life, which is more than can be said of her son David. The old man was lost the time the Susan and Dorothy was wrecked on the back of Cape Cod; you remember it, Mr. Barnstable? you were then a lad, sailing on whaling voyages from the island: well, ever since that gale, I’ve endeavored to make smooth water for the old woman myself, though she has had but a rough passage of it, at the best; the voyage of life, with her, having been pretty much crossed by rugged weather and short stores.”
“And you would have us carry some message to her?” said Griffith, kindly.
“Why, as to messages,” continued the master, whose voice was rapidly growing more husky and broken, “there never has been many compliments– passed between us, for the reason–that she is not more used to receive them–than I am to make them. But if any one of you will overhaul–the purser’s books, and see what there is standing here–to my side of the leaf–and take a little pains to get it to the old woman–you will find her moored in the lee side of a house–ay, here it is, No. 10 Cornhill, Boston. I took care–to get her a good warm berth, seeing that a woman of eighty wants a snug anchorage–at her time of life, if ever.”
“I will do it myself, David,” cried Barnstable, struggling to conceal his emotion; “I will call on her the instant we let go our anchor in Boston harbor; and as your credit can’t be large, I will divide my own purse with her!”
The sailing-master was powerfully affected by this kind offer, the muscles of his hard, weatherbeaten face working convulsively, and it was a moment before he could trust his voice in reply.
“I know you would, Dicky, I know you would,” he at length uttered, grasping the hand of Barnstable with a portion of his former strength; “I know you would give the old woman one of your own limbs, if it would do a service–to the mother of a messmate–which it would not–seeing that I am not the son of a–cannibal; but you are out of your own father’s books, and it’s too often shoal water in your pockets to help any one–more especially since you have just been spliced to a pretty young body–that will want all your spare coppers.”
“But I am master of my own fortune,” said Griffith, “and am rich.”
“Ay, ay, I have heard it said you could build a frigate and set her afloat all a-taunt-o without thrusting your hand–into any man’s purse– but your own!”
“And I pledge you the honor of a naval officer,” continued the young sailor, “that she shall want for nothing; not eyes the care and tenderness of a dutiful son.”
Boltrope appeared to be choking; he made an attempt to raise his exhausted frame on the couch; but fell back exhausted and dying, perhaps a little prematurely, through the powerful and unusual emotions that were struggling for Boltrope appeared to be choking; he made an attempt to raise his ‘exhausted frame on the couch; but fell back exhausted and dying, perhaps a little prematurely, through the powerful and unusual emotions that were struggling for utterance. “God forgive me my misdeeds!” he at length said, “and chiefly for ever speaking a word against your discipline; remember the best bower–and look to the slings of the lower yards–and–and–he’ll do it, Dicky, he’ll do it! I’m casting off–the fasts–of life–and so God bless ye all–and give ye good weather–going large–or on a bowline!”
The tongue of the master failed him, but a look of heart felt satisfaction gleamed across his rough visage, as its muscles suddenly contracted, when the faded lineaments slowly settled into the appalling stiffness of death.
Griffith directed the body to be removed to the apartment of the master, and proceeded with a heavy heart to the upper deck. The Alacrity had been unnoticed during the arduous chase of the frigate, and, favored by daylight, and her light draught of water, she had easily effected her escape also among the mazes of the shoals. She was called down to her consort by signal, and received the necessary instructions how to steer during the approaching night. The British ships were now only to be faintly discovered like white specks on the dark sea; and as it was known that a broad barrier of shallow water lay between them, the Americans no longer regarded their presence as at all dangerous.
When the necessary orders had been given, and the vessels were fully prepared, they were once more brought up to the wind, and their heads pointed in the direction of the coast of Holland. The wind, which freshened towards the decline of the day, hauled round with the sun; and when that luminary retreated from the eye, so rapid had been the progress of the mariners, it seemed to sink in the bosom of the ocean, the land having long before settled into its watery bed. All night the frigate continued to dash through the seas with a sort of sullen silence, that was soothing to the melancholy of Cecilia and Katherine, neither of whom closed an eye during that gloomy period. In addition to the scene they had witnessed, their feelings were harrowed by the knowledge that, in conformity to the necessary plans of Griffith, and in compliance with the new duties he had assumed, they were to separate in the morning for an indefinite period, and possibly forever.
With the appearance of light, the boatswain sent his rough summons through the vessel, and the crew were collected in solemn silence in her gangways to “bury the dead.” The bodies of Boltrope, of one or two of her inferior officers, and of several common men who had died of their wounds in the night, were, with the usual formalities, committed to the deep; when the yards of the ship were again braced by the wind, and she glided along the trackless waste, leaving no memorial, in the midst of the ever-rolling waters, to mark the place of their sepulture.
When the sun had gained the meridian, the vessels were once more hove- to, and the preparations were made for a final separation. The body of Colonel Howard was transferred to the Alacrity, whither it was followed by Griffith and his cheerless bride, while Katherine hung fondly from the window of the ship, suffering her own scalding tears to mingle with the brine of the ocean. After everything was arranged, Griffith waved his hand to Barnstable, who had now succeeded to the command of the frigate, and the yards of the latter were braced sharp to the wind, when she proceeded to the dangerous experiment of forcing her way to the shores of America, by attempting the pass of the Straits of Dover, and running the gauntlet through the English ships that crowded their own Channel; an undertaking, however, for which she had the successful example of the Alliance frigate, which had borne the stars of America along the same hazardous path but a few months previously.
In the mean while the Alacrity, steering more to the west drew in swiftly towards the shores of Holland; and about an hour before the setting of the sun had approached so nigh as to be once more hove into the wind, in obedience to the mandate of Griffith. A small, light boat was lowered into the sea, when the young sailor, and the Pilot, who had found his way into the cutter unheeded, and almost unseen, ascended from the small cabin together. The stranger glanced his eyes along the range of coast, as if he would ascertain the exact position of the vessel, and then turned them on the sea and the western horizon to scan the weather. Finding nothing in the appearance of the latter to induce him to change his determination, he offered his hand frankly to Griffith, and said:
“Here we part. As our acquaintance has not led to all we wished, let it be your task, sir, to forget we ever met.”
Griffith bowed respectfully, but in silence, when the other continued, shaking his hand contemptuously towards the land:
“Had I but a moiety of the navy of that degenerate republic, the proudest among those haughty islanders should tremble in his castle, and be made to feel there is no security against a foe that trusts his own strength and knows the weakness of his enemy! But,” he muttered in a lower and more hurried voice, “this has been like Liverpool, and– Whitehaven–and Edinburgh, and fifty more! It is past, sir; let it be forgotten.”
Without heeding the wondering crew, who were collected as curious spectators of his departure, the stranger bowed hastily to Griffith, and, springing into the boat, he spread her light sails with the readiness of one who had nothing to learn even in the smallest matters of his daring profession. Once more, as the boat moved briskly away from the cutter, he waved his hand in adieu; and Griffith fancied that even through the distance he could trace a smile of bitter resignation lighting his calm features with a momentary gleam. For a long time the young man stood an abstracted gazer at his solitary progress, watching the small boat as it glided towards the open ocean, nor did he remember to order the head-sheets of the Alacrity drawn, in order to put the vessel again in motion, until the dark speck was lost in the strong glare that fell obliquely across the water from the setting sun.
Many wild and extraordinary conjectures were tittered among the crew of the cutter, as she slowly drew in towards her friendly haven, on the appearance of the mysterious Pilot, during their late hazardous visit to the coast of Britain, and on his still more extraordinary disappearance, as it were, amid the stormy wastes of the North Sea. Griffith himself was not observed to smile, nor to manifest any evidence of his being a listener to their rude discourse, until it was loudly announced that a small boat was pressing for their own harbor, across the forefoot of the cutter, under a single lug-sail. Then, indeed, the sudden and cheerful lighting of his troubled eye betrayed the vast relief that was imparted to his feelings by the interesting discovery.
CHAPTER XXXV
“Come, all you kindred chieftains of the deep, In mighty phalanx round your brother bend; Hush every murmur that invades his sleep– And guard the laurels that o’ershade your friend.” _Lines on Tripp_.
Here, perhaps, it would be wise to suffer the curtain of our imperfect drama to fall before the reader, trusting that the imagination of every individual can readily supply the due proportions of health, wealth, and happiness, that the rigid rules of poetic justice would award to the different characters of the legend. But as we are not disposed to part so coldly from those with whom we have long held amicable intercourse, and as there is no portion of that in reservation which is not quite as true as all that has been already related, we see no unanswerable reason for dismissing the dramatis personae so abruptly. We shall, therefore, proceed to state briefly the outlines of that which befell them in after-life, regretting, at the same time, that the legitimate limits of a modern tale will not admit of such dilatation of many a merry or striking scene as might create the pleasing hope of beholding hereafter some more of our rude sketches quickened into life by the spirited pencil of Dunlap.
Following the course of the frigate, then, towards those shores from which, perhaps, we should never have suffered our truant pen to have wandered, we shall commence the brief task with Barnstable, and his laughing, weeping, gay, but affectionate bride–the black-eyed Katherine. The ship fought her way gallantly, through swarms of the enemy’s cruisers, to the port of Boston, where Barnstable was rewarded for his services by promotion, and a more regular authority to command his vessel.
During the remainder of the war, he continued to fill that station with ability and zeal; nor did he return to the dwelling of his fathers, which he soon inherited by regular descent, until after peace had established not only the independence of his country, but his own reputation as a brave and successful sea-officer. When the Federal Government laid the foundation of its present navy, Captain Barnstable was once more tempted by the offer of a new commission to desert his home; and for many years he was employed among that band of gallant seamen who served their country so faithfully in times of trial and high daring. Happily, however, he was enabled to accomplish a great deal of the more peaceful part of his service accompanied by Katherine, who, having no children, eagerly profited by his consent to share his privations and hardships on the ocean. In this manner they passed merrily, and we trust happily down the vale of life together, Katherine entirely discrediting the ironical prediction of her former guardian, by making, everything considered, a very obedient, and certainly, so far as attachment was concerned, a most devoted wife.
The boy Merry, who in due time became a man, clung to Barnstable and Katherine, so long as it was necessary to hold him in leading-strings; and when he received his regular promotion, his first command was under the shadow of his kinsman’s broad pennant. He proved to be in his meridian, what his youth had so strongly indicated, a fearless, active, and reckless sailor; and his years might have extended to this hour, had he not fallen untimely in a duel with a foreign officer.
The first act of Captain Manual, after landing once more on his native soil, was to make interest to be again restored to the line of the army. He encountered but little difficulty in this attempt, and was soon in possession of the complete enjoyment of that which his soul had so long pined after, “a steady drill.” He was in time to share in all the splendid successes which terminated the war, and also to participate in his due proportion of the misery of the army. His merits were not forgotten, however, in the re-organization of the forces, and he followed both St. Clair and his more fortunate successor, Wayne, in the western campaigns. About the close of the century, when the British made their tardy relinquishment of the line of posts along the frontiers, Captain Manual was ordered to take charge, with his company, of a small stockade on our side of one of those mighty rivers that sets bounds to the territories of the Republic in the north. The British flag was waving over the ramparts of a more regular fortress, that had been recently built, directly opposite, within the new lines of the Canadas. Manual was not a man to neglect the observances of military etiquette; and understanding that the neighboring fort was commanded by a field- officer, he did not fail to wait on that gentleman, in proper time, with a view to cultivate the sort of acquaintance that their mutual situations would render not only agreeable, but highly convenient. The American martinet, in ascertaining the rank of the other, had not deemed it at all necessary to ask his name; but when the red-faced, comical- looking officer with one leg, who met him, was introduced as Major Borroughcliffe, he had not the least difficulty in recalling to recollection his quondam acquaintance of St. Ruth. The intercourse between these worthies was renewed with remarkable gusto, and at length arrived to so regular a pass that a log cabin was erected on one of the islands in the river, as a sort of neutral territory, where their feastings and revels might be held without any scandal to the discipline of their respective garrisons. Here the qualities of many a saddle of savory venison were discussed, together with those of sundry pleasant fowls, as well as of divers strange beasts that inhabit those western wilds, while, at the same time, the secret places of the broad river were vexed, that nothing might be wanting that could contribute to the pleasures of their banquets. A most equitable levy was regularly made on their respective pockets, to sustain the foreign expenses of this amicable warfare; and a suitable division of labor was also imposed on the two commandants, in order to procure such articles of comfort as were only to be obtained from those portions of the globe where the art of man had made a nearer approach to the bounties of nature than in the vicinity of their fortifications. All liquids in which malt formed an ingredient, as well as the deep-colored wines of Oporto, were suffered to enter the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and were made to find their way, under the superintendence of Borroughcliffe, to their destined goal; but Manual was solely entrusted with the more important duty of providing the generous liquor of Madeira, without any other restriction on his judgment than an occasional injunction from his coadjutor that it should not fail to be the product of the “south side”!
It was not unusual for the young officers of the two garrisons to allude to the battle in which Major Borroughcliffe had lost his limb–the English ensign invariably whispering to the American, on such occasions, that it occurred during the late contest, in a desperate affair on the north eastern coast of their island, in which the major commanded, in behalf of his country,–with great credit and signal success; and for which service he obtained his present rank “without purchase!” A sort of national courtesy: prevented the two veterans, for by this time both had earned that honorable title, from participating at all in these delicate allusions; though whenever, by any accident, they occurred near the termination of the revels, Borroughcliffe would so far betray his consciousness of what was passing as to favor his American friend with a leer of singular significance, which generally produced in the other that sort of dull recollection which all actors and painters endeavor to represent by scratching the head. In this manner year after year rolled by, the most perfect harmony existing between the two posts, notwithstanding the angry passions that disturbed their respective countries, when an end was suddenly put to the intercourse by the unfortunate death of Manual. This rigid observer of discipline never trusted his person on the neutral island without being accompanied by a party of his warriors, who were posted as a regular picket, sustaining a suitable line of sentries; a practice which he also recommended to his friend, as being highly conducive to discipline, as well as a salutary caution against a surprise on the part of either garrison. The major, however, dispensed with the formality in his own behalf, but was sufficiently good-natured to wink at the want of confidence it betrayed in his boon companion. On one unhappy occasion, when the discussions oL a new importation had made a heavy inroad on the morning, Manual left the hut to make his way towards his picket, in such a state of utter mental aberration as to forget the countersign when challenged by a sentinel, when, unhappily, he met his death by a shot from a soldier whom he drilled to such an exquisite state of insensibility that the man cared but little whether he killed friend or enemy, so long as he kept within military usage, and the hallowed limits established by the articles of war. He lived long enough, however, to commend the fellow for the deed, and died while delivering an eulogium to Borroughcliffe on the high state of perfection to which he had brought his command.
About a year before this melancholy event, a quarter-cask of wine had been duly ordered from the south side of the island of Madeira, which was, at the death of Manual, toiling its weary way up the rapids of the Mississippi and the Ohio; having been made to enter by the port of New Orleans, with the intention of keeping it as long as possible under a genial sun! The untimely fate of his friend imposed on Borroughcliffe the necessity of attending to this precious relic of their mutual tastes; and he procured a leave of absence from his superior, with the laudable desire to proceed down the streams and superintend its farther advance in person. The result of his zeal was a high fever, that set in the day after he reached his treasure: and as the doctor and the major espoused different theories, in treating a disorder so dangerous in that climate–the one advising abstemiousness, and the other administering repeated draughts of the cordial that had drawn him so far from home– the disease was left to act its pleasure. Borroughcliffe died in three days; and was carried back and interred by the side of his friend, in the very hut which had so often resounded with their humors and festivities. We have been thus particular in relating the sequel of the lives of these rival chieftains, because, from their want of connection with any kind heart of the other sex, no widows and orphans were left to lament their several ends; and furthermore, as they were both mortal, and might be expected to die at a suitable period, and yet did not terminate their career until each had attained the mature age of threescore, the reader can find no just grounds of dissatisfaction at being allowed this deep glance into the womb of fate.
The chaplain abandoned the seas in time to retrieve his character, a circumstance which gave no little satisfaction to Katherine, who occasionally annoyed her worthy husband on the subject of the informality of their marriage.
Griffith and his mourning bride conveyed the body of Colonel Howard in safety to one of the principal towns in Holland, where it was respectfully and sorrowfully interred; after which the young man removed to Paris, with a view of erasing the sad images which the hurried and melancholy events of the few preceding days had left on the mind of his lovely companion. From this place Cecilia held communion, by letter, with her friend Alice Dunscombe; and such suitable provision was made in the affairs of her late uncle as the times would permit. Afterwards, when Griffith obtained the command which had been offered him before sailing on the cruise in the North Sea, they returned together to America. The young man continued a sailor until the close of the war, when he entirely withdrew from the ocean, and devoted the remainder of his life to the conjoint duties of a husband and a good citizen.
As it was easy to reclaim the estates of Colonel Howard, which, in fact, had been abandoned more from pride than necessity, and which had never been confiscated, their joint inheritances made the young couple extremely affluent; and we shall here take occasion to say that Griffith remembered his promise to the dying master, and saw such a provision made for the childless mother as her situation and his character required.
It might have been some twelve years after the short cruise, which it has been our task to record in these volumes, that Griffith, who was running his eyes carelessly over a file of newspapers, was observed by his wife to drop the bundle from before his face, and pass his hand slowly across his brow, like a man who had been suddenly struck with renewed impressions of some former event, or who was endeavoring to recall to his mind images that had long since faded.
“See you anything in that paper to disturb you, Griffith?” said the still lovely Cecilia. “I hope that now we have our confederate government the States will soon recover from their losses–but it is one of those plans to create a new navy that has met your eye! Ah! truant! you sigh to become a wanderer again, and pine after your beloved ocean!”
“I have ceased sighing and pining since you have begun to smile,” he returned with a vacant manner, and without removing his hand from his brow.
“Is not the new order of things, then, likely to succeed? Does the Congress enter into contention with the President?”
“The wisdom and name of Washington will smooth the way for the experiment, until time shall mature the system. Cecilia, do you remember the man who accompanied Manual and myself to St. Ruth, the night we became your uncle’s prisoners, and who afterwards led the party which liberated us, and rescued Barnstable?”
“Surely I do; he was the pilot of your ship, it was then said; and I remember the shrewd soldier we entertained even suspected that he was one greater than he seemed.”
“The soldier surmised the truth; but you saw him not on that fearful night, when he carried us through the shoals! and you could not witness the calm courage with which he guided the ship into those very channels again, while the confusion of battle was among us!”
“I heard the dreadful din! And I can easily imagine the horrid scene,” returned his wife, her recollections chasing the color from her cheeks even at that distance of time; “but what of him? is his name mentioned in those papers? Ah! they are English prints! you called his name Gray, If I remember?”
“That is the name he bore with us! He was a man who had formed romantic notions of glory, and wished everything concealed in which he acted a part that he thought would not contribute to his renown.”
“Can there have been any connection between him and Alice Dunscombe?” said Cecilia, dropping her work in her lap, in a thoughtful manner. “She met him alone, at her own urgent request, the night Katherine and myself saw you in your confinement, and even then my cousin whispered that they were acquainted! The letter I received yesterday from Alice was sealed with black, and I was pained with the melancholy, though gentle manner, in which she wrote of passing from this world into another!”
Griffith glanced his eye at his wife with a look of sudden Intelligence, and then answered, like one who began to see with the advantages of a clearer atmosphere:
“Cecilia, your conjecture is surely true! Fifty things rushed to my mind at that one surmise–his acquaintance with that particular spot–his early life–his expedition–his knowledge of the abbey, all confirm it! He, altogether, was indeed a man of marked character!”
“Why has he not been among us,” asked Cecilia; “he appeared devoted to our cause?”
“His devotion to America proceeded from desire of distinction, his ruling passion, and perhaps a little also from resentment at some injustice which he claimed to have suffered from his own countrymen. He was a man, and not therefore without foibles–among which may have been reckoned the estimation of his own acts but they were most daring, and deserving of praise! neither did he at all merit the obloquy that he received from his enemies. His love of liberty may be more questionable; for if he commenced his deeds in the cause of these free States, they terminated in the service of a despot! He is now dead–but had he lived in times and under circumstances when his consummate knowledge of his profession, his cool, deliberate, and even desperate courage, could have been exercised in a regular and well-supported navy, and had the habits of his youth better qualified him to have borne, meekly, the honors he acquired in his age, he would have left behind him no name in its lists that would have descended to the latest posterity of his adopted countrymen with greater renown!”
“Why, Griffith,” exclaimed Cecilia, in a little surprise, “you are zealous in his cause! Who was he?”
“A man who held a promise of secrecy while living, which is not at all released by his death. It is enough to know that he was greatly instrumental in procuring our sudden union, and that our happiness might have been wrecked in the voyage of life had we not met the unknown Pilot of the German Ocean.”
Perceiving her husband to rise, and carefully collect the papers in a bundle, before he left the room, Cecilia made no further remark at the time, nor was the subject ever revived between them.