The Sea-Witch - Maturin Murray Ballou (books to read fiction .TXT) 📗

saw now—alas! too late—their fatal error; but the boy was gone, no tidings could be had of him, and they believed him dead. The honest tar, whose yarn the attentive reader will remember, as given on the deck of the “Sea Witch,” spoke truly of his commander. He had, years before, strayed alongside a vessel, as has been related, from whence he hardly knew himself, or was afraid to say. Hunger and neglect even then had greatly changed him, and he shipped, as has been related. The fall he got at sea threw a cloud over his brain as to past recollections up to that time, and here if the wish ever possessed him as to returning to his early home, he knew naught of it.

When he heard the voice of Leonard Hust in the court, it seemed to strike upon some string in memory’s harp, which vibrated to old familiar recollections, and the more he heard him speak the more the sensation came over him which led to the demonstrations which we have already witnessed. And yet he could not recall aught that would serve him as a clue—the early injury to his brain seemed to have obliterated the connecting links that memory could not supply. The reason, probably, why the servant’s voice and not the brother’s thus recalled him was, that the former had been kind, and his voice had ever sounded like music in the neglected boy’s ears, but the brother’s voice had never had that charm or happy association connected with it. As to little cousin Helen,—as she was then called,—it was not strange that Miss Huntington, after years of estrangement in India, meeting him under such circumstances, himself so changed, should not have recalled enough of the past to recognize him; and yet we have seen that at times she dwelt upon the tender accents of his voice like sleeping memories, herself quite ignorant of the cause of this peculiar influence.

She was now with her mother on shore at the mission house, in an agony of suspense as to the result of the trial which was taking place. She feared the worst, for Captain Bramble had taken measures to instruct those about her to their effect that the prisoner would be found guilty, and either strung cup by the neck at once, or be sent home to England for the same purpose. Mrs. Huntington felt sad and borne down by the position of affairs—for although she did not understand her daughter’s sentiments towards Captain Ratlin, yet she recognized the fact of her and her child’s indebtedness to him, and that he had evinced the characteristics of a gentleman.

“Mother, if they find Captain Ratlin guilty, what can they, what will they do with him?” asked Helen Huntington anxiously of her mother, on the day of the trial.

“Why, my dear, it is terrible to think of, but the penalty of such a crime as is charged to him, is death; but we must hope for the best, and—why Helen, how pale you look!”

“It was only a passing spasm, mother. I am—I believe I am already better,” said the daughter, in an agony of suffering that she dared not evince.

“Come, Helen, lean on me and go to your bed for a while; these sudden changes and so much exposure has rendered you weak. Come, my dear, come.”

And the poor girl, all trembling and pale, suffered her mother to lead her to her chamber, where a gentle anodyne soothed her nerves, and she soon fell to sleep. Had her mother not been little better than blind, she would have easily read her daughter’s heart, and have seen that she loved with all her woman’s soul the man who was that day on trial for his life. What mattered it to her that he was nameless, a wanderer, a slaver? She loved him, and that covered each and all faults, however heinous in the sight of the law. She felt that it was not the outward associations which made a man. She had looked beneath the surface of his soul, and had seen the pure crystal depth of his manly heart—frank, open, and as truthful as day itself. To her he was noble, chivalric and true, and if all the world had blamed him, if all had called him guilty, her bosom would have been open to receive him!

Could he have realized this as he lay in chains on board his elder brother’s ship—could he have known that he was really loved by that fair, sweet and gentle creature, how it would have lightened the weight of the iron bands he bore—how cheered his drooping spirits.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

THE BROTHERS.

 

Now commenced a struggle in the bosom of Robert Bramble. It was some hours before he could recover from the first blush of amazement at the strange discovery he had made. Not to have had something of a brother’s feelings come over him at such a time, he must have been less than human; and it was between the promptings of blood, of early recollections of childhood, before he grew to that age when his disposition, ruined by indulgence, had led him so bitterly to oppress and injure his brother as to drive him from the home of their youth, and the recollection of those little more matured years, when jealousy at his superior aptness, strength, and success with “cousin Helen,” had made him hate him.

It was impossible for the man to forget the bitterness of the child; besides, had not the same spirit of rivalry ripened, until he found his brother in manhood still his successful rival with Helen Huntington? The reader will remember that they had all three been children together, and that the last time Charles had looked back at his home, as he started away from it, his eye detected the little form of Helen, where she stood gazing after him.

If there had been any better promptings in the heart of Robert Bramble, they would have turned the balance in favor of his brother, and he would have befriended him; but this he did not do. He walked his room, bitterly musing upon the singular position of affairs, while he knew very well that Charles lay in chains on board his ship in the harbor. Then he recalled the memory of his parents, as connected with this state of affairs. The father was dead, the mother, a weak-minded woman, was also bowed by ill-health; indeed, their early lives had few happy associations. Robert himself had embittered all its relations.

It was nearly midnight, and the moon had sunk behind the hill that sheltered the harbor on the north, leaving the dark water of the bay in deep shadow. At long gunshot from the shore lay the ship in which Charles Bramble was confined. All was still as death, save the pace of the sentinel in the ship’s waist, and a ripple now and then of tide-way against the ship’s cable. An observant eye, from the leeward side of the ship, might have seen a dark form creep out from one of the quarter ports, and gradually make its way along the moulding of the water-lines toward the larboard bow ports, one of which it stealthily entered.

Entering with this figure, we shall soon find it to be Leonard Hust, who now, watching an opportunity, slipped into the apartment where the young commander had been confined since he left the factory of Don Leonardo. No sooner was the door closed quietly, so as to avoid the observation of the watch between decks, than the new comer opened a secret lantern and discovered himself to the prisoner, at the same time cautioning him to silence.

“Who are you?” coolly asked Charles Bramble, for thus we must know him in future.

“Leonard Hust,” was the reply; “your friend, as I will soon prove.”

“But it is only a few hours since you were giving witness against me.”

“That is true; but bless you, sir, there has been a great change in matters since that.”

“So I thought, by the movements I observed, though I did not understand them.”

“Hist! speak low, sir,” said the other, “and while I am talking to you, just let me, at the same time, be filing off these steel ornaments upon your wrists!”

“File them off? Well, then, you must, indeed, be a friend,” said the prisoner.

“Leave me to prove that. Sit here, so the light will fall on them, with your back this way, that will keep the light from showing between decks. So, that is it.”

“But what was it made your voice and the sound of your name affect me so this morning? I could not divest myself of the feeling that, I had heard it somewhere before.”

“Heard it? bless you, sir, I rather think you have heard it before,” said the fellow, as he worked industriously with his file upon the handcuffs.

“Well, where, and when; and under what circumstances?” asked the prisoner, curiously.

“That is just what I am going to tell you, sir; and you see, master Charles—”

“Master Charles,—Charles,—why do you call me that name?”

“Why, you see, that is your name, to be sure. Charles Bramble, and you are Captain Robert Bramble’s brother, and—take care, hold still, or the file will cut you.”

“How,—do not trifle with me,—what is this which you are telling me?”

“Indeed, sir,—indeed, it is all true,” said the other, half frightened at the effect his words had produced upon the prisoner, who now stepped away from him and stood aloof, withdrawing his wrists from the operation which Leonard Hust was performing.

“Come hither, Leonard Hust, if that be your name,” he said; “sit here and tell me what this business is that you refer to. No blind hints, sir, but speak out plainly, and like a man.”

Thus interrogated, the man did as he was directed, and went on to tell the commander of the “Sea Witch” his story, up to the time when he was lost to his parents and friends. How he had never been kindly treated by his elder brother, who, indeed, drove him from home by his incessant oppression. He referred to that last gallant act he had performed, by saving his mother’s favorite dog, and how little cousin Helen (she is the same as Miss Huntington) had seen it all, and had thanked him over and over again for it, and a thousand other reminiscences, thread by thread, and link by link, filling up the space from earliest childhood to the hour when he had left his home at Bramble Park.

As he went on relating these things, in the same old natural voice that he had poured into the same ears from their infancy, until nearly ten years had passed, a long-closed vein of memory seemed gradually to open in the prisoner’s brain; he covered his face with his hands, and for a few moments seemed lost in connecting the various threads of the past, until gradually it all came plainly and clearly back to him. His memory had again by these hints become completely restored, he was himself again!

“Leonard, Leonard, I see all, remember all,” he said, while a tear, a man’s tear, wet for a single moment his bronzed cheek.

“I am rejoiced, sir, to hear it, I am sure,” said the other.

“But, Leonard, where is my brother, and why is it necessary to remove these badges of shame by stealth? Tell me, where is Robert?”

“Alas, sir, you must remember that he never held a brother’s regard for you; it was that very thing which drove you from us when you were a wee bit of a boy.”

“True, true; but he must see the hand of Providence in all this, and I know he will give me his hand, and we will forgive each other