Chapter XXII: "samson Agonistes" (3)

"Yes. Men," said Kirke, wheeling his horse and facing the iron veterans who had come to love him as few soldiers were ever loved by their men, "there is that rebel brigade on the top of that hill,--what's left of them. You know what they are. We have tested their mettle in a dozen fights. Now we have to wipe them out. It is probable that a large part of us will be wiped out in the process, but that's no matter. Dismount and tie the horses. We want every man in action. Leave your sabres. We'll depend upon carbines and revolvers. We'll go up and pull that flag off that hill. The trees will cover us till we get near the crest. Halt there, form up, and make a rush for it. Save your fire until you get to the top."

The cheer that came in response was more like the growl of an angry animal. The men instantly followed the example of their leader and dismounted. Their horses were tied to the trees and saplings in the valley, and the men, circling the hill in a long line with Kirke in the centre and well in the lead, followed by Broadhead a short distance after, began to move up the slope through the trees.

It was still as death at the top. There was no sign of life there save the flag which rippled and fluttered gayly in the breeze. It was a bright, sunny morning. The cool touch of spring in the air made life sweet to all that possessed it. In the grim silence the men clambered up the steep slope and slowly neared the crest. Suddenly there was a puff of white smoke from the little log breastwork on the top. A moment later the crack of a rifle rolled down the hill, and the man nearest Kirke fell on the slope, rolled against a tree, and lay still. He had rashly exposed himself, and he was gone. They were good shots, those Johnnies.

The men as they advanced sought instinctively such cover as they could, skipping from tree to tree. Every once in a while, however, one of them would expose himself in the open, and the exposure was always followed by a shot which more than once caught its mark. The crest was bare of trees, and the command arrived at the edge of the clearing with some loss, and cautiously concentrated, hesitating a moment before breaking out into the open and rushing the hill.

"Now, men," said Kirke, "you see what we have to do. The quicker we do it the better for us. Give me that flag," he added, turning to the color-bearer. "Gibson,"--to his bugler,--"stand by to sound the charge when I give the signal."

There was nothing dramatic about Kirke, it was all a matter of pure business with him; but the men thought they had never seen so splendid a figure as he when he tore off his cap, jerked his revolver from his belt, seized the flag with his left hand, and stepped out in the open.

He nodded his head to the alert Gibson, and the shrill notes of the charge echoed through the hills. Ere it had died away the men heard their colonel say, "Come on!"

It was always Kirke's way to say "Come" rather than "Go."

With a mighty roar they sprang from the shelter of the trees and dashed for the ridge. A terrific volley greeted them. With a crash like thunder, which echoed and re-echoed through the hills, the Confederate fire was poured upon them. Had it not been that most of the men, firing down the hill, overshot the mark, the "Lambs" would have been blown into eternity. As it was, many of them fell, but the rest plunged dauntlessly into the smoke through which the red of the flag could dimly be discerned waving in the advance.

Again the rifles of the brigade cracked out, and this time sent their messengers of death crashing full into the face of Kirke's men. This time the carnage was terrible; there were many dead, but the blood of the living was up: they would have charged a moving express train. They tore recklessly through the smoke toward the top, following the flag.

Before the rifles could be reloaded the "Lambs" were at the breastwork, Kirke still in the lead. To leap the log walls was the work of a moment. The brigade was ready for them. The carbines cracked again and again; there was a grim, ghastly, awful struggle on the top of that hill around the foot of the Confederate flag-staff--then silence.

When the fighting stopped the few "Lambs" who were left leaned panting on their carbines, blood dripping from the gunstocks, surveying the tangled mass of dead and dying. The brigade had been annihilated.

Broadhead sprang to the staff to haul down the flag. He was nonplussed to find that there were no halliards, and that some one had evidently climbed a tree, which had been denuded of its limbs for the purpose, and nailed the flag there. He turned to look for Kirke, when, in the smoke that yet covered the field, he distinctly saw the man lift his revolver, pull its trigger, and blow out his brains.

In the confusion after the little battle, fortunately, no one noticed the action but himself. He was utterly at a loss to fathom the meaning of the suicide, but he quickly resolved that no one should know of it.

They buried the brigade with the dead "Lambs" around the foot of the staff, and Broadhead left the flag flying above them. He might have chopped down the tree and taken it, but it seemed fitting that the men who had defended it should have that last honor. The wind would whip it out in a day or two at best. Taking their wounded, they retraced their steps as they could, thinking that Kirke had been killed in the action, an opinion which Broadhead's report sedulously fostered. Broadhead carefully preserved Kirke's revolver, which he took from his dead hand, the letter, which he found in his breast pocket, his watch and sword, and a lock of his black curly hair.

II.--IN THE ROOM IN THE NIGHT

When the war was over, and they were mustered out soon afterwards, Broadhead hastened to Philadelphia and drove immediately to Kirke's house. It was empty. There was no sign of life about it. As he stopped on the doorstep in the late afternoon, wondering vaguely what had happened and what he should do next, the door of the adjoining house opened and a woman came out, of whom he made inquiry for Mrs. Kirke.

"Mrs. Kirke!" said the woman, in surprise. "And who may you be, may I ask?"

"I am--I was--Colonel Kirke's dearest friend."

"Is Colonel Kirke dead?"

"Yes."

"And a good thing, too," said the woman.

"Madam," cried Broadhead, indignantly, "do you realize what you say?"

"Certainly I do. Don't you know about Mrs. Kirke?"

"No. Is she dead?"

"It would be better if she were," she answered. "She ran away two months ago with a man named Allen, and after she left she sent me a letter enclosing the key of her house and requesting that I give it to Colonel Kirke when he returned from the war. So long as he is gone, I guess you might as well have it. Wait; I'll fetch it."

The woman turned back into the house as she spoke. This, thought Broadhead, sadly, was the explanation of it all. That letter. He had never examined it. He had held it sacred, but now he felt that he must open it. It might give him some clew as to the whereabouts of the woman. Yet he hesitated.

When the woman gave him the key he entered the lonely house. He went upstairs and sat down in Kirke's study, and there, overcoming his hesitation, he read the letter. It was the letter of a weak, hysterical woman, reproaching her husband for his lack of love, his seeming neglect, for her loneliness, and ended by saying that she had gone off with a man who loved her, and that he should never see her again. Kirke's endorsement was brief and as terse as the man's character.

"I have been to blame," he had written. "I did love you. I do. God only knows how much. I hope you may be happy. We are about to attack a strong position. I feel sure that after it is over I shall trouble you no more. You can marry the man--damn him!--and be happy."

How characteristic that was, thought Jack Broadhead, as he read,--that last touch! He cursed the man yet spared the woman. For a long time Broadhead sat there in that house, thinking, thinking, thinking. He wondered if he were the only mourner for poor Kirke. The twilight and then the darkness came stealing over the town, and still he sat there. By and by he heard a step--a hesitant, faltering step--in the hallway. He remembered now that he had left the street door open. He sat still and listened. The step mounted the stairs. It came along the short hall and stopped at the entrance of the library. He sat by the open window. The wandering figure was that of a woman. She saw the soldier silhouetted in the darkness against the light from the street lamp outside.

"Robert! Robert!" she cried. "You have come back! Thank God!"

Broadhead rose to his feet.

"No," he said, quietly, "it is not Colonel Kirke."

"Mr. Broadhead!" exclaimed the woman.

"Yes, Mrs.--Mrs.--er--Allen, is it not?"

"No, no!" she shrieked, shrinking back. "My--my husband?"

"Do you mean Colonel Kirke?"

"Yes. I have no other."

"And Allen?"

"He has cast me off, turned me away."

"Haven't you heard?"

"I have heard nothing. I have been blind--in hell--since----"

"Yes, I know."

"But Robert?"

"He is dead."

The woman sank into a chair, shuddering.

"When? How? Did he get my letter?"

"Yes. He was killed at the capture of a little hill in North Carolina on the day he received your letter. Here it is."

"Did he say anything before----"

"There is a message written in it."

"Give it me."

Striking a light at the gas-bracket, Broadhead handed her the letter. She read it through dry-eyed while he watched her. She had been a pretty, sweet, dainty, attractive-looking little woman, now she was a haggard, broken wreck.

"And he was killed by the enemy?" she asked at last.

"Madam," said Broadhead, sternly, "you shall hear the truth. He shot himself on the top of the hill the day of the battle with this revolver," laying the weapon on the table. "Here is his sword and his watch and a lock of his hair. I suppose you don't care for them."

"I care for everything that belonged to him more than Heaven itself."

"You are free now," said Broadhead; "you can marry your--your--friend."

"Never! He has driven me away, cast me off, and I hate him! I hated him from the very moment--I shall be free, anyway. He said nothing before he died?"

"Nothing."

"And this is all you can tell me?"

"All."

"Will you leave me now?"

"What? Alone in this empty house?"

"It's my house, isn't it? I am still Mrs. Kirke, am I not?"

"Yes, of course, but--I----"

"Will you go, please? You have discharged your errand. You have told me the dreadful truth. For God's sake, leave me!"

"May I not do something----"

"Nothing,--nothing. You may come back to-morrow morning and advise what to do. I am alone now, you see."

Broadhead stood uncertainly before her.

"Go, go!" she pleaded. "Don't you see that I wish to be alone for a little? You have been very good to me. I thank you."

She hesitatingly put out her hand to him.

"Won't you shake hands with me?" she pleaded. "I did very wrong. I fell very low. But I am very sorry."

Upon an impulse for which he rejoiced ever after, Broadhead clasped the thin, tiny hand in his own, held it a moment, bent low over it, and, with old-fashioned gallantry, kissed it,--that soiled, wasted hand!

"I forgive you," he said, and the voice of the dead seemed to speak to the woman through his lips.

He turned and left her alone,--alone in the darkness, alone with her memories, alone with her sorrow, alone with her repentance, alone with the weapon.

She lifted the heavy revolver with trembling hand. There was a single cartridge left in the chamber.

The next morning, in great anxiety, Broadhead came back to the house. He found the woman sitting quite white and still where he had left her, and the revolver was empty!

THE CAPTAIN OF H. B. M. SHIP DIAMOND ROCK

THE TALE OF A STRANGE SHIP OFF MARTINIQUE

"Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I."

SCOTT

I.--THE CONDITION

"I am a passed midshipman now, Dorothy dear, and I'm certain to get my swab----"

"Swab, Mr. Maurice?" interrupted the young lady, archly.

"Yes, my epaulet--a lieutenant's commission--this year; you know what I mean, Miss Venour. And, oh, I do love you so! With my pay and what father will allow me and what your grandfather will allow you we can get along,--that is, if you love me well enough to try it."

There was a long pause. The young lady looked down at her feet, while the arm of the young man stole around her waist. Tired at last of waiting, though the position was a charming one, the young officer recalled her to herself by a slight squeeze, which was answered by a delightful little shriek from the girl.

"What was it you were saying?" she asked, hurriedly drawing away.

"I was telling you that I loved you," he answered with dignity, releasing her, "and asking you to marry me when I got to be a lieutenant, if you love me. You do, don't you, Dorothy?" abandoning his stateliness and bending toward her entreatingly.

"Ye--es, I--I--I think so, Mr. Maurice--James, then," she continued, in compliance with a deprecatory wave of his hand, "or Jim--or--" she hesitated a moment and added the word "dear."

His face brightened. He sprang toward her in boyish delight; but she checked his rush with a pretty little motion, and continued, calmly,--

"You are a very nice boy indeed, but you are so young, you know----"

"Young!" he replied; "I am nineteen, and you are only seventeen yourself! You are scarcely old enough to be married."

"I am," she said, promptly; "I am old enough for anything."

"Old enough for me, Dot? Say, 'Yes!' You know I'm sure to come out a lieutenant from this cruise, and then you will be a year older, too, you know, and--oh, Dot, do take me! You'd better take me now, you know; you might not have a chance next year. I've been wounded once, and something tells me----"

He paused gloomily.

"Oh, Jim," she cried, "don't speak of it! But grandfather will never consent. You know perfectly well a lieutenant's pay does not amount to anything, and----"

"You are right there, Dot," broke in a deep voice, as a stout, red-faced old man in the uniform of a captain in the navy came strolling out upon the beach from behind a clump of rocks.

"Captain Venour!" exclaimed the young officer, starting back in dismay.

"Oh, grandfather, you have been listening! How shocking!" cried Dorothy.

"Listening!" snorted the old man, contemptuously, with a nice mixture of metaphors; "why, this young calf here has been roaring out his love like the bulls of Bashan."

"Sir--sir!" exclaimed Maurice, flushing painfully, "I love your granddaughter----"

"Stale news, lad. Everybody within half a mile of this knows it now," said the old man. "Why, the smack of your----"

"Grandfather!" interrupted Dorothy, promptly, emulating her lover's blush.

"And I want to marry her, sir, with your permission."

"Marry her!" shouted Captain Venour. "On the pay of a midshipman! You young----"

"I'm a passed midshipman now, sir," interrupted Maurice, "and I'm sure to be a lieutenant when I come back from this cruise to the West Indies,--and she says she loves me and that she will wait; didn't you, Dot?"

"Miss Venour, sir!" roared the old man, "in my presence! Did you make any foolish promises to this young man, Dorothy?"

"I--ye--es, sir; I said I--I'd--I'd wait," answered Dorothy, reluctantly.

"Yes? Well, you will; you'll wait until he gets to be a captain. A man isn't fit to be married until he has had command of a ship and three or four hundred men; he doesn't know how to manage a wife. Look at me! I married when I was a midshipman and--and--I know."

"But, sir, it will be fifteen years before I am a captain! Why, you weren't a captain yourself until you were forty, and I can never hope to equal your record."

"No more you won't," said the old man, somewhat mollified by the adroit compliment.

"Oh, grandfather, not forty years! We couldn't wait until then! Why, I'm only seventeen now, sir, and James--Mr. Maurice--is only nineteen. Please, sir----"

Dorothy dropped on her knees on the sand before him, and at a motion of her hand Maurice did likewise.

"Get up, get up, you young fools!" said the old man; "suppose some one should see us!"

"No, sir," said Dorothy, grasping the skirts of his coat tightly; "not until you modify your terms. You know he loves me, and--and--and I am so sorry for him," she added, ingenuously.

"Well," said the captain, to whom Dorothy was as the apple of his eye, "I'll knock off a little. He can marry you when he has command of a ship. If he is lucky, he might be made a lieutenant-commandant in five years. Now, up with you!"

The young people struggled to their feet and looked sadly at each other.

"Five years!" ejaculated the midshipman, mournfully.

"It's better than twenty, Jim," said Dorothy, cheerfully. "Can't you wait?"

"Wait! I will wait forever, Dot, I love you so----"

"Waugh!" roared the old captain, "are you going on with these proceedings before my very eyes, at my age? It's indecent! There," he added, turning his back to them and walking away a few steps, at the same time pulling an old silver watch from his pocket, "I'll give you just five minutes; and take my advice, youngster, when you cut out a prize under convoy of a ship-of-the-line, don't make so much noise about it."

"I'll get a command inside of a year, Dot darling, or die in trying," whispered the young man.

"I would rather have you alive without a command than dead with one, Jim," remarked Dorothy through her tears as the old captain came back toward them.

"Now, I take it, you have just about time to make the harbor around yonder point where your ship is waiting for you," he said. "You've said your good-bys, and you've got your answer, so you'd better up anchor and make a run for it. I'll take care Dot keeps her word, and mind you keep yours! Good-by and good luck to you. If you are half as impudent in the face of the enemy as you have been to me here, you will get the ship in a week."

The young midshipman clasped the proffered hand of the retired old sea-captain, wrung it warmly, looked longingly at Dorothy dissolved in tears on her grandfather's shoulder, and then turned and made his way slowly down the beach toward the town and the harbor.

II.--THE UNDERTAKING

H. B. M.'s ship-of-the-line _Centaur_, 74, Captain Murray Maxwell, flying the broad pennant of Commodore Samuel Hood, was cruising to and fro off the island of Martinique, in front of Fort Royal Bay, to blockade the port and capture in- and out-bound vessels. One afternoon in the month of January, 1804, the commodore and the captain were standing at the break of the poop discussing a problem. They had just been in chase of a fast-sailing French frigate, which had escaped them by boldly running under the lee of Diamond Rock, whither, through ignorance of the channel and want of pilots, they dared not follow. The thing had happened half a dozen times in the past month, and the commodore naturally was exasperated.

The rock itself was a huge mass of naked stone, about a mile in circumference at the base, and towering out of the water to a height of some six hundred feet, in shape resembling a rounded haystack. On the southward side the rock, sloping precipitously down to the water's edge, was absolutely unscalable. The east and southwestern sides were so broken as to be equally inaccessible, and the breakers, smashing with tremendous force on the western end, made landing difficult or impossible. The officer of the watch that afternoon, who happened to be our quondam midshipman, James Wilkes Maurice, who had, by a series of fortunate accidents and some gallantry as well, been appointed a lieutenant a month since, could not help overhearing the conversation.

"It's too bad!" said the commodore. "The scoundrels get under the lee of that rock every time and make a harbor, and I don't see how we can prevent it unless we get a battery of heavy guns up on the rock; but there appears to be no way up."

"If you please, sir," said Maurice, turning about and saluting in great trepidation, for the junior lieutenant was a very small man indeed beside the commodore, "there is a way up, sir. When I was a reefer on the _Cerberus_ she was cruising around here, and one calm day a party of us received permission to go ashore on that pile of stone, and we managed to reach the top."

"Oho!" exclaimed the commodore, his eyes brightening. "And could you take a gun up?"

"Not the way we went, sir."

"Well, then, I am afraid your experience will not be of service."

"But, sir, if I might make so bold, sir----" continued the junior lieutenant, hesitatingly.

"Heave ahead! Out with it!" said the commodore.

"In calm weather, sir, there is no surf on that point, and it would be quite possible, I should think, to take the _Centaur_ in close to the shore, and then with a hawser and a traveller from the main-topmast head we might make shift to land some guns."

"Capital!" exclaimed the commodore. "What do you think of it, Maxwell?"

"It is for you to say, sir," replied the cautious captain. "The weather is fine enough to-day, and we might try it. It will be risking His Majesty's ship, though, sir," he remarked, gravely.

"Fetch me a glass," said Sir Samuel, turning to the midshipman of the watch. When it was brought to him he took a long look at the base of the cliff, observing a little stretch of sandy beach, upon which the breakers usually tumbled with tremendous fury. This morning, fortunately, it seemed calm.

"I will answer, sir, that there is deep water under the cliff," ventured Maurice at this moment.

"Will you answer for the flag-ship, too, sir?" asked the commodore, keenly.

"No, sir, I----"

"I shall have to answer for that myself," he continued. "We'll try it, Captain Maxwell; the wind's off shore, the sea smooth as a mill-pond. We'll anchor the _Centaur_ close under the lee of the rock off the west side there. Call away a boat. Let Mr. Maurice go in charge, and I myself will accompany him. We'll examine into the situation."

The investigation under the commodore proved the practicability of the bold scheme proposed by the young lieutenant. The _Centaur_ was anchored close under the lee of the cliff, and with incredible labor five of her big guns--three long twenty-four-pounders and two eighteen-pounders--were landed on the rock. One end of a heavy cable was fastened to the main-topmast and the other was secured to the top of the cliff. Up this by means of a traveller the heavy guns were dragged. One of the twenty-four-pounders had been fitted upon a circular carriage commanding the landing-place, another was mounted on the northeast side, and the third upon a platform about midway up the rock. The two eighteen-pounders were planted on the very summit and commanded an immense distance. When the commodore had decided to undertake the manning of the rock, Maurice had sought an interview with him and explained his reason for aspiring to the command of the landing party, which would, in the natural course of events, be given to a much older man.

"So your marriage with little Dot Venour depends on your commanding something with a pennant fluttering above, does it? Lord!" roared the commodore, bursting into deep sea laughter, "and you want to hoist your juvenile broad pennant on this rock, and then you'll want to claim all sorts of privileges, you young dog! I didn't think that baby was old enough to be married yet, nor you either. Get along with you! I don't know what my old friend Venour would say if I'd be a party to this mad purpose of yours by giving you the command of this expedition. There, lad, go to your duty; I'll think about it," added the commodore, exploding with mirth again.

He thought so well about it, however, that when all preparations had been made, to the very great disgust of the older officers of the ship, he detailed Maurice to the command of the party. On account of his lack of rank, his junior officers were all midshipmen. He and the four midshipmen and one hundred and twenty men and boys, including some of the best seamen, composed the landing party, with four months' supply of provisions and ammunition. As the _Centaur_ got under way and beat up toward Fort Royal, Maurice tore open an envelope the commodore had handed him when he bade him good-by. It was a commission and orders to command H. B. M.'s sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_, five guns and one hundred and twenty men! He almost fell over the precipice in surprise and delight at the situation.

The rock was entirely barren except on the north-west side, where a little depression existed in which there was a group of stunted wild fig-trees. There were two or three caves half-way up to the summit, dry and airy, the floors covered with fine sand, of which the officers chose the smallest, the men another, and all hands made themselves very much at home. The crew was divided into watches, a station bill made out, lookouts appointed, and the regular routine of a man-of-war begun.

They had not long to wait to demonstrate their usefulness. Two days after the departure of the _Centaur_ the lookout on the top of the rock saw a frigate under a tremendous press of canvas endeavoring to run between the rock and the shore and make for Fort Royal. Far away, and coming along like a gigantic white cloud, was a ship which was presently made out to be the _Centaur_. A drummer-boy, not the least important member of the crew of the _Diamond Rock_, beat to quarters, the men sprang to their stations, and the huge guns were loaded and carefully trained on the unsuspicious French ship. She came booming along at a terrific pace. Maurice, with a coolness remarkable in one so young, waited until she was well in range, and then, taking careful aim, with the long twenty-four half-way up the summit, ignited the priming.

With a terrific roar the ball sped straight to its mark. They were too far away to hear the crash as it struck the fore-topmast, but the fall of the mast and the confusion on the ship were plainly visible. With hearty British cheers the rest of the battery let drive at the oncoming frigate. One of the eighteens carried away the jib-stay and the jib-halliards. There was great consternation on the French frigate. No one had dreamed of an enemy in that quarter, and before they could make up their minds what to do a second broadside was poured upon them from the rock. Clearly the pass was untenable. The captain of the frigate was a good seaman, and he promptly turned about and made for the sea again. He hoped to escape the _Centaur_ by his speed, but the old ship-of-the-line had the wind and heels of him now and she came rushing down upon the frigate. After a long pursuit and a gallant endeavor the French captain found himself under the _Centaur's_ guns. There was nothing to do but to surrender. Throwing a prize crew on board, the _Centaur_ ran off toward the rock. When near enough to be seen a string of flags fluttered out from the mizzen-topgallant yard-arm, and the delighted youngsters on the rock read the following:

"Well done, Captain Maurice!"

The men on the _Centaur_ might have almost heard the cheers with which the men and boys on the rock greeted the signal. It had leaked out somehow that the young lieutenant whom they all loved, and to whose forethought the manning of the rock was due, was in some way fighting for his sweetheart as well as his country, and, above all men, the sailor loves a lover.

Scarcely a week passed without a brush with the enemy, and some months elapsed before the French learned that the passage which they had used with so much skill and success was finally closed to them, and, save at night, no vessels attempted the channel--not many then. There had been plenty of excitement during this period, but now all was changed. The _Centaur_ and other ships sailed away, and the crew on the rock had little or no communication with the shore for over a year longer. Their provisions and water were replenished every quarter by a frigate, which was despatched for the purpose. Otherwise they seemed to have been forgotten. The novelty of the situation had worn off, and the monotony had begun to pall upon them dreadfully. Maurice and his young officers were at their wit's end to find employment for the men and keep them in good spirits. The discipline was, of course, sternly maintained, but, sailor-like, the men tired of the shore and pined for the unsteady deck of a ship; in addition, Maurice longed for Dorothy. He had not been able to send a word, nor had he received a line from that young lady. He was too proud to write to the commodore by one of the provisioning ships, and ask for relief.

One evening about the middle of May, 1805, when the provision-ship was about due on its quarterly trip, the watchers on the rock saw a great fleet of sixteen sail-of-the-line, seven frigates, three corvettes, and a number of smaller vessels, all flying the French flag, running through the channel toward Fort Royal. With joy in their hearts at the opportunity for action, the five guns on the stony sloop-of-war promptly opened fire upon the great French and Spanish fleet of M. de Villeneuve, who was prosecuting his attempt to befool Nelson by giving him that mad chase across the Atlantic and back which ended at Trafalgar.

The French ships returned the fire as they came within range of the rock, and their tremendous broadsides kicked up a deal of noise and cut up the face of the rock somewhat, but did no other damage. The crew of the rock made excellent practice, and, considering their force, rendered the passage interesting to the French. The ennui of the intervening months was forgotten. Villeneuve was furious. Never before had one lieutenant, four midshipmen, and one hundred-odd men (some of them had died during the sojourn) engaged successfully a splendid fleet of line-of-battle-ships. Toward evening one belated Spanish ship unsuspiciously attempted to anchor near the rock, but she was soon driven off with much loss. The elated Englishmen saw the fleet anchor at Fort Royal, now called, in deference to the republican form of government of France, Fort de France. Villeneuve, who was furiously angry, learned from the French at Fort de France that the formidable barrier was held by a handful of men, so he determined to capture the rock, and for that purpose, on the 29th of May, he detached a squadron consisting of the _Pluton_ and _Berwick_, 74's, the frigate _Sirene_, 36, the _Argus_, 16, an armed schooner, and eleven gun-boats under the command of Commodore Cosmao, of the _Pluton_, with four hundred troops-of-the-line.

The rock had been blockaded ever since the arrival of the fleet at Martinique. When Maurice saw the ships bearing down upon him at break of day on the 31st of June, 1805, he knew what to expect. Owing to the fact that the supply-ship, which was due, had not arrived,--because of the blockade, doubtless, and the presence of the great French fleet,--Maurice unfortunately found himself with but a scanty supply of powder and shot. He determined to abandon two of the lower guns and concentrate his force about the eighteen-pounders and the twenty-four-pounder half-way up. Spiking the lower guns, thus destroying the battery, he withdrew to the summit of his command. For two days the ships were anchored near by, the mild weather permitting them to come close in. During this period the French poured an unremitting hail of shot upon the stone batteries of the rocky vessel. Maurice and his men answered the fire slowly but with great precision from their three remaining guns. Three of the gun-boats and two other small boats were sunk, and the larger ships were much cut up. The young captain might have protracted his defence indefinitely had not his powder entirely failed him. Observing the English fire to slacken, the French finally landed their troops on the beach at the foot of the rock. The last charge of the twenty-four hurled its iron missive of death among the Frenchmen huddled on the beach. Then, like a flock of goats, they sprang at the cliffs and clambered up the steep sides of the rock, which the fire of the ships cleared with showers of grape-shot. A feeble musketry-fire, for the small cartridges had been torn to contribute powder for the great guns, met them, but they came boldly on. As they swarmed over the rock Maurice and some of the older men struck at the advancing French with their swords. The two men nearest him were killed and he himself was badly wounded. There was nothing left but surrender. A French officer hauled down the English flag. The young captain had lost his first command. H. B. M.'s sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_ had passed into the hands of Admiral Villeneuve.

When the young captain recovered his senses in the cabin of the _Bucentaur_, the flag-ship of the French admiral, bound for Europe again, he did not know whether or not he had won Dorothy Venour.

III.--THE REWARD

Early in November, a week or so after the great battle of Trafalgar, which the young captain witnessed from the deck of the French ship, from which in the confusion he escaped to the _Victory_, where he did good service until the close of the action, he was landed at Portsmouth once more. In his pocket he bore two documents, one dated a year and a half back, and the other but yesterday. Led by an instinct which he could not explain, instead of going up to Captain Venour's house on the hill, he made his way through the town and along the beach toward that sheltered little cove from which he had taken his departure two years before. As he turned the point of rocks he saw a lonesome little figure seated on the sand, resting her chin in her hand and looking mournfully out over the sea. It was Dorothy. He stole up behind her, caught her under the arms, lifted her to her feet, and kissed her before she could utter a scream. When she recovered, however, she made up for her startled silence.

"Oh, Jim dear!" she cried, precipitating herself into his arms with a shriek of delight, "you look like a real man now!"

"I am a man, Dot darling," he replied, his eyes brightening as he saw her radiant face peeping out from the brown curls near his shoulder.

"Well, sir," exclaimed the deep voice of Captain Venour, coming down the beach,--singular how he always happened to be around at inopportune moments,--"you may be a man, but have you a command?"

"Oh, grandfather, he has command of me," cried Dorothy, archly, breaking away from her lover. "Won't I do?"

The old captain whistled.

"I've had command of a ship-of-the-line and I've tried to command one woman, but give me the ship-of-the-line," he answered, reflectively. "No, you won't do."

"Captain Venour," remarked the young man, gravely, "I have had a command, sir, and in accordance with your agreement I have come to claim your granddaughter."

"What was your command, my lad?" asked the captain, facetiously, "a dinghy or a jolly-boat?"

"Neither, sir."

"A cutter, then?"

"No, sir."

"A brig or a sloop-of-war?"

"No, sir."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the captain; "you don't mean to say you have been in charge of a frigate or a ship-of-the-line, a boy like you?"

"No, sir, not quite," said the young man.

"Well, what did you command? Did it have two masts?"

"It didn't have any masts, sir."

"No masts!"

"No, sir; it was a rock."

"Good Lord!" ejaculated the old man, sitting down feebly and staring. "A rock? What do you mean? Are you trifling with me? That is no way to gain the lass."

"Well, sir," answered Maurice, gravely, "here are my orders authorizing me to command His Majesty's sloop-of-war _Diamond Rock_, five guns and one hundred and twenty men. It's a great stone hill off Martinique. I commanded it for one year and six months, at the end of which we beat off M. de Villeneuve's great fleet, and were only captured when our powder gave out, by a heavy squadron which bombarded us for two days. I was wounded----"

"Oh, Jim, wounded!" cried Dorothy, with a shriek of alarm, rushing toward him, while the dazed old man made no movement to prevent her.

"It is nothing, Dot darling," said the young fellow, manfully, but not making the slightest effort to avoid the caress. "I was wounded and taken on board the French flag-ship _Bucentaur_, from which I escaped to the _Victory_ at Trafalgar, where Nelson beat the French fleet."

"Hey? What?" cried the old man. "Beat the French? But, of course, we always do that."

"I saw him killed, sir," added young Maurice.

"Who killed?" exclaimed Captain Venour, in astonishment.

"Lord Nelson, sir; right in the height of the battle."

"Good God!" cried Captain Venour. "Nelson gone? He was a reefer under me on the _Hinchinbrook_. It can't be possible!"

"Yes, sir, it is," replied the young captain.

There was a long pause.

"What next, sir?" asked Captain Venour.

"Well, sir, I swung myself on board the _Victory_ in the action. Captain Hardy recognized me and gave me a gun division whose lieutenant had been killed, and--and that's all. No, sir; here's a paper from Lord Collingwood, who succeeded to the command after Lord Nelson died, recommending me to be appointed post-captain, and--and--that's all, sir. May I have Dorothy now, sir?"

"You may," answered the captain, feebly, utterly overcome by the astonishing recital. "Any man who has commanded a six-million-ton rock and fought at Trafalgar can have anything he wants,--if Dorothy is willing."

Dorothy signified unmistakably that she was willing.

"Poor Nelson!" continued the old captain. He rose slowly to his feet and turned away again, saying,--

"I will turn my back once more, young people, and mind, do it softly!"

"WHEN LOVELY WOMAN STOOPS TO FOLLY"

THE FATE OF A COQUETTE OF 1815

"When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?"

GOLDSMITH

Marian Fletcher was certainly beautiful enough to excuse the jealousy of any man who loved her,--which, by the way, most men who knew her did! She was sufficiently a woman also to realize her own beauty--indeed, did ever daughter of Eve possess a charm of which she lacked knowledge? Even the most absolute _ingenue_ is conscious that she is an _ingenue_, and Marian Fletcher was by no means that. And her wit and humor were not the least of her charms. She was gayety personified, light-hearted, healthy and red-cheeked, and joyous--quite a new woman for 1815, in fact; and that, too, in an artificial age in which languor and pallor, megrims and vapors were the fashion, "Nice customs curt'sy to"--beautiful women, and Marian had a fashion of her own. One word described the sum of her qualities,--fascination!

Even her best friends were forced to admit that she was a bit of a coquette, however. Indeed, if the truth were told, from the crown of her black hair, which brought to mind the usual simile of the raven's wing, down to her beautiful little feet, she was all of a coquette. She loved liberty, she loved love, she loved lovers. In addition to all of these things it might be said that, in her secret heart, she loved Robert Gardner. Whether she loved him more than she did the other three was a question which she had not settled to her own satisfaction, and about which Gardner himself was fearfully undecided.

She had said--but then she made many perjuries before the laughing Jove. She had permitted him to enjoy the fleeting and most unsatisfying pleasure of pressing his lips upon her brow. He believed that this was a step farther--he would have resented furiously any suggestion to the contrary--than any other suitor had gone. It was. She had allowed him to persuade her into a sort of an engagement, but the tie resulting was about as indefinite as could be imagined. With him--he was a sailor and his similes were nautical--it was a hempen cable which held him to her like a ship to a bower anchor. With her it was a daisy chain, ready to part at the first strain, and the strain was near at hand.

To celebrate the closing of the war of 1812, Colonel Fletcher, an old Revolutionary veteran and the father of the fair Marian, had assembled a house-party at his fine old place on the Hudson. He was a widower with a son and a daughter. The son had been an officer in Scott's army--a major--who had greatly distinguished himself in the Niagara campaign. Among others who had gladly accepted the veteran colonel's hospitality were two friends of young Major Fletcher, who had been college-mates with him at Harvard. One was Robert Gardner, a young lieutenant in the navy, and the other was John Mason, a young Virginian, who was a captain in the army. The young men had been guests of Colonel Fletcher before the war, and they had known Marian, whom they both loved, for several years. Their wooing, interrupted by the demands of the service, was at once renewed under the favorable circumstances of their meeting. Gardner was a gay, athletic, dashing young sailor,--blue-eyed, curly-haired, sunny in disposition; Mason, on the contrary, was tall and very slender, dignified and quiet, with a temper as dark as his complexion. One was impulsive, bold, impetuous; the other cool and determined, with an undercurrent of sleeping passion in his being; both were in the highest sense gentlemen.

The relations between the two men, at first friendly, had become markedly strained as their courtship proceeded, though no open rupture had yet occurred. Mason could not but be aware of Marian's preference for Gardner; yet, as she had not allowed the latter to announce their engagement, with dogged persistency the Virginian continued to proffer his attentions. Truth to say, these latter were not so unwelcome to the fair Marian as might be imagined. She had entered into a quasi-engagement with Gardner, yet she was by no means averse to the devotion of her melancholy yet handsome suitor, and her conduct between the two was not altogether above reproach. It was a joyous and delightful game,--also a dangerous!

On the evening in question it seemed that she had gone quite too far, and that even the hempen cable would not stand the strain which tautened it. During the day a pretty little lover's quarrel, which she had wilfully brought about to test her power, had culminated in an open rupture. Laughing at Gardner's pleas, she had devoted herself to Mason,--or had allowed Mason to devote himself to her, rather,--raising that young man to the seventh heaven of delight. She had ridden with him in the afternoon, gone to supper with him at night, and danced with him most of the evening at the party which had been arranged.

Manoeuvring her out on the porch toward the close of the evening, Gardner unwisely endeavored to take her to task. Goaded beyond his power of restraint by her flirtation, he assumed an authority over her for which he had no warrant. Where he should have pleaded and entreated, he threatened and commanded. Miss Marian snapped her fingers at him metaphorically--she was too well bred to do such a thing physically. Rendered desperate by her obduracy, his anger passed all bounds and his words followed suit. The mock quarrel on her part became a real one. She repudiated him entirely, broke her engagement flatly, declared frankly that she did not love him,--and in the act of declaration she was convinced that she did,--and with her head high in the air, a brilliant flush on her cheek, and a sparkle of defiance in her eye, left him. He leaped from the porch and disappeared under the trees; she ran right into the arms of John Mason coming out of the house to seek her.

He saw her agitation, of course, and in her anger she let slip words which gave him a perfect clew to the cause of it. Before she realized what she did, she said that which she would have given worlds to recall--afterwards; then she was too much excited and indignant to care. Gardner had insulted her. She hated him.

"I hate him, too," said Mason, bending his head, his black eyes aflame in the shadow of the porch, "and the depth of my hatred is proportioned by my love for you, Marian. Give me leave, dearest, to make your cause mine."

His voice with its soft Southern tones was very persuasive and thrilling in the moonlight; there was such passion and yet such respect and adoration in its accents. He bent before her so deferentially and so pleadingly. There was such a contrast in his gentleness to the hectoring she had just undergone, that she yielded in spite of herself. With bent head she murmured words--she hardly knew what. Faintly resisting him, he swept her to his breast and pressed a kiss, not upon her forehead, but upon her lips.

At the instant a step on the porch interrupted them. Marian, already repentant, sprang from Mason's encircling arms and turned to see Gardner coming toward them. He had wandered about the grounds miserably after they had parted and had returned to sue for pardon, but what he had just seen had changed his mind. His face was convulsed with passion. Disregarding Marian, he stepped toward Mason, his hand upraised as if he would strike him down. There was murder in his heart. The girl screamed and then turned and fled in dismay. She had broken her engagement with a man whom she now realized she loved with all her heart, and she had promised herself to a man whom she knew she did not love. She had been bitterly unjust, in her folly, to both men.

The dancing for the evening was already over. The women of the party were retiring to their rooms, and Marian, sick at heart, slipped away and sought her chamber also. Throwing herself dressed upon her bed, she thought it over. Nothing would happen until the morning, she reasoned, and then she would make a clean breast of it to her father. He would extricate her from her difficulties.

Mason on the porch was already master of himself.

"Don't strike me!" he said to Gardner, "or I shall kill you where you stand! Besides, 'tis not necessary. I understand your feelings and I intend to give you satisfaction, but the cause of our quarrel must not be known. The reputation of the woman--I intend to make my wife must not be the subject of public comment. Control yourself, sir, I beg of you," he added, smiling triumphantly, as the other stamped his foot. "Let us repair to the house. The ladies will have retired, and we can easily manufacture sufficient public cause for a quarrel. I will take it upon myself. Come no nearer!" he said, thrusting his hand into the pocket of his coat as Gardner swayed toward him. "I warn you that I am armed. On my word, I will shoot you like a mad dog! I will submit to nothing from you. I am giving you a chance for your life and affording you every satisfaction as it is."

Gardner controlled himself with a mighty effort.

"You are right," he gasped; "'tis not through fear that I do not strike you, but, as you say, Miss Fletcher's name must not become the subject of gossip. You shall never marry her! I intend to kill you!"

"That's as may be," answered the other; "let us not come to blows about it. I am not used to such. 'Tis vulgar brawling. Control yourself. I take your arm, so. Though 'tis hateful to both of us, we must appear to be on friendly terms."

Arm in arm the two rivals entered the hall and no one dreamed of the deadly hatred which sundered them. After the departure of the women Colonel Fletcher and his guests sat down to spend the rest of the evening--morning rather--between cards and the bottle. Chance, or their own contrivance, made Mason and Gardner partners. Neither of the two partook of the wine. As the heat of Gardner's passion abated, he realized the necessity for acquiring his wonted calmness. He was a famous shot with the pistol, a weapon with which Mason was not so familiar, and he believed that if he had an opportunity he could kill him. He fully intended to do so.

It was an age in which duels were common and life was cheap. Mason was to afford the provocation and give the challenge. He said he would do so and he was a man of his word. Then, as the challenged party, Gardner would have the choice of weapons. As the game proceeded, Mason, who had made several irritating remarks upon his partner's playing, finally remarked, sneeringly:

"That's a cowardly deal, Gardner. Why don't you play more boldly, sir?"

"Cowardly!" cried Gardner, rising.

"That's what I said. But then what could you expect from a man who had been an officer on the _Chesapeake_?"

The allusion, of course, was to the capture of the American frigate _Chesapeake_ by the British frigate _Shannon_, which was almost the solitary instance of English naval success in the war, but for which Gardner was in no way responsible.

"By gad, sir!" shouted Gardner, "if I play like a coward, you play like a booby! Your tactics are what one would naturally expect from a soldier whose chief exploit was in leading the flying troops from Bladensburg!" another American defeat and a disgraceful one at that, although Mason had there fought bravely until wounded.

"You shall wipe out this insult, sir!" responded Mason, rising in his turn.

"Yes," said the other, "in the only possible way."

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" interrupted some of the others.

"What's this?" exclaimed the colonel, leaving his table and approaching them. "Brawling in my house among my guests? I will have none of it!"

"Sir," cried Gardner, "you are a soldier. You are all soldiers here; I alone am a sailor. This person called me a coward, taunted me with the loss of the _Chesapeake_. By heavens, he shall apologize!"

"What?" said the colonel. "Did you make use of such intemperate language, Captain Mason?"

"I did, sir," responded the other, coolly, "and I may add that he accused me of leading the retreat at Bladensburg, which is a damnable lie, sir! I challenge him instantly!"

"He but anticipates my own desire," said Gardner. "You see, sir, the matter must be arranged. As the challenged party I name pistols, and if the time is agreeable I appoint this moment for the encounter. Major Fletcher will perhaps honor me by acting as my second."

"And Captain Lee," said Mason, turning to one of the others, "will, I am sure, act for me."

"Gentlemen," said the colonel, retiring with the seconds, "cannot this unhappy affair be arranged?"

"It is impossible, sir," replied Lee and his son, who had consulted a moment or two with their respective principals.

"There must be more behind this than appears."

"That's as may be, colonel; there is enough on the surface, anyway; the two men have deliberately insulted each other, and the duel must go on," replied Captain Lee.

"I entirely agree with Lee, father," assented Major Fletcher.