The pirates' league, or, The sea-gull

Front matter

General Publishing Company, 280, J5traildl

S, DAVIS 8S CO.,

Manufacturers,

Chapter I

Among the wilds of America, before the forming hand of civilization had. constructed to a great degree its works of art and fashioned the boundless wilderness into fields of horticultural beauty — before the wigwam fire had ceased its curling flight among the mighty branches of the spreading forest, and rude barbarianism had concealed itself, in the dying embers of the past, that we would call the attention of our readers.

A few settlers, who had left their homeborn soil, encountered the buffetings of the pitiless storm upon the trackless waste of the ocean, had by their united efforts succeeded in felling the sturdy oaks, and clearing about themselves a spot of ground, sufficient to raise their sustenance, in this northern portion of the wester! world.

The spring had in its progress approached. Loosening the frost-bound earth from ths strong fetters, that in the period of thre« months, by alternate thaws and. repeated storms, winter had forged with its icy hand;

and their almost unyielding durability, began, as the frigid air of heaven diffused itself over the earth in milder and warmer breezes, to flow in liquid torrents down from the mountain heights. This reaction of nature threw life and gaiety on all animate and inanimate objects ; and the fields and meadows, divested of their white attire, although barren and frost-bitten, presented a more cheering aspect. Yet, as is often the case, the freezing blasts of the chilly north would frequently return, in the struggling of the milder season to gain the ascendancy over the frigidity of the other, accompanied with its train or attachments, clouds which would intercept the rays of the sun, causing the gloomy effects which followed to be doubly insupportable, and more dreary than before.

After some weeks the contest seemed decided, and more settled weather became the natural consequence, which brought forth the inhabitants of the country upon their husbandry business for the season, and others of the villagers who could well afford the time for sport and pleasure.

It was now at the opening of the month of April, and the vegetable kingdom was issuing out, quickened by the warm showers, from their beds of concealment to beautify and gladden the earth. The merry songsters of the morn and evening had returned from their southern flight, and were fast peopling the groves and filling the air and ear with their notes of rejoicing.

It was an evening in the year 17—, when the day preceding had been remarkably fine, and the warm influence of the sun, which had. set, still lingered in the twilight air, refreshing, the senses with an ethereal mildness. Tn the- State of Vermont, upon a road which was in constant use at that time, but now out of service, leading to what has become the metropolis of the State, might, on this evening mentioned, be seen, wending their way at a moderate pace, two travellers, in the persons of a femaleand a lad about fourteen years old. They evidently had seen better days than their impoverished condition now discovered them, for their garments were, though somewhat worn, of rich materials. The lady was extremely good-looking, and by the resemblance the lad bore her, indicated him to be her son. Shewas about twenty-five years of age, though perhaps, but for the sorrowful cast upon her countenance, shewouldhave appeared younger. There was something in the appearance of both that at once excited pity and curiosity. They were foreigners no doubt, and perhaps been driven by the reverses of fortune to seek their bread in a distant land. The grief -worn, cheek of the young woman gave evidence of this, that many troubles had afflicted her.

As they journeyed along, they frequently stopped to rest themselves, and the frequency of this increased as the day declined and their strength overcome with fatigue by the unevenness of the soil.

They had now injfcheir progress veacned a high hill, over whida the road, in its course, wended in an angular direction to avoid a too-

8 THE PIKATES' LEAGUE; OR,

Bteep ascent. The sun was now hidden front view, which had for the last hour been disappeariog rapidly, as they drew nearer to the foet of the hill. Except a faint beam of its light, shot over the brow of the eminence through the opening in the trees made by the road, was visible in the distance. There the travellers stopped and seated themselves upon a fallen oak by the road side, and the mother, who could no longer restrain her strong emotions, buried her face in her hands and wept as she gazed upon her little son, who watched her with the sympathy of one who could feel for another's distress, though he knew not the cause.

After some moments, in which he had painfully listened to his mother's sobs, in the innocence of his young soul said —

"Mother, do not weep, for those tears of thine are as bitter to me as if they fell from my own eyes — can I not relieve you, mother, in some way ? "

"No — no — my son," she replied, raising her head, and wiping her swollen eyes, that looked as if they had wept tears of blood. " Poor boy, how little he thinks he is the innocent cause of my troubles," thought she, as she took hold of his arm *nd drew him nearer to her. " Are you not tired, my dear, this day's walk has been a long one, and I fear too much for thee?"

" No, mother, I think not ; I don't care for myself, but rather that you should be weary."

The mother embraced her boy with a countenance beaming with gratification that showed how dearly she loved him. " Y©aa can do rut

THE SEA-GT7LL. 7

more for thy mother, Henry, than to always care for and love her. May heaven reward you for your fidelity, and in its own good time remove the heavy clouds that hang about us."

"I pray that it may," ejaculated the son with delight, that he saw hope beaming in his mother's features, upon which he had gazed with despondency. " We may well be elated with the thought, that the brightest day often succeeds a lowering morning. I am sure heaven cannot be unmindful of us."

At these words their attention was turned to the hill, up which they must ascend before they could reach a lodging forthe night, and as the evening wa3 fast advancing, they hurried their steps that they might not be benighted, and they soon gained the summit.

" If we have not misjudged our progress, my son," said the mother, " we shall reach the inn before dark."

"Indeed, we shall, for I can discern it yonder in the opening, not half a-mile distant."

"This is truly charming," she exclaimed* " for I think I could not endure a great while longer this uneven road." Here a thought crossed her mind which caused her countenance to assume a graver aspect, and taking hei purse from her pocket examined its contents. " I fear, Henry, we shall not be able to procure a lodging for this small sum for us both," she added.

" We shall have to beg then the charity of the landlord," returned the son.

" I iesr & wHl be a hard one," answered th« mother, who had asked too many times without success for a lodging or a bit of bread, to be consoled by such words.

" Indeed, mother, have hope he may be a feeling landlord, who can sympathise with the •distressed ; they cannot all be so unfeeling as you say. Come,vthere is no alternative."

Chapter II

Carlton de Blake had emigrated from England at an early period, and settled in the State of Vermont— one of the first in the town »f Montpelier. He was one of those men whom {brtune had blest with an abundance, with regard to physical comforts, and at the time we speak, although at that early age of the eountry, reputed wealthy. Ill luck often, placed him in circumstances where, being innocent, he suffered for the guilty, and but for the abundance of his pecuniary means, would have been an object of pity indeed. In his intercourse witl^his fellow-men he endeavoured to be strictly honest, but suffered much from t^e ungratefulness of others, by his promptness and exactness of dealing, who perhaps possessing the very quality he did not, ascribed to^Him the meagre appellation of Miser ■de Blake This was exceedingly galling to hia patience, but he knew a retaliation would only serve to increase this antipathy, and so contented himself with his title, without ever giving cause for a reverse opinion ; but adhering strictly to the Scriptural injunction, "let not thy left hand know what thy right hand

THE SfiA-GOXB, 9

doeth," his charitable deeds were his own secrets.

De Blake had a brother some two years younger than himself, to whom was shown, by the parents, much partiality. This unjust proceeding in family government is often the most fatal in consequence ; their safety and security is thus placed at hazard, and the utmost disorder and dire animosity takes the place of filial and parental fondness.

Such was the case in the family of de Blake,, who lived in a town of Staffordshire, England. Carlton, the present hero of the tale, had never, in the confidence of his father, obtained that credit which he had granted his brother. Indeed the little discrepancies of his youth were not so readily overlooked, but were judged and watched with a suspicious eye.

Thus had the lads grown up to manhood, and the feelings that pervaded «3ch may easily be conjectured.

It was a fine afternoon in she month of September, when Carlton, by himself, had donned his hunting accoutrements and sauntered forth upon an excursion. The sun was shining in slanting rays over the landscape, producing in the feelings a sort of: restless melancholy or satiety. ^e walked along leisurely, at times stopping to satisfy himself as to a rustling he fancied he heard, then quickening his pace to pass a clump of trees, to catch sight of a hawk which he fancied he saw glide behind them. He was so often disappointed that at last he sat down upon a fallen rock to rest himself.

" The old man's grounds are getting rather lean of game," he said, "and like my patience, Ss rather the worse for scouring. As for enduring this continual toil any longer, I will not — but where shall I go ? If I leave before the old man dies, not a cent will be mine — but I am not sure should I remain — perhaps something may turn up in my favour. I may, it is possible, win the old man's favour, for I cannot conceive, and I mean to tell him so, why he should harbour such feelings towards me. If I fail in this, why so be it ; Ellen, I know, loves me— how do I know that ? — I don't — "

Here the sound of his dog Tracer in pursuit of game aroused him. The noise was at a distance, but he could easily distinguish that it was approaching, and he sprang into a clump of bushes, which afforded him a place of concealment, and awaited the issue.

As the noise of the pursuit grew louder and more distinct, he drew himself up into attitude of firing, in order, when the game passed a little opening in the trees to which he bent his gaze, to lose no time in preparation.

At length he could hear the quick breathing of the pursued, and the quick and eager pantings of the ferocious dog A dark shadow passed the opening— he fired — a horrible scream rent the air, and thrilled through his very soul. He stood for a moment aghast — cold drops of perspiratiois stood upon ids brow ; then, throwing bis hands to heaven in agony, exclaimed :

" Good God ! what have I done ? " and rushed to the spot, where his fears were confirmed of the mischief he had done, by beholding his brother stretched upon the ground apparently dead. " Killed my brother ! " exclaimed the heart- stricken Carlton, his own fereath almost leaving him as he looked upon the pale features of his dying brother, murdered, it seemed, by his own hand.

"Oh! Father of mercies, why hast Thou afflicted me thus ? Oh ! this is unsupportable — brother, dear brother, you are not dead — can't be — he does not move, his pulse haa stopped — my peace is blasted for ever — a murderer— how can I be myself again — how meet my father — how hope for Ellen — "

"Ellen!" exclaimed William, recovering, "cruel, cruel brother ! "

" What ! " exclaimed Carlton, astonished beyond all possible endurance. The truth of his critical situation rushed in a moment upon his soul in its fearful and stern reality, froir which there was no possibility of escaping, " Brother, do you think me — "

"Cruel, cruel—"

" Have I deserved this— why, wherefore ? "

" Do you not love Ellen Stanwood ? Ah ! revengeful — cruel — " He could not finish what he would say, but fell back to the ground, from which he had partially risen, senseless.

Carlton knew that expostulation would be useless, for all the assurances he might urge in favour of his innocence would be in vain. He knew his conduct towards William had not been what it should have been. This waa a refy unfavourable symptom ; and that ha would be considered, even by his father, a wilful murderer; that he had committed the crime in order that he might revenge himself on his brother, now that he had ascertained Carlton loved her, would be the natural ■conjecture drawn from these several conclusions.

Carlton saw it in this light, and becoming terrified in view of it, did the worst thing possible, which served to confirm his supposed :guilty motives — he ran away, and was never afterwards heard of in England.

William de Blake was conveyed by his friends, who sought him, to his chamber, and the best faculty employed to aid his recovery. 'The extent of his injury could not be determined, and the physicians who attended him could not well hasten his convalescence, consequently many months Dassed before he was able to leave his bed.

" Ellen Stanwood was the daughter of George Stanwood, the overseer of the estate, and chief counsellor of Baron de Blake, the father of William and Carlton. She was equal in intellectual attainments, if not in birth, to the Boron's sons. Her knowledge of history was immense. She could relate with wonderful precision many, if not all, the incidents recorded in the history of her own country and others.

Her classical knowledge was of no inferior •order ; for she could read Homer and Virgil in their original, with the exactness of one long studied in the dead languages. To these accomplishments was added beauty of features »nd symmetry of form, combined with a most winning and fascinating deportment. In per* son she was of the medium stature, and at this time about seventeen years of age. Mild in disposition, and gentle in conduct, she was beloved by all who knew her. She bestowed her smiles on all without reserve, or apparent preference for the attention of any.

Nor, indeed, as yet, had any dared to approach beyond the common civilities of good breeding. It was not long before she wag assailed by the declaration of William de Blake that he loved her.

So sudden, and as she thought, out of character, was this, that she dared not credit the young man with truth. What love could the son of a baron bear to a young girl of her standing — a menial in his father's service ? It could not be but that his motives were ij-eacherous, and he had evil designs at heart.

"Miss Stanwood, hope, does not doubt my veracity in making this declaration," said William, after a pause, in which he had noted, in the features of Ellen, wonder and astonishment* blended with confusion and struggling emotions^ whether to doubt or believe what she had heard.

" Indeed, sir, I feel much perplexed how to receive this testimony of what I should have deemed impossible to have occurred. Coming ¥ from such a source of high rank, a menial like * myself can in no wise judge of a superior."

' ' Madam, you have truly reasons to doubt. But I had hoped — " he added, but he had stopped, for what he would advance he knew would be chiding what was most commendable in her nature.

" 1 understand what you would say," replied Ellen, "but I cannot but think you could make a choice among these of your own rank more suitable of filling the high station you would offer me."

"I have not the least fear," replied William, 'but that the accomplished Miss Stanwood is fitted to occupy any station, however exalted. Indeed," he added, "you now underrate yourself. The son of the Baron de Blak© cannot hope to obtain one more worthy. "

"Do not flatter me, my lord, for, unused as I am, I may take more readily what you have expressed to be the idle words of a fickle tongue."

"Do not mock me, madam ; my sincerity must command better respect. If in me you can find a suitor and a lover, in the true object of his heart, I would be most happy in offering to you my hand."

" To be candid with you, sir, as I should have been at first, I would say in answer, I have no power to form such an alliance as you

!>ropose to me. If my will were my own, I at east might give encouragement by promising to consider the matter."

This reply at once put to flight all his hopes —he felt so abashed at this that he confusedly left her presence.

Carlton had never made any protestations of his love to the fair Ellen, but deferred it to a more remote period, as his diffidence prompted him most strongly ; he chose rather to live im 'hope, upon her sweet smiles ; for he had not the least idea his brother or any one else had

THE SEA-GTTLL. If

sued to her, in which case he probably would have been impelled to quicken his tardy progress in her affections.

The baron, believing his son guilty of the act of wilful murder, strengthened by his former prejudices against him, could, notwithstanding, now that he was placed beyond a hope of recovery, feel that his treatment towards him had been unjust ; and endeavoured at times, notwithstanding that his own conscience should suffer entirely for the whole cause of the bloody deed, smother the conviction that, had management in his family government been what it should have been, such a thing would not have occurred.

But as often as he attempted to banish this idea from his mind, so often by his reasoning co the contrary, would conviction strike more fixedly in his heart that his son had been ruined by his own imprudence. Nor did the recovery of William serve to restore what hia fears for him had created, which apparently seemed the chief object of his sorrow — a decline of health. But the repentant father was filled with remorse, and being somewhat advanced i* life, soon sank under this heavy burden.

William, now the only heir to his father'i property, took upon himself the arduous duty of managing the affairs of the estate ; and lived in all the extravagance of his luxury.

He once more went to the fair Ellen for her hand ; but it was done with far different motives than his former solicitation. He felt in his exalted station far above her, and wished to chastise her for her blunt refusal when he wooed her in the honesty and simplicity of his eoul. Eank and station had made a proud and arbitrary man of him, and he looked down upon his inferiors with disdain. Having the means, he denied himself nothing, and spared not his shining gold for the gratification of his sensual desires. In such a state of human depravity he approached the lovely Miss Stan wood, and with his deceptive arts robbed her of all that made life happy — her virtue.

In due time William was reduced to abject poverty, and to escape from contumely was obliged to fly from his country.

Ellen, who had been secreted for several months by William, with the anxious expectancy of his marriage vows, not receiving that visit from him that she was wont, was soon turned with her helpless babe, by her unfeeling landlady, upon the cold charities of the world.

With a heart dropping under her heavy affliction she wended her way towards London, where she was employed in a family who, pitying her unfortunate condition, rendered her all the assistance in their power.

But, as is often the case when misery has wrapped up the soul and divested us of every comfort that fortune attracted, and in ita weight tends to sink us lower and lower, Ellen had been scarcely a week in her new station, and began to throw off her anxiety, when an unexpected incident occurred, which again deprived her of a shelter and a home.

Several articles of value had been missed* Had through the treachery of one of the servants they were demanded of the unfortunate ;. she protested her innocence, but in vain — the theft was charged her— and she had no evidence of her innocence. In this dilemma shewas taken before the justice and examined — several spoons were found secreted in the foldsof her dress. She was tried and convicted -y but was finally pardoned through the intervention of Mr Fitzgerald, who laid before the court her unfortunate condition, and the suffering that her helpless infant would endure should the law have its course, and at the same time manifested his willingness to pay any bond that the court might specify, as aremuneration for her liberty. This was granted, and Miss Stanwood liberated. She afterward* expressing her desire to leave the country, a passage was obtained by the above-named gentleman and, together with a company of emigrants, sailed for the new world.

Mr Fitzgerald was the man in whose family Miss Stanwood had lived, and from whom the articles were stolen ; and had he been home at the time of the theft, would have sifted the matter without legal measures, as he afterwards did, though some months elapsed before he made the discovery, and found the servant, who had charged the unfortunate Ellen with the crime, guilty. He afterwards suffered aa the law directed, with death.

He confessed before execution that he had placed the articles in the lady's dress.

18 Tllfc PIRATES' LEAGUE; OE,

CHAPTER ITT.

We now pass over the space of fourteen cold years which brings lis to the period when our tale opens.

The inn to which our travellers were directed was not a public one as they supposed, but was the private dwelling of Carlton de Blake

As it is still twilight, a description of this beautiful place may with accuracy be given, and perhaps there exists a peculiarity about it at this hour, which it does not bear at any other, for now that the light of the blazing sun has receded from the landscape, which appears dark by its deep hue of green, the white walls of the mansion and its gravelled walks appear more distinctly. The building faces the road, and is situated on the right towards the east, the land about it is even, inclining gradually to the west, until the inclination is lost in the level surface of a meadow spreading itself to a considerable distance, until arrested by the rebounding forest.

All around appears to be arranged in the most perfect order. Here the road for several hundred yards to the north and south assumes a very different appearance, in one respect for beauty, a bank wall is extended along to a considerable distance; the water courses are turned with greate' care, and the ditches cleared from every obstacle that might obstruct the passage of water, in which case it would injuie the road ; the car-ruts have been cautiously filled, and missiles and stones which are often thrown up by the frost and placed

THE SEA-GT7LL. 19

there by mischievous schoolboys have been diligently thrown and piled in neat heaps by the roadside. Trees of a young growth are extended along the wall, and clusters appear in various parts of the farm, especially near the house, forming in their appearance groves.

As our travellers approached nearer, they did but stop to admire, notwithstanding their forlorn condition, and indulge a thought, which this pleasing rurality occasioned to their minds.

The milk-maid, as she strolled from her dairy room leisurely to the farm-yard, with her clean, white milk-pail swung upon her arms, had an irresistible charm in it which our travellers could but admire, not so much the home-spun verse.

The termination of each cl„ase, of which, ■with a peculiar quirk of the organ of speech, to bring a word, which according to the rules or versification should not have been there, in rhythm with a preceding one ; as the sweet, clear melody of her voice which echoed in the distant forest loud and long.

Then there was the loud and boisterous vociferations of the farm boy to the cows as he was driving them from the pasture to undergo their nightly operation under the fair hands of the pretty milk-maid; the bleating of the f)air of sheep and goats as they 3ought a Shelter under the covert of some projecting rock or tree for the night. The nightingale in his lofty soarings in the dark air, the whippoorwill's plaintive notes, and the evening songs of tbe robin redbreast, served to form a strange medley of the most beautiful in nature's collection.

Soon the cows were enclosed in the farm-yard, and Zedy, the boy, began conversing in familiar tones with Dorothy the milk-maid, by whose side he had come and sat.

Now Zedy, or Zed, or Zedediah was a youth of about seventeen years of age ; he was tall, and raw-faced, and of a very docile nature. He was, strictly speaking, a regular greenhorn, and ill-luck seemed to delight to play her ditties on him to the no small uncomfort of Zed.

"Dorothy," he said, after some moments' pause.

" Well, Zed," answered the maid.

"Why, if ye only knew, Dorothy — I fear," stammered Zed, "the bears will eat yon — oh, oh, oh."

" What do you mean ? " exclaimed the surprised milk-maid. " The bears eat me, what do you mean ? "

"Yes, when ye are going home to your mother's to-night."

"Ah! that's what you are up to, is it, Zed," answered the girl, with an understanding look, " want to spark me home, do ye ? "

"Ye — ye — yes, Dorothy, if ye can have no objections, I can protect ye, you know," and suiting the action to the word, he was going to throw his arms around her, when the witty maid turned her hand slightly, and spouted a well directed jet of milk into the physiognomy of Zed.

"Go away," she exclaimed. " I'll lam ye, you flax head ? "

By this unexpected encounter lie was half blinded, and in the circumvolutions of his bony arms to brush the liquid from his eyes, the goad which he still retained in his hand, the use of which he had made in driving the cows from the pasture, coming in contact with old brindle's hide, gave her such a fright that in starting suddenly she kicked the milk and maid over upon the ground. Dorothy uttered a pitiful scream and called on Zed to help her, but Zed, who had now sufficiently recovered his sight, stood gazing at our travellers, whom be discovered in a state of almost bewilderment.

Not heeding the cries of poor Dorothy, after some minutes' gazing he advanced towards them, and in the true spirit of his breeding, bluntly asked them, "Who are ye ?"

"We are poor travellers who desire a shelter for the night," replied the woman. *' Who resides here ? "

"My master," replied Zed, very honestly.

" And who is your master ? "

" A man I guess that wouldn't refuse ye a night's lodging, if ye had plenty of money to pay for it," said Zed, eyeing them more mechanically, as if he had seen no one before in all his life.

The woman at last, in hatred of his many questions, demanded of him with earnestness to intercede for them to his master, and Zed slowly withdrew into the house to inquire if they could be accommodated.

22 THE PIBATES' LEAGUE; OS,

Chapter IV

While this odd scene was being enacted out ©f doors, quite a different one was going on within. Farmer de Blake was seated quietly in his own room when his neighbour Sinford. was ushered in. There was something very peculiar and abrupt in his manner.

Sinford was a man of about forty years of age, of medium size, and gentlemanly bearing. He was not a farmer, but a merchant of the village of Montpelier. He had come from England, and had been in the country some fourteen or fifteen years. He, also, was well to live in the world, and bad, during his residence in the village, purchased a portion of land of Esquire de Blake, and built himself an elegant mansion thereon, some half a mile from that of the Esquire's.