The Privateer's-Man, One hundred Years Ago

“I thank you for your kind offer, Sir,” replied I, “but I have nothing to trouble you with. I have long quitted my family, who know not whether I am alive or dead, for reasons that I need not explain. I am under an assumed name, and it is my intention to suffer under that name, that my family may not be disgraced by my ignominious death, or be aware that I have perished on the scaffold.”

“Perhaps you are right,” replied the priest; “but let us talk upon another point; have you no friends that could exert themselves in your favour so as to procure your pardon and release?”

“None,” replied I, “except those who, I am sure, are exerting themselves to the utmost of their power, and to whom no message from me is necessary.”

“Do you know nobody at court,” said the priest, “no person of rank in the government—or I may say opposed to the government—for people now-a-days are not what they seem or pretend to be?”

“I have no knowledge of any titled person,” replied I; “when I parted with one of the gentlemen whom I landed at Bordeaux, he gave me the name of a lady of quality at Paris, desiring me, if in difficulty, to apply to him through her; but that was, if in difficulty in France; of course, she could do nothing for me in this country.”

“Have you the name of the lady?”

“Yes,” replied I; “it is on the first leaf of my pocket-book. Here it is.”

The priest read the name, and then said—

“You must write immediately a few words, acquainting her with your position. I will see the letter safely delivered before the week is over.”

“What good can she possibly do me?” replied I.

“I cannot say; but this I know, that if any thing is to be done, it will be. Write immediately.”

The priest called the gaoler, and requested writing materials, which were brought, and in a few minutes I had done as he requested.

“There, Sir, I have written to please you; but I candidly state that I consider it a useless attempt.”

“Were I of your opinion, I should not have advised you to write,” replied he. “There are wheels within wheels that you have no conception of, in these troubled times. What I most fear is, that it may arrive too late.”

The priest took his leave of me, and I was left to my own thoughts. When I considered that the address of this lady had been given to me by the very man whom they were so anxious to secure as a traitor, I at once decided that no benefit could arrive from any interference on her part; and I therefore, after a quarter of an hour, dismissed the whole subject from my thoughts, and commenced my reading of the sacred writings. The following morning, when the gaoler came in, I could not help observing to him, that as I had been condemned so many days, I felt much surprise at the delay of my execution. His reply was, that he heard that others were in custody upon the same charge, and that they waited for their convictions that we might all suffer at the same time; for the order for my execution had come on the Friday last, but had been countermanded on the afternoon of the same day. Although this satisfied me that I had no hopes of escape, yet I was pleased that I had obtained more time for preparation, and I renewed my reading with ardour. Another week passed, when the gaoler, with a solemn face, and much apparent concern, came in, and informed me that the other parties arrested had been tried before the Commission, and had been condemned, and that it was expected that the execution would take place either on the morrow or the day after. The announcement did not affect me much. I had made up my mind that I should suffer, and had to a degree weaned myself from life. I considered how all hopes of my ever enjoying the delight of family and kindred ties had flown away, and I looked with disgust upon my career as a privateer’s-man—a career of recklessness and blood, so denounced by the sacred writings which I had before me. I reflected that if I were to leave the prison, I should have no other means of sustenance, and should probably return to my former life, and load my soul with a still heavier weight of crime, and, although I felt an occasional bitter pang at the idea of leaving the world so young—a world which I could not hate—still I was, after a few hours’ communing and reflection, resigned to my fate, and exclaimed with sincerity, “Thy will be done.” I think, Madam, you may have observed that, sinful as I was, my whole career proved that I was not a hardened sinner. Good was not driven entirely out of me, but was latent, notwithstanding all my excesses, and the bad company which had influenced me.

I now prayed, and prayed earnestly, and I thought that my prayers were heard. Such was my state of mind on the day before the one appointed for my execution, when the gaoler and one of the sheriff’s officers came into my cell, accompanied by the Roman Catholic priest whom I have before mentioned. I perceived by the countenance of the gaoler, who was a humane man, that he had no unpleasant news. The sheriff’s officer delivered to him an order for my liberation, and to my astonishment I was told by the gaoler that my pardon was signed, and that I was free. I was stupified with the intelligence, and I stood without making any reply. The priest waved his hand to them as a hint to leave the room, which they both did. As they left, my eyes followed them, and then I cast them down upon the Bible which lay before me on the table, and slipping down from the bench upon my knees, I covered up my face and prayed. My prayers were confused—I hardly knew what I said—but I knew that they were intended to be grateful to Heaven for my unexpected preservation from an ignominious death. After a time, I rose up, and perceived the priest, whose presence I had till then forgotten. He had been kneeling at the other side of the table praying with me, and I am sure for me—and he was rising up just after I had.

“I trust, Captain Elrington,” said he, after a pause, “that the peril you have been in will influence your future life; and that this severe trial will not be thrown away upon you.”

“I trust not, Sir,” replied I. “I feel that it has been good for me to have been afflicted. I believe that I have been indebted to your exertions for my deliverance.”

“No further than having seen your letter duly and speedily delivered. I could do no more, for with all will, I have no power; and that was little to do for one who so generously assisted our friends in their distress.”

“Am I then to believe that I am indebted to the interest of a French lady, residing at the court of Versailles, for my deliverance?”

“Even so—this may appear strange to you, Captain Elrington, but such is the case. Understand, that in these troubled times, the ruling monarch of this country cannot distinguish his friends from his enemies. He can only trust to professions, and they are not always sincere. There are many in the council at this time, who, if the Pretender, as he is called, had succeeded, would long before this have joined him, and who had wished him success, although they dared not venture to assist him. The interest of the lady in question with these people has prevailed over the true adherents of the Hanoverian king, and thus through this lady have you obtained your release. I state this to you in confidence; to publish what I have told you would be to betray your friends. Can I be of any further service to you? for you can leave your prison as soon as you please.”

“None, I thank you, good Sir,” replied I; “I have money more than sufficient to reward my gaoler, and to defray my expenses to Liverpool.”

“You have my best thanks and sincere wishes for your happiness. Then I will not intrude upon you any more, except to give you my address in case of need. You have made warm friends by your conduct, and if you ever require their assistance, it will not be withheld.”

The priest gave his address upon a piece of paper, and then came to me.

“Our creeds are not exactly the same, but you will not, my son, refuse my blessing?” said he, putting his hand upon my head.

“Oh, no,” said I, dropping on my knees, “I receive it all in thankfulness.”

“May God bless you, my son,” said he, with emotion—and he then quitted the cell.

What with the previous excitement when my liberation was announced, and the parting with the kind priest, my feelings were so powerful, that, as soon as I was alone, I gave vent to them in a flood of tears. As soon as I was more composed, I rose from the bench, put my necessaries into my valise, and summoned the gaoler, to whom I made a handsome present, thanking him for his kindness during my incarceration. I then shook hands with him, fee’d the turnkey who had attended upon me, and in a minute more I was clear of the Tower gates. How my heart heaved when I was once more in the open air.

I looked around me, and perceived that many men were busy in erecting a scaffolding. My heart sank as I beheld them, as I felt certain what it was for; but to verify my opinion, I turned to an old woman who had a sort of stall from which she dispensed mead to the populace, and inquired of her for what the scaffold was being erected.

“It’s for the men who are to be executed to-morrow for aiding the Jacobites to escape,” said she. “Won’t your worship take a glass of mead this morning?”

“I am not thirsty,” I replied, as I walked hastily away with my valise upon my shoulders.

A stranger to this part of London, I hardly knew where to direct my steps; I walked past the square before the Tower, until I came into a street called Catherine-street, where a tavern met my view, and into it I entered immediately, glad, as it were, to hide myself, for I felt as if all the world looked upon me as a person just discharged from prison. I obtained good entertainment there, and slept there that night. The next morning, the host having provided me two good horses, and a youngster to take them back, I set off for Liverpool, and after five days’ travel without adventure, I arrived at the town, and proceeded direct to the house of Mr. Trevannion, my owner. I took my valise off the boy’s horse, and having paid him for his attendance, I knocked at the door, for it was late in the evening, and dark, when I arrived. The door (for it was at his private house door, which was next to the counting-house door, that I knocked) was opened; and the woman who opened it shrieked, and let drop the candle, exclaiming, “Help, oh God—a ghost, a ghost!” for it appeared that the news had arrived at Liverpool from a messenger who had been sent express after I had been condemned, stating that there was no hope, and that I was to suffer on the Monday previous; and this was the Saturday evening on which I had arrived. Mr. Trevannion’s clerk hearing a noise in the passage, came out with another candle, and seeing me, and the woman lying on the floor in a swoon, stared, staggered to the door of the room where his master was sitting, and the door being a-jar, he fell back with great force into the room, dropping under the table between Mr. Trevannion and Captain Levee, who was sitting with him, smoking, as was very often their wont. This brought out Captain Levee with one of the table-candlesticks, who, upon seeing me, ran to me, and embracing me warmly, cried out, as the clerk made his escape—

“Here is Elrington alive and well, Sir!”

At this announcement Mr. Trevannion came out, and threw himself into my arms, saying—

“I thank God for all his mercies, but above all, that I have not been the cause of your death, my dear Elrington. Come in,” he exclaimed, in a faultering voice; and as soon as he gained his seat, he laid his head down and sobbed with excitement and joy.

I followed Captain Levee into the room, and was taking a chair, when I perceived there was another person present besides Captain Levee and Mr. Trevannion, which was the daughter of the latter; that is, I presumed as much, for I knew that he was a widower, and had one daughter living, out of a family of three children. She appeared to be about seventeen years of age, and had just come from a Protestant convent, as they called establishments where young women were educated at Chester. Mr. Trevannion was still with his face covered, and not yet recovered from his burst of feeling, when this young gentlewoman came up to me, and said—

“Captain Elrington, you have behaved nobly to my father; accept my hand and my friendship.”

I was so dazzled from coming out of the dark, and so excited from what had just passed, that I was almost bewildered; but I accepted the offered hand, and bowed over it, although I declare that at the time I could not distinguish her features, although I perceived that her person was slight and elegant. As she retreated to her seat, Mr. Trevannion, who had recovered from his emotion, said—

“I thought that, at this moment, your head was exhibited over the gates of Temple-bar. The idea, as Captain Levee will tell you, has haunted me; for I felt, and should always have felt, that I was the cause of your death. God bless you, my dear Sir, and may I have an opportunity of showing you my gratitude and regard for your noble conduct towards me, and the sacrifice which you would have made. You need not tell me, for I know too well, that you took all the onus and blame of the affair upon your own shoulders, and preferred death to impeaching me.”

“My dear Elrington,” said Captain Levee, “I told our crew, and you have proved me a true prophet, that you never would peach, but die game. We were talking of you, supposing you dead, when you came in. I must tell you, that more than once Mr. Trevannion had made up his mind to deliver himself up, and acknowledge the truth, but I prevented him, as it would have been a useless sacrifice.”

“You did; but, nevertheless, it was so heavy on my conscience, that had it not been for your perseverance, and the thoughts of leaving my poor girl here an orphan in the world, I certainly should have so done, for I felt life to be a burden.”

“I am very glad that you did not, Sir,” I replied; “my life is of little value; I have no one to support, no one to love, and no one to lament me if I fall. A shot from the enemy may soon send me out of the world, and there will only be a man the less in it, as far as people are interested about me.”

“That is not the case now, at all events,” replied Mr. Trevannion; “but pray, tell us how it is that you have escaped.”

“I have not escaped,” I replied; “here is my pardon, with the sign-manual.”

“And how was it obtained?” exclaimed Captain Levee; “all intercession made through some of the strongest friends of the government was in vain, that I can assert; for you must not suppose that we have been idle down here. We did not leave London till after you were condemned, and every entreaty to see you, or to communicate by letter, was denied to us.”

“I had better, then, begin at the beginning, and state all that occurred. I will first thank you, my dear Levee, for your kind assistance, which I would not avail myself of, as I calculated (wrongly I own) that it would be wiser to remain a prisoner; and I considered that my very refusal to escape would be admitted by the government as a proof of my innocence. I did not know that I had to deal with such malignant people.”

I then commenced my narrative, which occupied the remainder of the evening, and, having received their congratulations, we had a pipe or two, and, as I was fatigued, we retired to bed. I slept little on this, I may say, first night of rest and quiet, after my liberation. I was happy, and yet perplexed. During the time of my imprisonment, it had occurred to me that the life of a privateer’s-man was not one which I could follow up with a good conscience; and I had, on my journey down to Liverpool, made up my mind that I would give it up. I knew this might annoy Mr. Trevannion, and that I should have to meet with the ridicule of Captain Levee, and I was thinking whether it were possible, in the first place, that I could give some well-grounded excuse; and, in the next, what other means of gaining my livelihood I could substitute in its stead. My restlessness induced me to get up earlier than usual, and I went out for an hour’s walk upon the wharfs. I saw my little schooner riding on the stream, and, as she gently rose, and dipped to the swell which ran in with the tide, she looked so beautiful that my resolutions were already giving way. I would look at her no longer; so I turned from the river, and walked back to the owner’s house. It was still early when I went into the eating-hall, where I found Miss Trevannion alone.

CHAPTER XII

I state my newly-awakened scruples as to the lawfulness of a Privateer’s-man’s Life to Mr. Trevannion, but nevertheless undertake another Cruise—Save a Youth from drowning, who he proves to be—Conflict with a French Privateer—Take her and deliver a Prize—Return to Liverpool—Resign the Command of the Sparrow-Hawk, and agree to superintend Mr. Trevannion’s Business.

Miss Trevannion, my dear Madam, was taller than your sex usually are, her figure slight, and still unformed to a certain degree, but promising perfection. Her hair was very dark, her features regular and handsome, her complexion very pale, and her skin fair as the snow. As she stood in silence, she reminded you of a classical antique statue, and hardly appeared to breathe through her delicate lips, but when she was animated with conversation, it almost reminded you of the Promethean fire which poets state was stolen from Heaven to animate a piece of marble. Then the colour came in her cheeks, intelligence played on her countenance, and every thing which at first sight appeared wanting, was, like magic, found to light up her face. Her smiles were the sweetest I ever beheld, and one of those smiles she bestowed upon me as I entered the room and paid her my obeisance. The night before, I had not observed her much, I was too busy with her father and Captain Levee, and she sat remote from the table and distant from the light, and she never spoke but when she took my hand and thanked me, as I mentioned before. I thought then that her voice was like a silver bell, but made no other remark upon her. We had, however, exchanged but few words before her father came in, accompanied by Captain Levee, and we sat down to our morning’s repast of chocolate.