The Boy Patriot Part 8

Each kind affection nature gives Religion makes more bright, As suns.h.i.+ne on the landscape falls, And beautifies with light.

The patriot had hitherto been sleeping in the heart of Derry Duck; but now he was to awake like a "strong man armed." There is not one kindly, pleasant, honorable feeling, but is strengthened and enn.o.bled by the touch of divine grace. Nor only so: he who finds himself suddenly alive to his allegiance to G.o.d, has at the same time his vision cleared to see around him a thousand hitherto unknown or neglected ties, which bind him to his fellow-men. In a whisper of conscience, he is taught that

He is the faithful patriot, Who keeps his Maker's laws; Nor will the servant of his Lord Forsake his country's cause.

Among the sins of which Derry Duck was called deeply to repent, was the dishonor which he had brought on his own Christian land, in many a port where his wild deeds had left their guilty trace. What had he done for the glory of Christian America? Bravely he had fought under her flag; but it had been through reckless daring, or a thirst for gold. Not for a n.o.ble principle, not for the defence of home and kindred, altar and hearth-stone, had he raised his strong right arm.

Blair Robertson rejoiced to see the spirit of true patriotism awaking in the bosom of the hardy sailor. The high-souled boy had now a sharer in his enthusiastic love of his country, and devotion to her cause. They joined their labors at once to improve the defenders of the flag, who were their s.h.i.+pmates, and yet a disgrace to their native land. Blair went on in his own peculiar way; while Derry at once announced his position as a Christian mate, who would suffer no profanity in his hearing, and would see the crew of the Molly engage in no deeds on the high seas, not sanctioned by the letters of marque which were their warrant for their blows struck against the common foe.

Some outward change had been produced in the men of the privateer, when all thoughts were suddenly turned into a new channel. A fast sailing American merchant s.h.i.+p informed Captain Knox that the expected East Indiaman was not more than half a day behind her.

All was at once stir and bustle from stem to stern of the Molly. The st.u.r.dy little craft was like the bristling porcupine, ready and impatient for action, when the masts of the East Indiaman slowly rose above the horizon. The privateer gave chase at once, and rapidly neared its prey. The guns of the Molly gave the signal for surrender. The British flag went down, and Derry Duck, with a strong party of boarders was sent at once to seize the valuable prize.

Ready to pounce on their defenceless victims, the eager sailors climbed the sides of the huge vessel and stood upon its deck, cutla.s.s and pistol in hand. Suddenly the hatchways were thrown open, and a band of British soldiers sprang forth with a fierce battle-cry. Derry Duck rushed among them with desperate valor, and was heartily seconded by his fearless followers.

From the deck of the Molly, Captain Knox could see the trap into which he had fallen. He could not use his well-loaded guns without destruction to his own men. He could only send reinforcements to their small band, and quietly see the battle fought hand to hand, which a few cannon b.a.l.l.s would have settled in a moment.

Several skilful British marksmen were firing at the few who remained on the approaching privateer, when Captain Knox ordered Blair aloft.

Blair obeyed without a moment's hesitation, and sped upward as if in the glee of boyhood's play. Yet in the heart of the young patriot there was prayer for his soul, should it be set free in that hour of danger; there was burning love for his country's cause. The eye of Derry Duck fell on the isolated group who had been firing at the privateer. He saw a well-known form climbing to the dizzy masthead, while the shot were flying around him. Derry rushed in among them with his axe in his hand, and waving it around his head scattered them like leaves before the wind. He stayed long enough to see that Blair had not dropped like a wounded bird among the rigging of the Molly.

Slowly, very slowly, the boy made his way to the deck, then sank down faint and bleeding. A bullet had entered his side; yet he had been so ready for the stroke that it had not thrown him off his guard. Although weak and giddy, he had made his way down his narrow pathway, and reported his duty done. Even the hardy captain gave a pitying glance at the brave boy as he was borne below by the sailors. Yet this was no time for such thoughts in the mind of Captain Knox. The reinforcement from the Molly were on the deck of the East Indiaman. He could hear the hearty cheer of Derry Duck as he placed himself at their head, and rushed upon the brave Britons.

Derry's impetuous charge was too much for the soldiers, many of them enfeebled by the climate of India, and going home to recruit in their native breezes. Over the deck swept Derry and his band like a fierce hurricane, which naught can stay or withstand. A shout of victory went up from the Molly, a shout which Derry's excited men sent back over the water in a deafening reply. The East Indiaman was won; her crew were prisoners; her cargo the prize of the Molly.

Where was Blair Robertson amid the general triumph? This was Derry Duck's first question, as his returning footsteps again trod the deck of the privateer.

Alone in the deserted cabin, Derry found what was more precious to him now than his share in the glory or the spoils of the recent fight.

The rough sailor asked no questions of the fainting lad. Tearing open Blair's garments, he found at once the wound, and with ready skill and unwavering firmness his sharp knife did the surgeon's duty. The bullet was forced out by Derry's hard fingers, and his rough hands tied the bandage with a touching attempt at tenderness. Blair uttered no murmur.

His lips moved gently, but they whispered only words befitting the sinner pa.s.sing into the presence of his G.o.d.

Derry caught the low whisper, and understood its meaning. "I can't let you go. What! going? Oh my lad!" and Derry Duck's hard, blood-marked face was suddenly wet with tears.

CHAPTER XVIII.

WAGES.

The East Indiaman was too important a prize to be trusted to any other than the skilful sailor and brave officer, Derry Duck. He was at once ordered to prepare to take her into an American port, with all due formalities.

Derry's sea-chest contained more than his scanty wardrobe, his golden gains during this long cruise were garnered there. Yet he trusted it to the hands of unscrupulous men, while his own arms found a more welcome burden. Tenderly as a mother bears her sleeping infant, Derry clasped a slender figure to his rough bosom, and would suffer no one to give him aid in his office of love. There was a gentle pulsation in the heart so near to his. There was a growing warmth in the form which was so precious to the mate of the Molly.

Blair was still alive, and Derry would allow no duty to interfere with the sacred privilege of caring for the wounded youth, and bearing him home, living or dead, to his mother.

On a couch of Indian luxury Derry laid the prostrate figure of Blair Robertson, and as he turned to leave the cabin, the face of the once hardened tar was softened into womanly gentleness as he said, "G.o.d help him, and bring him to, sound and well."

The excessive faintness and exhaustion of the wound had indeed seemed to Blair like the lingering, reluctant parting of soul and body; and he might well have adopted the words of that hymn, honored by the murmured breathings of many a dying saint:

"What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?

Tell me, my soul, can this be death?

The world recedes, it disappears: Heaven opens on my eyes, my ears With sounds seraphic ring: Lend, lend your wings: I mount, I fly; O grave, where is thy victory!

O death, where is thy sting!"

The curtain which separates this lower world from the glories of the unseen bliss above, had grown thin and almost transparent to the eyes of the Christian boy, thus brought to the gates of death. Near, very near to him seemed the face of the Saviour who had of late been his realized and beloved companion. It was as the mother bows down to her suffering child, that this glimpse of the dear Redeemer was made so plain to the weakened, prostrate boy. He was still in the flesh, and to know weary waiting and suffering, ere health should once more send the glad blood bounding along his veins.

Yet there was work for Blair Robertson on his couch of pain, work to do for his heavenly Master. Blair was not the only sufferer on board the prize.

Often during the homeward voyage, a settee was placed beside the soft couch which Derry had appropriated to Blair's especial use. The occupant of the settee was a huge, muscular, repulsive young man, whose yellow hair lay uncombed on his pillow, while his pale, freckle-marked face was distorted with pain, rage, and the torture of a rebellious spirit, when sorely smitten by the hand of G.o.d.

Many of Brimstone's fierce s.h.i.+pmates had been hurried into eternity in the midst of the struggle on the deck of the East Indiaman. Blair's coa.r.s.e tormentor, however, had escaped with his life, but with one leg so wounded and bruised that it was promptly cut off, as the only way of preventing ultimate death. Brimstone ground his teeth and swore fearful imprecations at each movement that reminded him of his loss. It was in vain that Derry bade him be quiet, and rather thank G.o.d that time was left him for repentance. In Brimstone's hardened heart there seemed no resting-place for good seed, no soil prepared for the heavenly plant.

His only relief was in forgetfulness of his misfortune, when he was wiled from thoughts of himself by one of Blair's stirring tales of adventure, or ballads of the olden time. Blair would weary out his little strength for the benefit of his companion, and yet win not one word of thanks for his kindly endeavors. Yet he persevered, ever mingling in his stories and songs whispers of the only source of comfort for the afflicted, the only balm for the suffering soul.

Brimstone's wild and wicked life had poisoned the very sources and flow of his life's blood. His was no flesh to heal, like that of a healthy child.

While Blair was daily making long strides towards health, fierce pains and burning inflammation seized on Brimstone's stunted limb. Then no voice could soothe him, no words of comfort reach his ear. He chafed and tossed upon his narrow couch like a wounded beast of the forest, and finally refused to suffer any hand to dress or touch the afflicted part.

Pain ceased at last, the end was near. Death would soon claim the loathsome body, and bring the polluted soul before the judgment-bar.

Blair gently told the sufferer the awful truth, yet not from the lips of the lad would he believe such an announcement. It was not until Derry's blunt confirmation made sure the fearful tidings, that the dying man would believe that he stood on the brink of eternity.

We draw the curtain on the horrors of the scenes that followed. May it never be the reader's lot to hear the desperate cries of a ruined soul about to meet its G.o.d.

The transgressor must eat of the fruit of his choice, and sink into the pit towards which his face has been resolutely set. The _wages_ of sin is death.

Vain were the pleadings of Blair, and the rougher urgency of Derry, calling on the dying man to lift his eyes to the cross of Christ, trust, and be saved.

With a fearful howl of anguish the condemned soul took its flight; while his companions, awe-struck, prayed G.o.d to spare them such a doom.

On the dark waters the body of Brimstone was cast, to be seen no more until it should rise at the last day, we fear, to the resurrection of d.a.m.nation.

Lost seemed the labors of Blair Robertson for the good of his worthless s.h.i.+pmate; but no prayerful effort for the holy cause is vain. Blair had other listeners than the ear to which he spoke. Unconscious of all around him, he had but striven to touch and uplift the soul of the dying man. The group of sailors gathered round the departing wretch would soon be scattered far and wide on the rolling seas, thousands of miles from the home of Blair Robertson, and the solemn truths he had spoken might spring up in their hearts and bear fruit unto eternal life.

CHAPTER XIX.

HOME.

A light fall of snow had clothed all Fairport in white, and whispered in the ears of lingering birds that they had better be off for the "sunny south," ere old winter had fairly begun his icy reign. Cold and dark, the waters of the harbor lay encircled by the pure and glistening land.

Cheerful wood fires were warming many a hearth-stone, while wives and mothers thought of their absent ones on the sea, and hoped and prayed no chilling storm might be rending their sails and perilling the lives so precious to home and native land.