THE WRECK OF THE PIRATE SHIP.

BY MARY A. LOWELL.

       "HARK, Abel! is not that a sound of distress?" asked Miriam Hinckley, of her young husband, as the gust swept fearfully around the corner of their little sea-side home, the very next evening after their wedding.

       "I hope not, dear; I would not wish to leave you so soon, to see such dismal sights as I have witnessed on this shore sometimes. I will just go to the door and listen."

       He opened the door which led directly from the room to the little front yard, and Miriam hastily followed.

       "Stand back, Miriam; the cold wind will freeze you. It is snowing so thick that I can see nothing, but I think I can hear a sound at the beach. I must run down, and see what it is."

       "Not in this storm, Abel. O, don't go alone! Let me go with you, please?"

       "You go! Why Miriam, I would not let you step across the yard. Go in to the fire, and mind and keep up a good blaze, for I shall be wet when I come home."

       The terrified little woman clung tightly to her husband's arm, entreating him not to go; but he turned upon her almost a look of rebuke, as he said:

       "Then if I should be driven ashore, and in danger, you would not wish any one to go out of a comfortable room to help me?"

       "O, what have I said, dear Abel? Yes, go, dear, and do all the good you can to the poor souls. I did not think."

       "Well, it is not strange that you should not think. This is a new life to my little country-bred wife. There, hand me my sou'wester, and don't cry; I'll be back soon."

       Miriam did as he told her, and went back to the blazing fire; but her knitting-work, although it was for Abel, was not touched, and every two minutes she opened the door to see if he was coming. At last, she sat perfectly still, but looking into the fire with a troubled gaze. Then her eyes wandered to the shelf above the fire-place — so high that she could not reach up to it — and the bright, beautiful shells that adorned it, the great shark's jaw that hung beneath the shelf, and the model of a fishing boat on the chest of drawers, all told of the sea. Then she thought of what had hardly been realized in her mind before, that on that very sea — treacherous, destroying, cruel as it was, her Abel would soon — nay, often, be sailing; and how dreary all these things would look then — how should she watch every storm, which in her country home had scarcely occupied her thoughts at all. O, how dismal she thought it would be thus living ever by the stormy waters. She wished that Abel and herself might be in the loneliest village in New Hampshire, where she was born and bred, rather than living here.

       It was very sad for the young girl, not yet twenty-four hours a bride, to have all these thoughts of wreck, and danger, and death; and moreover, as she turned her hour-glass for the second time since Abel went out, she began to tremble and weep. At one time she sprang to the door, resolved to brave the storm, and follow him; but the snow blew in so heavily that she was nearly covered, and she went back shivering to the fireside.

       It was full three hours when Abel came in, and his face was ghastly pale. Miriam met him at the door, but when she saw that look, she fell lifeless to the floor, overcome by her previous terror. When she revived, he had changed his wet suit for another, afraid to touch her while she was yet dripping with the melted snow; and he had laid her upon the bed in the little bed room adjoining their only other room.

       She now crept to his side near the fire, and he sheltered her with his arm, while he told her what had happened. A large ship had been wrecked so close to the shore, that already the dead were lying almost in heaps upon the beach. Two men only were saved, and these had been taken, perfectly exhausted, to the homes of the oldest fishermen. Abel, and indeed all the men who were out, comprising all who lived near the shore, could only stand upon the beach, and hear the "cry of some strong swimmer in his agony," as he made unavailing attempts to reach the shore in the darkness to which the lanterns held by the men could hardly impart a gleam of light while the snow fell so heavily. As they plunged into the boiling waves from the side of the fast-breaking ship, they could hear the heavy plash, which in most cases was followed by a silence, deep and profound, save for the rolling and surging water, as if they had dropped at once into the lowest depths of their fearful grave. Then one or two would struggle up to the surface, hold a brief strife with the waves, and they too would sink.

       The young wife shuddered at the narration, and wept afresh at the thought of some night watching for Abel, and his dead body thrown upon the beach.

       "Now, I am going to test the courage of a seaman's wife. I am sorry to try it so soon; but you will have to get used to it. We take turns and watch when such a thing as this occurs, and I join the next watch. I must be back to the beach, in half an hour, and you must lie down until I come back. See, I shall put on a stouter jacket than before, and this log will burn until I come back: No one will harm you, and it shall never be said that Abel Hinckley's wife had not courage to stay alone, even in a storm."

       Poor Miriam tried to be very brave, as she took down the heavy jacket, but she broke down before Abel had opened the door. He found her up, with a fresh fire, and a bowl of hot milk porridge when he returned, which was just before dawn. He had no more news to tell, except that the bodies were still being cast upon the shore.

       The sun shone brightly upon the snow the next morning, and the beach at Wellfleet was covered with people who thronged to see the spectacle of death. A hundred dead bodies lay there with ghastly upturned faces. Goods of every description were being constantly thrown up; boxes, bales and cases of all kinds and sizes. Even the women came down to look — all excepting Miriam and two or three others, who could not bear to see the terrible sight. Some reckless beings were carrying off the goods, without offering to assist those who were endeavoring to prepare the bodies for as decent a burial as could be obtained.

       Abel's father, an old and experienced Cape fisherman, remarked to his son the singularly ferocious and terrible look of every face that was presented to their view as they passed across the beach:

       "I have often seen men thrown on the shore thus," said the old man, "but I never saw any that looked like these. Most of them that I have seen had a quiet kind of resigned look on their faces, as if they had struggled hard at first, and then all at once given up the battle, and laid down peacefully."

       One of the dead was a very large, powerful man. His hands were clenched tightly together, and the mouth was compressed until the teeth had pierced the lip deeply. Something glittered in the sun, and Abel stooped down to examine it. It was a large gold breast-pin, in the form of a dagger, and was marked "Bellamy" on the reverse. Abel put it back again quickly, and asked his father if it could be the pirate, who had been cruising about the West India islands so long.

       "Why not?" asked the old man. "Surely these faces look like such a crew as might have belonged to him."

       "Here is his name at any rate," said Abel.

       "What on that pin? Then take it out, before those thieves steal it. You must give it to Squire Preston. It may prove a good deal when they come to look into this matter. Now, Abel, look out for some other mark or proof."

       But there was nothing but the pin that bore any name; and their attention ere long was turned towards a fishing smack which was rapidly making Wellfleet harbor.

       "To think of that craft living out such a storm, and this ship unable to stand off! Abel, if my old eyes don't deceive me, that is the Lady Bird, Capain Pond, who went out last month."

       "Your eyes are right this time, father. It is the Lady Bird."

       The little craft came in with not a sail torn. She had found a safe cove for the night. Captain Pond, a capable, intelligent man, had been so intent upon arriving, that he had hardly cast a look towards shore, until the vessel was secured. Then, with even more of horror in his countenance than had rested on the others, he surveyed the scene before him. A crowd gathered around him, for some anxiety had been felt for his safety. As he looked narrowly at the faces remaining on the beach — for some of them were already removed — he exclaimed to his mate:

       "Good God, Barton — here is Bellamy's whole fleet!"

       "What do you mean?" asked a dozen voices at once.

       "I mean that probably the whole piratical fleet commanded by Bellamy, was near the Cape yesterday. He captured my vessel last Friday; but offered me the prize back again, if I would pilot him into Cape Cod harbor, so that he might clear his ship at Provincetown. I knew, or suspected at least, who was my captor; and just at dusk I brought him so near the land, knowing that his intention was to plunder, that I fancy he must have struck the outer bar while I was trying to get safely on shore. It was dark when I got sheltered, and the storm rising suddenly, the snow prevented me from seeing any of the vessels again."

       Abel showed him the gold dagger, and the captain identified it as the one he had noticed upon the pirate's breast. The pirates had met their fate then, but in a most terrible manner, without warning or preparation. As might be expected, it was long before the excitement subsided in Wellfleet. With Miriam, the images suggested by that night were long a source of unmitigated disturbance. With many others it was a matter of deep interest. It was believed that some of the smaller vessels of the fleet were not wrecked; and of course, there was deep anxiety lest they were still cruising near the eastern shore, or at least not far from the course pursued by the vessels bound to the western islands.

       Meanwhile, quantities of copper coins — William and Mary coppers, and pieces of silver, called cob money, were thrown by every troubled wave upon shore, for the remainder of that year (1717).

       On the outer bar, the violence of the sea moves the sand; and long after the shipwreck, an iron caboose was seen when the tide was lowest. Gradually the fears that had been awakened, were lulled, and the hardy fishermen, and those who traded at the West India ports, made their voyages unterrified by the vision of pirates.

       Good old Abraham Hinckley had passed away, and slept with his fathers, and his son Abel had succeeded to the possession of the family homestead, which promised be a more convenient dwelling for Miriam and her fast-increasing army of little ones, than the small cottage by the seaside, with its two contracted apartments. Their present abode was roomy and comfortable; having any number of queer nooks and irregular hiding-places. Abel had given up the sea for Miriam's sake, had hired land in addition to his own, and was now quite a flourishing farmer. Miriam, country-bred as she was, was perfectly at home on a farm, and her advice upon outdoor matters proved as valuable as her indoor work. All her little nervous ways evaporated in the broad sunshine of her husband's continual presence, and their home exhibited a degree of comfort and hospitality that was truly pleasant to The poor, and often wasteful and improvident fishers' wives never lacked a helping hand when their resources ran low. Miriam's heart and larder were alike open, and a little timely help from her often saved many a despairing mother the grief of seeing her children starve before her eyes when the" bread-winner" was taken away.

       Miriam was a fine specimen of a good, capable, industrious, New England wife. Handsome she was not, except through her rosy, healthful color, which never grew paler. Her hair, which could not, by any stretch of imagination, be called anything but unmitigated red in color, was still soft and abundant, and her short, stout figure, although not exactly modelled on the line of beauty, was yet indicative of health and strength, and so far, was preferable to that of the delicate beauty of those willowy forms, that make no shadow on the ground when they walk. Abel and herself were, for a wonder, sitting alone one spring evening, by the kitchen fire, which was heaped with great logs as in mid-winter, to meet the wants of the immense kettle hanging over it, as well as to obviate the chilliness that pervades the sea-shore towns, sometimes even in the summer nights. The children had had their supper, and the weary little limbs were all lain down to rest. The bright flames danced out upon the broad hearth, and threw great shadows on the ceiling, while Miriam's eyes were fixed upon a huge underbed of coals that lay underneath the burning brands.

       "What do you see there?" asked Abel, laughing at her earnest look.

       Churches and steeples, and great ships of war, and wrecks. O, I cannot tell you half I see."

       Abel turned his loving, good-humored countenance full upon her, and laying his hand caressingly upon her shoulder, he said:

       "Speaking of wrecks reminds me that we have not spoken of the great shipwreck for a long time. I have been so busy — so happy too, with you and the children, that I have not thought of anything unpleasant. How quiet and happy we live, Miriam — so happy that time does not change you a bit."

       "Ah! Abel, turning flatterer?"

       "Indeed I am not. I should be sorry if I could not praise you openly, when my heart is so full of you."

       There was a tender silence between them for some moments. Then they spoke of the old story of the wreck, and of how pleasant it was to be at home, and never to go to sea any more. It was pleasant too, to have an evening to themselves. Always there were hired people around, or the children absorbed their attention, or something occurred — a neighbor's visit, or a meeting of some sort — to keep them from being alone. Now, it was agreed upon between them that this hour should be their own, and that nothing but sickness should keep them from being together, either sitting or walking. A slight knock at the door disturbed their conversation; and on Abel's calling to "come in," a tall, stout man entered. There was only firelight; but that showed a face, dark, weatherbeaten and deeply scarred. Abel proffered the stranger a chair near the fire, but he seemed to prefer a darker corner, and sat down in the shadow.

       "Have you travelled far, friend?" asked the farmer.

       "I have been on the Cape a few days only," said the man, in a deep, harsh voice, that made Miriam rise quickly and light a candle. Thinking the unknown guest might not have eaten supper, she set out the table, and transferred some of the contents of the kettle to a large dish, inviting him to partake of them. He sat down at the table, ate heartily, and drank a mug of cider. Then, turning to Abel, he asked him if he could accommodate him with a bed.

       "I have money to pay for it," he said, "and I wish to remain here several days, perhaps a week or two."

       Abel conferred with his wife, and then told his visitor he could have a room if he would be willing to step across the yard to get to it. It was a room adjoining the corn chamber, that had been built for one of their hired men, and at certain times of the year was occupied by an extra hand, but was now empty. If that would suit him, he was welcome to use it as long as he pleased.

       "Nay, I am not without means to pay," said the man, showing a belt around his waist, which he said was fall of gold pieces.

       "Well, well, put up your money to night, my friend," said Abel. "Time enough to pay, when I present my bill."

       By the time this conversation had ceased, the farm and kitchen hands assembled in the long kitchen for prayers. Abel laid the great Bible on the table, and prepared to read. The moment he took his seat, the stranger started up and asked if he could be shown to his room, and a boy was despatched to guide him. He stayed there the next morning until he was called to breakfast, and after that he wandered off by himself.

       He was at the farm-house several weeks, and when he went away offered to pay, which Abel positively refused. The man seemed to accede, but two or three broad gold pieces were found in little Robert's pocket, which he said the sailor had put there. Towards autumn he came again, exhibited the same reluctance to stay in the room while the Bible was read, and wandered still longer away by himself. It was still warm weather, and the windows were open all night. The first night was one of horror to the family. The most awful shrieks came from the room across the yard, and Abel, supposing the guest to be ill, went up to his door, awoke him, and asked him if such was the case. Sternfeldt, as he called himself, apologized for disturbing him, and begged him to believe that it was only an attack of nightmare. But as long as he stayed with them this time the shrieks were nightly repeated, accompanied by profane, blasphemous, and quarrelsome words, which were heard by every one in the neighborhood.

       "That lodger of yourn seems to have a hull legion of divils, squire," said one of the old fishermen to Abel, who had now arrived at the dignity of a justice of the peace.

       "Poor man, yes! He has the nightmare badly," returned Abel.

       "Nightmare!" said old Ben, contemptuously. "Come down in the Stevens pastur, with me, ye, squire?"

       Abel went, and the old man led him to a spot where he had seen Sternfeldt digging the day before, and at the same time putting something carefully in the leather belt which he wore round his waist, and which he never attempted to conceal at any time.

       "Now, look here, squire," said Ben, "this ere man is beyond all doubt, one of that Bellamy's crew, and he is hunting up the gold that they used to bury hereabouts."

       Abel started. There was indeed, some reason to think so; but his unsuspecting nature had never dreamed of this. He had fancied him a heart-broken, disappointed man — an infidel perhaps, but not so bad as he might be. His feeling and Miriam's towards him had been one of sincere pity. While he was thinking what to do or say, Sternfeldt sent for him and his wife, to step across the yard to his room. He was in great distress — dying apparently. He uttered but a few words, but they were sufficient to show that the dying man was what the old fisherman had conjectured — one of the crew perhaps of a small vessel belonging to Bellamy's fleet, that had escaped the fate of the larger ship. Indisputably he had known that treasure had been concealed in various places on the Cape, and hence his wish to remain. His terrible night sufferings were from dreams, in which, probably, were repeated the scenes through which he had passed. Byron says:

"The mind that broods o'er guilty woes Is like the Scorpia girt by fire."

(THE END)