who shall tell, or who shall understand, the thoughts of richard rosco, the ex-pirate, as he wandered, lost yet regardless, in that dismal swamp?
the human spirit is essentially galvanic. it jumps like a grasshopper, bounds like a kangaroo. the greatest of men can only restrain it in a slight degree. the small men either have exasperating trouble with it, or make no attempt to curb it at all. it is a rebellious spirit. the best of books tells us that, “greater is he that ruleth it, than he that taketh a city.”
think of that, youngster, whoever you are, who readeth this. think of the conquerors of the world. think of the “great” alexander, whose might was so tremendous that he subjugated kingdoms and spent his life in doing little else. think of napoleon “the great,” whose armies ravaged europe from the atlantic
to asia: who even began—though he failed to finish—the conquest of africa; who made kings as you might make pasteboard men, and filled the civilised world with fear, as well as with blood and graves—all for his own glorification! think of these and other “great” men, and reflect that it is written, “he who rules his own spirit” is greater than they.
yes, the human spirit is difficult to deal with, and uncomfortably explosive. at least so richard rosco found it when, towards the close of the day on which his enemy chased him into the dismal swamp, he sat down on a gnarled root and began to reflect.
his spirit jumped almost out of him with contempt, when he thought that for the first time in his life, he had fled in abject terror from the face of man! he could not conceal that from himself, despite the excuse suggested by pride—that he had half believed zeppa to be an apparition. what even if that were true? had he not boastfully said more than once that he would defy the foul fiend himself if he should attempt to thwart him? then his spirit bounded into a region of disappointed rage when he thought of the lost opportunity of stabbing his enemy to the heart. after that, unbidden, and in spite of him, it dropped into an abyss of something like fierce despair when he recalled the past surveyed the present, and forecast the future. truly, if hell ever does begin to men on earth, it began that day to the pirate, as he sat in the twilight on the gnarled root, with one of his feet dangling in the slimy water, his hands clasped so tight that the knuckles stood out white, and his eyes gazing upwards with an expression that seemed the very embodiment of woe.
then his spirit lost its spring, and he began to crawl, in memory, on the shores of “other days.” he thought of the days when, comparatively innocent he rambled on the sunny hills of old england; played and did mischief with comrades; formed friendships and fought battles, and knew what it was to experience good impulses; understood the joy of giving way to these, as well as the depression consequent on resisting them; and recalled the time when he regarded his mother as the supreme judge in every case of difficulty—the only comforter in every time of sorrow.
at this point his spirit grovelled like a crushed worm in the stagnant pool of his despair, for he had no hope. he had sinned every opportunity away. he had defied god and man, and nothing was left to him, apparently, save “a fearful looking-for of judgment.”
as he bent over the pool he saw his own distorted visage dimly reflected therein, and the thought occurred,—“why not end it all at once? five minutes at the utmost and all will be over!” the pirate was a physically brave man beyond his fellows. he had courage to carry the idea into effect but—“after death the judgment!” where had he heard these words? they were strange to him, but they were not new. those who are trained in the knowledge of god’s word are not as a general rule, moved in an extraordinary degree by quotations from it. it is often otherwise with those who have had little of it instilled into them in youth and none in later years. that which may seem to a christian but a familiar part of the “old, old story,” sometimes becomes to hundreds and thousands of human beings a startling revelation. it was so to the pirate on this occasion. the idea of judgment took such a hold of him that he shrank from death with far more fear than he ever had, with courage, faced it in days gone by. trembling, terrified, abject he sat there, incapable of consecutive thought or intelligent action.
at last the gloom which had been slowly deepening over the swamp sank into absolute blackness, and the chills of night, which were particularly sharp in such places, began to tell upon him. but he did not dare to move, lest he should fall into the swamp. slowly he extended himself on the root; wound his arms and fingers convulsively among leaves and branches, and held on like a drowning man. an ague-fit seemed to have seized him, for he trembled violently in every limb; and as his exhausted spirit was about to lose itself in sleep, or, as it seemed to him, in death, he gave vent to a subdued cry, “god be merciful to me a sinner!”
rest, such as it was, refreshed the pirate, and when the grey dawn, struggling through the dense foliage, awoke him, he rose up with a feeling of submissiveness which seemed, somehow, to restore his energy.
he was without purpose, however, for he knew nothing of his surroundings, and, of course, could form no idea of what was best to be done. in these circumstances he rose with a strange sensation of helplessness, and wandered straight before him.
and oh! how beautiful were the scenes presented to his vision! everything in this world is relative. that which is hideous at one time is lovely at another. in the night the evening, or at the grey dawn, the swamp was indeed dismal in the extreme; but when the morning advanced towards noon all that was changed, as if magically, by the action of the sun. black, repulsive waters reflected patches of the bright blue sky, and every leaf, and spray, and parasite, and tendril, that grew in the world above was faithfully mirrored in the world below. vistas of gnarled roots and graceful stems and drooping boughs were seen on right and left, before and behind, extending as if into infinite space, while innumerable insects, engaged in the business of their brief existence, were filling the region with miniature melodies.
but richard rosco saw it not. at least it made no sensible impression on him. his mental retina was capable of receiving only two pictures: the concentrated accumulation of past sin—the terrible anticipation of future retribution. between these two, present danger and suffering were well-nigh forgotten.
towards noon, however, the sense of hunger began to oppress him. he allayed it with a few wild berries. then fatigue began to tell, for walking from root to root sometimes on short stretches of solid land, sometimes over soft mud, often knee-deep in water, was very exhausting. at last he came to what appeared to be the end of the swamp, and here he discovered a small patch of cultivated ground.
the discovery awoke him to the necessity of caution, but he was awakened too late, for already had one of the raturan natives observed him advancing out of the swamp. instantly he gave the alarm that a “white face” was approaching. of course the appearance of one suggested a scout, and the speedy approach of a host. horrified to see a supposed enemy come from a region which they had hitherto deemed their sure refuge, the few natives who dwelt there flew to arms, and ran to meet the advancing foe.
the pirate was not just then in a mood to resist. he had no weapon, and no spirit left. he therefore suffered himself to be taken prisoner without a struggle, satisfied apparently to know that the madman was not one of those into whose hands he had fallen.
great was the rejoicing among the raturans when the prisoner was brought in, for they were still smarting under the humiliation of their defeat, and knew well that their discomfiture had been largely owing to the influence of “white faces.” true, they did not fall into the mistake of supposing that rosco was the awful giant who had chased and belaboured them so unmercifully with a long stake, but they at once concluded that he was a comrade of zeppa—perhaps one of a band who had joined their foes. besides, whether he were a comrade or not was a matter of small moment. sufficient for them that his face was white, that he belonged to a race which, in the person of zeppa, had wrought them evil, and that he was now in their power.
of course, the raturans had not during all these years, remained in ignorance of the existence of zeppa. they had heard of his dwelling in the mountain soon after he had visited the village of their enemies, and had also become aware of the fact that the white man was a madman and a giant, but more than this they did not know, because of their feud preventing interchange of visits or of news between the tribes. their imaginations, therefore, having full swing, had clothed zeppa in some of the supposed attributes of a demigod. these attributes, however, the same imaginations quickly exchanged for those of a demi-devil, when at last they saw zeppa in the flesh, and were put to flight by him. his size, indeed, had rather fallen short of their expectation, for sixty feet had been the average estimate, but his fury and aspect had come quite up to the mark, and the fact that not a man of the tribe had dared to stand before him, was sufficient to convince a set of superstitious savages that he was a real devil in human guise. to have secured one of his minor comrades, therefore, was a splendid and unlooked-for piece of good fortune, which they resolved to make the most of by burning the pirate alive.
little did the wretched man think, when they conducted him to a hut in the middle of their village and supplied him with meat and drink, that this was a preliminary ceremony to the terrible end they purposed to make of him. it is true he did not feel easy in his mind, for, despite this touch of hospitality, his captors regarded him with looks of undisguised hatred.
there was something of the feline spirit in these raturan savages. as the cat plays with the mouse before killing it, so did they amuse themselves with the pirate before putting him to the final torture which was to terminate his life.
and well was it for rosco that they did so, for the delay thus caused was the means of saving his life—though he did not come out of the dread ordeal scathless.
they began with a dance—a war-dance it is to be presumed—at all events it involved the flourishing of clubs and spears, the formation of hideous faces, and the perpetration of frightful grimaces, with bounds and yells enough to warrant the conclusion that the dance was not one of peace. richard rosco formed the centre of that dance—the sun, as it were, of the system round which the dusky host revolved. but he did not join in the celebration, for he was bound firmly to a stake set up in the ground, and could not move hand or foot.
at first the warriors of the tribe moved round the pirate in a circle, stamping time slowly with their feet while the women and children stood in a larger circle, marking time with hands and voices. presently the dance grew more furious, and ultimately attained to a pitch of wild violence which is quite indescribable. at the height of the paroxysm, a warrior would ever and anon dart out from the circle with whirling club, and bring it down as if on the prisoner’s skull, but would turn it aside so deftly that it just grazed his ear and fell with a dull thud on the ground. other warriors made at him with their spears, which they thrust with lightning speed at his naked breast, but checked them just as they touched the skin.
two or three of these last were so inexpert that they pricked the skin slightly, and blood began to trickle down, but these clumsy warriors were instantly kicked from the circle of dancers, and compelled to take their place among the women and children.
when they had exhausted themselves with the dance, the warriors sat down to feast upon viands, which had, in the meanwhile, been preparing for them, and while they feasted they taunted their prisoner with cowardice, and told him in graphic language of the horrors that yet awaited him.
fortunately for the miserable man—who was left bound to the stake during the feast—he did not understand a word of what was said. he had been stripped of all clothing save a pair of short breeches, reaching a little below the knee, and his naked feet rested on a curious piece of basketwork. this last would have been too slight to bear his weight if he had not been almost suspended by the cords that bound him to the stake.
rosco was very pale. he felt that his doom was fixed; but his native courage did not forsake him. he braced himself to meet his fate like a man, and resolved to shut his eyes, when next they began to dance round him, so that he should not shrink from the blow or thrust which, he felt sure, would ere long end his ill-spent life. but the time seemed to him terribly long, and while he hung there his mind began to recall the gloomy past. perhaps it was a refinement of cruelty on the part of the savages that they gave him time to think, so that his courage might be reduced or overcome.
if so, they were mistaken in their plan. the pirate showed no unusual sign of fear. once he attempted to pray, but he found that almost impossible.
wearied at length with waiting, the savages arose, and began to put fagots and other combustibles under the wicker-basket on which the pirate stood. then, indeed, was rosco’s courage tried nearly to the uttermost and when he saw the fire actually applied, he uttered a cry of “help! help!” so loud and terrible that his enemies fell back for a moment as if appalled.
and help came from a quarter that rosco little expected.
but to explain this we must return to zeppa. we have said that he gave up the chase of the pirate under the impression that the whole affair was a dream; but, on returning to his cave, he found that he could not rest. old associations and memories had been too violently aroused, and, after spending a sleepless night he rose up, determined to resume the chase which he had abandoned. he returned to the spot where he had lost sight of his enemy in the swamp, and, after a brief examination of the place, advanced in as straight a line as he could through the tangled and interlacing boughs.
naturally he followed the trail of the pirate, for the difficulties or peculiar formations of the ground which had influenced the latter in his course also affected zeppa much in the same way. thus it came to pass that when the raturans were about to burn their prisoner alive, the madman was close to their village. but zeppa did not think of the raturans. he had never seen or heard of them, except on the occasion of their attack on the mountain-men. his sole desire was to be revenged on the slayer of his boy. and even in this matter the poor maniac was still greatly perplexed, for his christian principles and his naturally gentle spirit forbade revenge on the one hand, while, on the other, a sense of justice told him that murder should not go unpunished, or the murderer remain at large; so that it required the absolute sight of rosco before his eyes to rouse him to the pitch of fury necessary to hold him to the execution of his purpose.
it was while he was advancing slowly, and puzzling his brain over these considerations, that rosco’s cry for help rang out.
zeppa recognised the voice, and a dark frown settled on his countenance as he stopped to listen. then an appalling yell filled his ears. it was repeated again and again, as the kindling flames licked round the pirate’s naked feet, causing him to writhe in mortal agony.
instantly zeppa was stirred to action. he replied with a tremendous shout.
well did the raturans know that shout. with caught breath and blanched faces they turned towards the direction whence it came, and they saw the madman bounding towards them with streaming locks and glaring eyes. a single look sufficed. the entire population of the village turned and fled!
next moment zeppa rushed up to the stake, and kicked the fire-brands from beneath the poor victim, who was by that time almost insensible from agony and smoke. drawing his knife, zeppa cut the cords, and, lifting the pirate in his arms, laid him on the ground.
the madman was terribly excited. he had been drenched from frequent immersions in the swamp, besides being much exhausted by his long and difficult walk, or rather, scramble, after a sleepless night; and this sudden meeting with his worst enemy in such awful circumstances seemed to have produced an access of insanity, so that the pirate felt uncertain whether he had not been delivered from a horrible fate to fall into one perhaps not less terrible.
as he lay there on his back, scorched, tormented with thirst and helpless, he watched with fearful anxiety each motion of the madman. for some moments zeppa seemed undecided. he stood with heaving chest expanding nostrils, and flashing eyes, gazing after the flying crew of natives. then he turned sharply on the unhappy man who lay at his feet.
“get up!” he said fiercely, “and follow me.”
“i cannot get up, zeppa,” replied the pirate in a faint voice. “don’t you see my feet are burnt? god help me!”
he ended with a deep groan, and the ferocity at once left zeppa’s countenance, but the wild light did not leave his eyes, nor did he become less excited in his actions.
“come, i will carry you,” he said.
stooping down quickly, he raised the pirate in his arms as if he had been a child, and bore him away.
avoiding the swamp, he proceeded in the direction of the mountain by another route—a route which ran so near to ongoloo’s village, that the raturans never ventured to use it.
he passed the village without having been observed, and began to toil slowly up the steep ascent panting as he went, for his mighty strength had been overtaxed, and his helpless burden was heavy.
“lay me down and rest yourself,” said rosco, with a groan that he could not suppress, for his scorched lower limbs caused him unutterable anguish, and beads of perspiration stood upon his brow, while a deadly pallor overspread his face.
zeppa spoke no word in reply. he did, indeed, look at the speaker once, uneasily, but took no notice of his request. thus, clasping his enemy to his breast he ascended the steep hill, struggling and stumbling upwards, as if with some fixed and stern purpose in view, until at last he gained the shelter of his mountain cave.
