The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “Well, have you brought the doctor?”

  “Ho, yis, massa, an’ I bring Tomeo and Buttchee too.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to let no one else come near us?” said Orlando in a tone of vexation.

  “Dat’s true, massa, but I no kin stop dem. So soon as dey hear dat Antonio Zeppa am found, sick in de mountains, dey swore dey mus’ go see him. I say dat you say no! Dey say dey not care. I say me knock ’em bofe down. Dey say dey turn me hinside hout if I don’t ole my tongue. What could dis yar negro do? Dey’s too much for me. So dey follered, and here dey am wid de doctor, waiting about two hun’rd yards down dere for leave to come. But, I say, massa, dey’s good sort o’ fellers after all—do whatever you tells ’em. Good for go messages, p’raps, an save dis yar negro’s poor legs.”

  Ebony made the latter suggestion with a grin so broad that in the darkness his face became almost luminous with teeth and gums.

  “Well, I suppose we must make the most of the circumstances,” said Orlando. “Come, lead me to them.”

  It was found that though the strong affection of the two chiefs for Zeppa had made them rebellious in the matter of visiting the spot, the same affection, and their regard for Orlando, rendered them submissive as lambs, and willing to do absolutely whatever they were told.

  Orlando, therefore, had no difficulty in prevailing on them to delay their visit to his father till the following day. Meanwhile, he caused them to encamp in a narrow pass close at hand, and, the better to reconcile them to their lot, imposed upon them the duty of mounting guard each alternate couple of hours during the night.

  “He will do well,” said the doctor, after examining the patient. “This sleep is life to him. I will give him something when he awakes, but the awaking must be left to nature. Whether he recovers his reason after what he has passed through remains to be seen. You say he has been wandering for some time here in a state of insanity? How came that about?”

  “It is a long and sad story, doctor,” said Orlando, evading the question, “and I have not time to tell it now, for I want you to visit another patient.”

  “Another patient?” repeated the surgeon, in surprise; “ah! one of the natives, I suppose?”

  “No, a white man. He is a sailor who ran away from his ship, and was caught by the natives and tortured.”

  “Come, then, let us go and see the poor fellow at once. Does he live far from here?”

  “Close at hand,” answered Orlando, as he led the way; “and perhaps, doctor, it would be well not to question the poor man at present as to his being here and in such a plight. He seems very weak and ill.”

  When the surgeon had examined Rosco’s feet he led Orlando aside.

  “It is a bad case,” he said; “both legs must be amputated below the knee if the man’s life is to be saved.”

  “Must it be done now?”

  “Immediately. Can you assist me?”

  “I have assisted at amateur operations before now,” said Orlando, “and at all events you can count on the firmness of my nerves and on blind obedience. But stay—I must speak to him first, alone.”

  “Rosco,” said the youth, as he knelt by the pirate’s couch, “your sins have been severely punished, and your endurance sorely tried—”

  “Not more than I deserve, Orlando.”

  “But I grieve to tell you that your courage must be still further tried. The doctor says that both feet must be amputated.”

  A frown gathered on the pirate’s face, and he compressed his lips for a few moments.

  “And the alternative?” he asked.

  “Is death.”

  Again there was a brief pause. Then he said slowly, almost bitterly—

  “Oh, death! you have hovered over my head pretty steadily of late! It is a question whether I had not better let you come on and end these weary struggles, rather than become a hopeless cripple in the prime of life! Why should I fear death now more than before?”

  “Have you any hope of eternal life, Rosco?”

  “How can I tell? What do I know about eternal life!”

  “Then you are not prepared to die; and let me earnestly assure you that there is something well worth living for, though at present you do not—you cannot know it.”

  “Enough. Let it be as the doctor advises,” said the pirate in a tone of resignation.

  That night the operation was successfully performed, and the unfortunate man was afterwards carefully tended by Ebony.

  Next day Tomeo and Buttchee were told that their old friend Zeppa could not yet be seen, but that he required many little comforts from the “Furious,” which must be brought up with as little delay as possible. That was sufficient. Forgetting themselves in their anxiety to aid their friend, these affectionate warriors went off on their mission, and were soon out of sight.

  When Zeppa awoke at last with a deep sigh, it was still dark. This was fortunate, for he could not see whose hand administered the physic, and was too listless and weak to inquire. It was bright day when he awoke the second time and looked up inquiringly in his son’s face.

  “What, are you still there, Orley?” he said faintly, while the habitual sweet expression stole over his pale features, though it was quickly followed by the perplexed look. “But how comes this change? You look so much older than you are, dear boy. Would God that I could cease this dreaming!”

  “You are not dreaming now, father. I am indeed Orley. You have been ill and delirious, but, thanks be to God, are getting well again.”

  “What?” exclaimed the invalid; “has it been all a dream, then? Were you not thrown into the sea by mutineers, and have I not been wandering for months or years on a desert island? But then, if these things be all dreams,” he added, opening his eyes wide and fixing them intently on Orlando’s face, “how comes it that I still dream the change in you? You are Orley, yet not Orley! How is that?”

  “Yes, all that is true, dear, dear father,” said the youth, gently clasping one of the helpless hands that lay crossed on Zeppa’s broad chest; “I was thrown overboard by the mutineers years ago, but, thank God, I was not drowned; and you have been wandering here in—in—very ill, for years; but, thank God again, you are better, and I have been mercifully sent to deliver you.”

  “I can’t believe it, Orley, for I have so often seen you, and you have so often given me the slip—yet there does seem something very real about you just now—very real, though so changed—yet it is the same voice, and you never spoke to me before in my dreams—except once. Yes, I think it was once, that you spoke. I remember it well, for the sound sent such a thrill to my heart. Oh! God forbid that it should again fade away as it has done so often!”

  “It will not fade, father. The time you speak of was only yesterday, when I found you. You have been sleeping since, and a doctor is attending you.”

  “A doctor! where did he come from?”

  At that moment Ebony approached with some food in a tin pan. The invalid observed him at once.

  “Ebony! can that be you? Why—when—oh! my poor brain feels so light—it seems as if a puff of wind would blow it away. I must have been very ill.” Zeppa spoke feebly, and closed his eyes, from which one or two tears issued—blessed tears!—the first he had shed for many a day.

  “His reason is restored,” whispered the doctor in Orlando’s ear, “but he must be left to rest.”

  Orlando’s heart was too full to find relief through the lips.

  “I cannot understand it at all,” resumed Zeppa, reopening his eyes; “least of all can I understand you, Orley, but my hope is in God. I would sleep now, but you must not let go my hand.” (Orlando held it tighter.) “One word more. Your dear mother?”

  “Is well—and longs to see you.”

  A profound, long-drawn sigh followed, as if an insupportable burden had been removed from the wearied soul, and Zeppa sank into a sleep so peaceful that it seemed as if the spirit had forsaken the worn out frame. But a steady, gentle heaving of the chest told that life
was still there. During the hours that followed, Orlando sat quite motionless, like a statue, firmly grasping his father’s hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A few days after the discovery of Zeppa by his son, a trading vessel chanced to touch at the island, the captain of which no sooner saw the British man-of-war than he lowered his gig, went aboard in a state of great excitement, and told how that, just two days before, he had been chased by a pirate in latitude so-and-so and longitude something else!

  A messenger was immediately sent in hot haste to Sugar-loaf Mountain to summon Orlando.

  “I’m sorry to be obliged to leave you in such a hurry,” said Captain Fitzgerald, as they were about to part, “but duty calls, and I must obey. I promise you, however, either to return here or to send your mission-vessel for you, if it be available. Rest assured that you shall not be altogether forsaken.”

  Having uttered these words of consolation, the captain spread his sails and departed, leaving Orlando, and his father, Waroonga, Tomeo, Buttchee, Ebony, and Rosco on Sugar-loaf Island.

  Several days after this, Waroonga entered the hut of Ongoloo and sat down. The chief was amusing himself at the time by watching his prime minister Wapoota playing with little Lippy, who had become a favourite at the palace since Zeppa had begun to take notice of her.

  “I would palaver with the chief,” said the missionary.

  “Let Lippy be gone,” said the chief.

  Wapoota rolled the brown child unceremoniously out of the hut, and composed his humorous features into an expression of solemnity.

  “My brother,” continued the missionary, “has agreed to become a Christian and burn his idols?”

  “Yes,” replied Ongoloo with an emphatic nod, for he was a man of decision. “I like to hear what you tell me. I feel that I am full of naughtiness. I felt that before you came here. I have done things that I knew to be wrong, because I have been miserable after doing them—yet, when in passion, I have done them again. I have wondered why I was miserable. Now I know; you tell me the Great Father was whispering to my spirit. It must be true. I have resisted Him, and He made me miserable. I deserve it. I deserve to die. When any of my men dare to resist me I kill them. I have dared to resist the Great Father, yet He has not killed me. Why not? you tell me He is full of love and mercy even to His rebels! I believe it. You say, He sent His Son Jesus to die for me, and to deliver me from my sins. It is well, I accept this Saviour—and all my people shall accept Him.”

  “My brother’s voice makes me glad,” returned Waroonga; “but while you can accept this Saviour for yourself, it is not possible to force other people to do so.”

  “Not possible!” cried the despotic chief, with vehemence. “Do you not know that I can force my people to do whatever I please?—at least I can kill them if they refuse.”

  “You cannot do that and, at the same time, be a Christian.”

  “But,” resumed Ongoloo, with a look of, so to speak, fierce perplexity, “I can at all events make them burn their idols.”

  “True, but that would only make them hate you in their hearts, and perhaps worship their idols more earnestly in secret. No, my brother; there is but one weapon given to Christians, but that is a sharp and powerful weapon. It is called Love; we must win others to Christ by voice and example, we may not drive them. It is not permitted. It is not possible.”

  The chief cast his frowning eyes on the ground, and so remained for some time, while the missionary silently prayed. It was a critical moment. The man so long accustomed to despotic power could not easily bring his mind to understand the process of winning men. He did, indeed, know how to win the love of his wives and children—for he was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but as to winning the obedience of warriors or slaves—the thing was preposterous! Yet he had sagacity enough to perceive that while he could compel the obedience of the body—or kill it—he could not compel the obedience of the soul.

  “How can I,” he said at last, with a touch of indignation still in his tone, “I, a chief and a descendant of chiefs, stoop to ask, to beg, my slaves to become Christians? It may not be, I can only command them.”

  “Woh!” exclaimed Wapoota, unable to restrain his approval of the sentiment.

  “You cannot even command yourself, Ongoloo, to be a Christian. How, then, can you command others? It is the Great Father who has put it into your heart to wish to be a Christian. If you will now take His plan, you will succeed. If you refuse, and try your own plan, you shall fail.”

  “Stay,” cried the chief, suddenly laying such a powerful grasp on Waroonga’s shoulder, that he winced; “did you not say that part of His plan is the forgiveness of enemies?”

  “I did.”

  “Must I, then, forgive the Raturans if I become a Christian?”

  “Even so.”

  “Then it is impossible. What! forgive the men whose forefathers have tried to rob my forefathers of their mountain since our nation first sprang into being! Forgive the men who have for ages fought with our fathers, and tried to make slaves of our women and children—though they always failed because they are cowardly dogs! Forgive the Raturans? Never! Impossible!”

  “With man this is impossible. With the Great Father all things are possible. Leave your heart in His hands, Ongoloo; don’t refuse His offer to save you from an unforgiving spirit, as well as from other sins, and that which to you seems impossible will soon become easy.”

  “No—never!” reiterated the chief with decision, as he cut further conversation short by rising and stalking out of the hut, closely followed by the sympathetic Wapoota.

  Waroonga was not much depressed by this failure. He knew that truth would prevail in time, and did not expect that the natural enmity of man would be overcome at the very first sound of the Gospel. He was therefore agreeably surprised when, on the afternoon of that same day, Ongoloo entered the hut which had been set apart for him and the two Ratinga chiefs, and said—

  “Come, brother, I have called a council of my warriors. Come, you shall see the working of the Great Father.”

  The missionary rose at once and went after the chief with much curiosity, accompanied by Tomeo and Buttchee: Zeppa and his son, with Ebony and the pirate, being still in the mountains.

  Ongoloo led them to the top of a small hill on which a sacred hut or temple stood. Here the prisoners of war used to be slaughtered, and here the orgies of heathen worship were wont to be practised. An immense crowd of natives—indeed the entire tribe except the sick and infirm—crowned the hill. This, however, was no new sight to the missionary, and conveyed no hint of what was pending.

  The crowd stood in two orderly circles—the inner one consisting of the warriors, the outer of the women and children. Both fell back to let the chief and his party pass.

  As the temple-hut was open at one side, its interior, with the horrible instruments of execution and torture, as well as skulls, bones, and other ghastly evidences of former murder, was exposed to view. On the centre of the floor lay a little pile of rudely carved pieces of timber, with some loose cocoa-nut fibre beneath them. A small fire burned on something that resembled an altar in front of the hut.

  The chief, standing close to this fire, cleared his throat and began an address with the words, “Men, warriors, women and children, listen!” And they did listen with such rapt attention that it seemed as if not only ears, but eyes, mouths, limbs, and muscles were engaged in the listening act, for this mode of address—condescending as it did to women and children—was quite new to them, and portended something unusual.

  “Since these men came here,” continued the chief, pointing to Waroonga and his friends, “we have heard many wonderful things that have made us think. Before they came we heard some of the same wonderful things from the great white man, whose head is light but whose heart is wise and good. I have made up my mind, now, to become a Christian. My warriors, my women, my children need not be told what that is. They have all got ears and have heard. I have assembled
you here to see my gods burned (he pointed to the pile in the temple), and I ask all who are willing, to join me in making this fire a big one. I cannot compel your souls. I could compel your bodies, but I will not!”

  He looked round very fiercely as he said this, as though he still had half a mind to kill one or two men to prove his point, and those who stood nearest to him moved uneasily, as though they more than half expected him to do some mischief, but the fierce look quickly passed away, and he went on in gentle, measured tones—

  “Waroonga tells me that the Book of the Great Father says, those who become Christians must love each other: therefore we must no more hate, or quarrel, or fight, or kill—not even our enemies.”

  There was evident surprise on every face, and a good deal of decided shaking of heads, as if such demands were outrageous.

  “Moreover, it is expected of Christians that they shall not revenge themselves, but suffer wrong patiently.”

  The eyebrows rose higher at this.

  “Still more; it is demanded that we shall forgive our enemies. If we become Christians, we must open our arms wide, and take the Raturans to our hearts!”

  This was a climax, as Ongoloo evidently intended, for he paused a long time, while loud expressions of dissent and defiance were heard on all sides, though it was not easy to see who uttered them.

  “Now, warriors, women and children, here I am—a Christian—who will join me?”

  “I will!” exclaimed Wapoota, stepping forward with several idols in his arms, which he tossed contemptuously into the temple.

  There was a general smile of incredulity among the warriors, for Wapoota was well known to be a time-server: nevertheless they were mistaken, for the jester was in earnest this time.

  Immediately after that, an old, white-headed warrior, bent nearly double with infirmity and years, came forward and acted as Wapoota had done. Then, turning to the people, he addressed them in a weak, trembling voice. There was a great silence, for this was the patriarch of the tribe; had been a lion-like man in his youth, and was greatly respected.