CHAPTER XXX.

CAPTAIN BARBARA’S SECOND VOYAGE.

“O’er the glad waters of the dark-blue sea! Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free! Far as the breeze can bear the billows’ foam, Survey our empire and behold our home!

“Oh, who can tell, save one whose heart has tried, And danced in triumph o’er the waters wide, The exulting sense—the pulse’s maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way.”—_Byron._

The next day was the fourteenth of February, and St. Valentine’s day, and of all the three hundred and sixty-five, the luckiest for lovers’ enterprise. The weather was as fine as it had promised to be, with a clear sky, a soft air, and light breeze from the south, heralding an early spring.

Soon after sunrise, Sir Parke Morelle and Lord Montressor drove down to the docks, where they found Lord Dazzleright already awaiting them. Willful Brande was also in attendance, with the long-boat from the Petrel, to take the party to the vessel.

After a general greeting and shaking of hands, they entered the long-boat and were rowed to the barque.

The Petrel was, as always, neat and clean as a dainty maiden in her May-day dress.

The few hands were all at their posts.

Barbara walked the deck, overseeing the final arrangements, and issuing her orders. She paused at the starboard gangway to receive her passengers; but frowned slightly when she recognized Lord Dazzleright among them. But since the baron understood her reserve, he was not discomposed.

“We are ready, and the tide is on the ebb; we only waited to ship you before weighing anchor,” she said cordially offering her hand to Lord Montressor, and bowing to the two other gentlemen.

“So that I shall be obliged to take immediate leave of my friends and hurry back,” said Lord Dazzleright, who had not been addressed.

“Yes, sir,” said Barbara, curtly turning away—“Willful! have the long-boat hauled up and made fast,” she commanded. Then to Lord Montressor and Sir Parke she said:

“Gentlemen, accommodate yourselves, if you please. You know your quarters in my cabin, or if you prefer the lock there are pleasant seats in the stern.”

They bowed and begged her not to incommode herself, as they would take care of themselves. As the men had now hauled up the long-boat and secured it to the davits, Lord Dazzleright began to blame his rashness, and wonder how he should get back to the shore.

Barbara immediately relieved him of his dilemma by taking her speaking trumpet, going to the side of the vessel and hailing an idle wherry from the shore.

“Boat ahoy!—come alongside to take a passenger off!”

“Ay, ay, sir!” sung out the waterman, who began to ply his oars, swiftly propelling the boat in the direction of the vessel. While it was coming, poor Dazzleright shook hands with his friends, wishing them a good voyage, and then turned to look for Barbara. She had gone forward and was standing there to give orders.

“All hands to the windlass! And you, Willful, to the wheel!”

She was obeyed on the instant, and the men and boys stood waiting further commands.

She paused, for Lord Dazzleright approached her—took her hand and said respectfully:

“Good-bye, and a good voyage to you, Miss Brande! You are severe and even unjust to me; but you will know me better; I can wait for that; God bless you and yours!”

“Heaven save you, sir! Good-bye!” said Barbara, in a somewhat softer voice, thinking that in this parting hour she could safely relax her rigor. He understood and refrained from presuming on this new kindness; but immediately went to the starboard gangway and descended into the boat, waiting there to receive him.

“Up anchor!” shouted Barbara, as she saw the wherry push off.

And while the men laid themselves to the windlass, and heaved with all their strength, Lord Dazzleright stood waving his hat from the receding boat. On reaching the shore, with a last wave of adieu, responded to from the decks of the vessel, Lord Dazzleright’s boat disappeared in the crowd at the docks.

The anchor was soon up, the sails all set, and the Petrel stood gallantly out for the mouth of the river.

When the vessel was thus fairly under way, Barbara walked aft to speak to her passengers.

Sir Parke Morelle met her half way. Sir Parke looked pale and unnerved. He had never made a sea voyage further than from Dover to Calais, or from Liverpool to Cork, in all his life, and to begin at his age to cross the Atlantic ocean, in such an egg-shell as the Petrel, with such an extraordinary captain as this young girl, was, notwithstanding the opinion of Montressor,—“indiscreet—to say the least, indiscreet.” He had stepped upon the planks of the deck with feelings fearfully akin to those of a condemned criminal stepping upon the flooring of a scaffold. He had watched Barbara walking fore and aft giving her orders as though she had been the sheriff giving directions for his execution. Every order that she gave, and that the men obeyed, seemed to precipitate his fate! He had serious thoughts of forfeiting his passage money, and offering Barbara a handsome remuneration for putting him back on shore. But a latent confidence in Lord Montressor’s judgment and a sense of shame for his own nervousness, restrained him from proceeding to that length. But now meeting Miss Brande, he accosted her with:

“Young woman, I would like to have a few moments conversation with you.”

“I am at your service, sir.”

“Turn about then, if you please.”

Barbara complied.

Now, Sir Parke Morelle was as considerable a “landlubber” as could be found in all England or America. He was, in his profound ignorance of nautical affairs, quite competent to be a U. S. Secretary of the Navy. As they walked forward he said:

“Ahem—aha. Young woman——”

“I beg your pardon, sir, I am called Barbara Brande.”

“Ahem—Miss Brande, can you rely upon your own competency for a—for taking care of this vessel.”

Barbara Brande’s great, strong black eyes flashed down upon him with an expression that made the autocrat of Hyde Hall quail.

“I could rely upon myself to take care of a fleet!” was upon her tongue’s end. But Barbara possessed the rare virtue of self-control, and pitying the poor old man who had neither the physical courage to go fearlessly to sea with her nor the moral courage to confess his weakness and stay home—she answered:

“Sir Parke, I have two little brothers on board whom I love better than my own life. They are hostages for your safety.”

“I do not understand you, Miss Brande.”

“Nor did I engage to furnish you with an understanding,” thought Barbara, but repressing herself, she replied:—“Loving Willful and Edwy as I love my own soul, I never would have taken them on this voyage had I not known myself in every respect fully competent to take care of the vessel and of them, as well as any captain in the merchant’s service could do.”

“But you are a woman,” said Sir Parke, still hesitating.

Another flash of the great black eyes, and Barbara warming up, replied:

“Well, sir! am I on trial for being a woman, or for being a sea-captain, which?”

“For being both in one, rather,” answered the baronet.

“Indeed! And why for being both in one? Has not a woman a brain as well as a heart? Has she not courage as well as gentleness? Fortitude as well as patience? Has it not been proved over and over again, a thousand and a thousand times, that in moments of danger woman have exhibited as much presence of mind, courage, promptitude, and skill as the best men among you?”

But we have elsewhere given Barbara Brande’s defense of herself in her chosen vocation, and will not repeat it here.

The baronet was silenced if not convinced by her argument, and presently turned the attack from the captain to the craft.

“How could such a little craft live in a stormy sea for instance.”

Barbara’s eyes glowed, and her ripe lips wreathed in the smile that beamed from her face.

“How, sir, does the little sapling survive the storm that twists off the great oak of a hundred years growth? Why, sir, a craft like this will ride lightly on the crest of waves that would break over and engulf a ship of the line! Why, sir, the great waves that would thunder over the decks of a heavy man-of-war would lift this peaceful little merchantman and bear her on in safety—as if indeed there were a sentient magnanimity in old ocean, which, while warring upon the strong would spare the weak.”

They now turned in their promenade and walked aft.

“So you think you and the Petrel could weather a storm? Have you any experience of the fact?”

“Have I any experience of the fact?——Willful! what are you about there! Will you run over that lighter? Helm-a-lee! Helm-a lee!—steady, so!—Have I any experience of that fact? I should think so! The little Petrel behaves beautifully in a storm! She rides the waves like a buoy, or lies-to snugly as a little duck! the brave little Petrel! the bonny little Petrel!”

“Then you have been in a storm—you have carried your vessel safely through it?” inquired Sir Parke, as they reached the stern, in which Lord Montressor sat with a pocket telescope in his hand, taking sight at the villas on the shore.

“Lord Montressor,” said Barbara, “your friend asks me if I have ever worked this vessel through a storm. Tell him how we weathered the gales in the Gulf Stream!—for I am immensely tired of him,” she added, as she dropped the arm of Sir Parke and left him on the hands of her other passenger.

Barbara walked forward to the “caboose.”

Let my inland readers now imagine a little box two yards square, on the forecastle—painted on the outside, and furnished inside with a store and dresser, and a full complement of pots, pans, kettles, and crockery-ware.

The presiding genius of this place was a stout, jet-black negro woman, whose smiling eyes and ivory teeth imparted a contented and good-humored expression to her homely face.

“What have you got for dinner, Climene?”

“Dere’s a ham on a b’ilin, and I jes gwine put down a line o’ mutton to roas’.”

“That’s right; cook the fresh provisions every day, for they’ll not keep, and we have no live stock to kill. And the vegetables?”

“Why, dere’s taters, an’ cabbidge, an’ spinidge.”

“That will do—and the desert?”

“I gwine make apple pie and custard puddin’—caze you see I tuk notice afore how Lord Monstrouser allers likes somfin deliky.”

“Yes, that will do; that will do quite well.”

And leaving the namesake of the sea-nymph to her culinary conjurations in the caboose, Barbara went down into the cabin to lay the cloth for dinner.

I have neither time nor space to follow the details of this voyage.

For the first two weeks the voyagers were blessed with the finest weather.

But in the midst of the third week the sky changed.

“And such a change, oh night, and storm, and darkness!”

March came in “like a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour.” The wind arose in the north-west, and blowed almost incessantly for four weeks, that is, it would blow continuously for three days, then lull for a day, or only “pause to gather its fearful breath,” and rise with recovered strength, and blow harder than ever. As the vessel entered the Gulf Stream, the weather grew worse—the gale became a hurricane—the rough sea ran mountains high.

But the brave little Petrel behaved beautifully, as Barbara had said; she tacked like a skillful politician, rode the high waves like a jockey boy, or lay-to like a duck, as occasion required.

Lord Montressor and his man worked as hard as the seamen, whenever their aid was needed. Sir Parke Morelle was too miserably sea-sick to care one sous about the fate of the vessel, unless it was to wish his own sufferings and the Petrel engulfed in the same sea. His valet spent day and night in attendance upon him.

But Barbara Brande was a sight to behold. Her perfect appreciation of the danger, combined with her perfect fearlessness, was a subject of wonder to all. Her unwavering courage, her undisturbed cheerfulness, her unruffled temper, the constant firmness and serenity of her countenance, the prompt, clear and ringing tones of her voice—heard through the howling of the wind and the thundering of the waves, inspired faith, and hope, and courage in every bosom.

Only once was Barbara moved; this was when her little brother Edwy—whom she had sent below, but who, in sympathetic excitement, had stolen again upon deck—was, by the pitching of the vessel, thrown violently forward, and only saved from going overboard, by Lord Montressor, who sprang and caught him in his arms. Barbara, pale as monumental marble, took the boy from his lordship’s arms, carried him below, and locked him up in the state-room for safety. Then she reappeared on deck as cool, as firm, and as prompt for action as before.

At length the wearying and wearied wind lulled. At last fine weather, with a fair southerly breeze, succeeded, and on the fifth of April the Petrel entered Chesapeake Bay; and the next day at sunset she dropt anchor off Brande’s Headland.

It was with the deepest emotion that Lord Montressor gazed upon the spot that had become the chosen retreat of Estelle.

The setting sun shone full against the yellow sandy beach, the gray, rocky bank, and flecked with golden light the tender spring foliage of the oak trees that surrounded and half concealed the old stone house upon the summit.

With the profoundest interest he contemplated the scene.

That mansion was her home. There she lived, suffered and endured. There, from some hidden covert, she had undoubtedly wept and watched for, and gazed upon his form; while he, unconscious of her proximity, had, gun in hand, wandered through the woods and fields and moors around the place.

Where was she now? In or near that old gray house undoubtedly. But what was she about?—at her lonely tea-table?—in her parlor, reading or meditating?—in the woods, rambling alone?—in the graveyard, ruminating? Where? How would she receive him? Was she, perhaps, that moment thinking of him, if not expecting him?

She would be greatly surprised to see him and her father. But would her surprise be altogether one of joy? That she loved him was undoubtedly true. That she loved him more than her own dearest earthly interests, and only less than her Creator, had been proved. But would she now consent to forget her own horrible calamity, and permit him to make her and himself, in his own rational manner, happy?

That she had a theory of his future brilliant destiny, which she had resolved not to dim by sharing, he had heard. That she could be as firm as she was disinterested, he had ascertained. Could he, then, be able to convince her, that, to him, _her_ “love was the greatest good in the world?”

But, patience—patience. Very soon these questions must be answered—these doubts set at rest. In an hour he should stand face to face with his beautiful, his beloved, his long lost, but now recovered Estelle. Till then, oh, throbbing pulse, be still!—oh, faithful, long-suffering heart, be hopeful! No one was on deck but Barbara and the crew, whom she was ordering to take in sail and let go the anchor. When she perceived her favorite passenger, she came forward smilingly to greet him.

“Good-evening, sir. It is a glorious spring evening—the air is as soft and balmy as that of June. You see that we are off the old place again.”

“Good-afternoon, Miss Brande. Yes, I see. Will you permit me to inquire how long you will remain here, and whether you will go on shore?”

“I shall remain at anchor through the night, and set sail again in the morning. And I will go on shore this evening, for I could almost imagine the poor old place feeling hurt if I passed it,” said Barbara, with one of her earnest smiles.

“Will you further permit me to remind you of a promise you gave when you were here last, to show me over your old house—one of the oldest houses in Maryland, as you said?”

Barbara looked embarrassed, hesitated, and then replied—

“Lord Montressor, that promise did not project itself down all time. It was only for the day upon which it was given. And now, I hope you will excuse me.”

Lord Montressor bowed. “If you wish to go on shore, sir, the long-boat, is, of course, at your service; but I cannot invite you to the house.”

“Then I should feel obliged to you, my dear Miss Brande, to give me a seat when you yourself go on shore.”

“I will do that with pleasure, sir.”

Sir Parke Morelle now waked up from his after-dinner nap, came on deck, and joined Montressor. Barbara bowed and left them alone together while she went forward to give orders for the long-boat to be prepared.

“That is your daughter’s home, Sir Parke,” said Lord Montressor, pointing to the dreary Headland, now growing darker under the thick falling shadows of evening.

“Good Heaven! what a desolate place!” exclaimed the baronet, in consternation.

“Yes; but I can well imagine that the desolation of the heart within should have rendered her insensible to the desolation of the scene without,” replied Montressor, solemnly.

Not perhaps feeling the latent rebuke hidden in these words, the baronet continued to gaze upon the picturesque Headland, until the long-boat was reported ready.

“I am going on shore—will you accompany me now?”

“Of course! of course! I will accompany you now,” replied the baronet.

Barbara came up dressed in the gray serge gown, sacque and hood that was her usual out-door costume.

“Sir Parke has also decided to go on shore, Miss Brande,” said Lord Montressor.

“Very good, sir,” said Barbara, betraying some little distrust and anxiety—“the boat awaits your convenience, gentlemen.”

“We are ready to attend you, Miss Brande.”

They went to the starboard gangway, where Lord Montressor led the way down the ladder, and having reached the boat, he put up his hand to assist Barbara in the descent; a courtesy which the girl accepted solely on the principle of politeness, for in truth, so far from requiring such assistance, she was rather embarrassed by its offer, as well as impeded by its forced acceptance. By the same ready hand, Sir Parke was next helped down the ladder. And when they were all seated, the oarsmen plied their oars, and the long-boat glided swiftly over the starlit waters toward the Headland that loomed darkly above them. In a few moments, the boat touched the sand, and was pushed up under the heavy shadows of the overhanging, wooded bank.