CHAPTER XVI
THE OLD SKIPPER’S DESPAIR
Meanwhile, Capt. Grandiere, having obtained his pass, got into a crowded street car, en route for the Old Capitol prison. After toiling up the long hill on the north side of the Capitol grounds, the car turned into East Capitol Street.
There the old skipper got off and inquired his way to the “Old Capitol”—a large pile of brick buildings, looking not unlike a warehouse, but which in its time, before the present beautiful edifice had been raised, was used for the councils of the National Congress, and now was turned into a military prison.
Capt. Grandiere found the place—though it looked very much like a Baltimore tobacco depot—and then went up to the main floor, at which a sentry stood on guard.
He showed his pass. The sentinel scrutinized it, returned it to him, and let him in.
He entered a broad passage, with doors on either side, and a staircase in the midst. These doors were all closed, and a sentry stood at every one.
“I wish to see young Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud,” said the captain, correcting himself—“one of the officers taken prisoner on the blockade runner _Argente_.”
The sentry to whom he addressed these words looked at his pass, and said, laconically:
“Upstairs.”
The old man climbed the stairs, and found himself in an upper passage, with other doors on each side, and another staircase in the midst. These doors were also closed and guarded by sentries.
“I want to see Ro—Mr. Craven Cloud, one of the prisoners from the blockade runner _Argente_,” said the skipper, handing his pass to the nearest sentry, who looked at it, and answered, shortly:
“Upstairs.”
The old man groaned, and slowly mounted the second flight of stairs, to find himself in a passage exactly like the one below in all respects of doors, sentries, and a third staircase.
The captain, panting from his long ascent, repeated his formula, and handed his pass, which was returned to him, with the answering formula.
The old man, feeling fatigued and dizzy, began to ascend the third flight of stairs. When he reached the top he found himself in a passage precisely like those below—closed doors, armed sentries, and a fourth staircase, probably leading into the garret.
“I have been a sailor for sixty years, and hope to sail the seas for sixty more! Men have lived hale and hearty to extreme old age, and why not I, who never was drunk or ill in my life? But if I have to go up another flight of stairs I shall be cut off in my prime!” said the captain to himself, as he leaned, puffing and blowing, against the freshly whitewashed wall.
“I feel just like the
“‘Youth who bore through snow and ice A banner with a strange device— Excelsior!’
“Which must mean ‘Upstairs.’ And like him, I shall drop dead at the top. Say! you, sir! I want to see Mr. Craven Cloud, who was taken prisoner from the blockade runner _Argente_. Here’s my permit,” said the old skipper, as soon as he could get his breath, handing his pass to one of the sentries.
“Room at the end—Number 53,” said the soldier, returning the paper.
“Thank Heaven, that is a change for the better!” exclaimed the old man, trotting up the whole length of the passage to a board partition that seemed to have been temporarily put up across the end.
A sentry stood before the door in this partition, and to him the skipper gave his pass.
The sentry unlocked the door and admitted the visitor into the small room that had been partitioned off from the front end of the passage.
The place was clean, fresh and light, but had no furniture except one narrow iron bedstead with a mattress, a pillow and a white spread as clean as the room.
Extended on the mattress lay the young and handsome form of Roland Bayard, clothed only in his white shirt and gray trousers. His hands were clasped above his head and his eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling.
He started up on hearing the visitor enter.
“Roland! Roland! My dear boy, Roland!” cried the old skipper, in a tremulous voice, while the tears started to his eyes.
If the two had been French or German, they would have fallen into each other’s arms. Being Americans of English descent, they only clasped hands a little more firmly than usual, gazed into each other’s eyes earnestly for a moment, and then sat down on the side of the bed together in silence.
The old skipper at length spoke:
“Roland, my dear, dear boy, how is this?”
“How is—what?” inquired the young man, slowly, and after a pause, speaking in a tone of pain in his hesitating voice, and with a look of pain in his haggard eyes that could not be concealed.
“Oh, you know. Dear lad, you know! You know what I mean! How is that I find you here a prisoner, instead of a free man? Why did you not tell Le that you were a captive among the pirates, not a confederate of them? Le could have corroborated your story and you would have been brought home in honor, not in this way!”
“Le could have done nothing for me, under the circumstances!” replied the young man, in a tone so full of despair that the old skipper looked at him in horror.
“Circumstances, Roland? What circumstances? That devil, Silver, told me he had persuaded you to join his band. But he never told the truth! Surely, surely, Roland, he never told the truth! You never joined the pirate crew! Why do I ask? Of course you never did, and never could!” said the captain, speaking with great assurance, but—looking anxiously into the face of his favorite for confirmation of his words.
No such confirmation came.
Roland put up his hand and covered his eyes; he could not bear to meet that anxious, eager gaze of his old friend.
“Roland, my dear lad, to what circumstances do you allude? Roland, for my sake—for all our sakes—for—for—little Rosemary’s sake, explain yourself!”
The young man kept his eyes covered and his head bowed, while his whole frame shook as with an ague fit.
The old skipper saw the effect of his words, and repeated them:
“For little Rosemary’s sake, dear lad!”
“Don’t! don’t!” wailed Roland. “Don’t! don’t! I loved the child! Heaven knows how I loved her! She was always the dearest creature on earth to me! I loved her so much that I hope, in these three years of absence, in which she has grown from childhood to womanhood, I hope she has forgotten me!”
These last words were uttered in a wail of anguish.
“But she has not forgotten you, Roland! You are the larger part of her life! From the time I met her on the _Asia_——Did I tell you that I came over on the same ship with Force and his party?”
“No. Capt. Silver told me that he had set you ashore on the coast of England, not far from Penzance, and so I supposed that you had come home; but I did not know on what ship or in what company! Go on! you were talking about Rosemary.”
“We met by chance on board the _Asia_. Of course, there was great surprise on both sides. And, of course, I told them all about the capture of the _Kitty_ by the pirates. And the first question my niece asked was about you. And from this she has been in a state of continual anxiety about you—anxiety that has been much increased since she learned of the capture of the _Argente_ by the _Eagle_.”
“You told her I was with the pirates?”
“As a captive, yes! as a well-treated captive! I was not likely to repeat to her a tale that I did not myself believe, about your having joined the crew,” said the captain, indignantly.
Roland again covered his face with his hands, and bowed his head.
“Boy I what am I to think of your silence?” demanded the old skipper, more in sorrow than in anger.
“Oh, my dear old captain, you will think as well of me as you can.”
“Are you Capt. Silver’s mate? Yes or no?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Roland, if you were the pirate’s mate, you would be brave enough to avow it. If you were not, you would be sure to deny it. I do not understand your silence.”
The young man did not attempt to explain, but sat with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed upon his hands, in an attitude of despair.
“I will ask you one other question. Perhaps you will answer it. Did you recognize in the pirate Silver the man whom you once knew as Angus Anglesea?”
“Yes, I recognized him,” replied Roland, wearily.
“And he recognized you as the youth he was accustomed to see with the Forces?”
“Yes, he knew me at once.”
“It must have been a strange meeting between you.”
“It was.”
“Tell me all about it, Roland, my lad. What did you say to him? What did he say to you when you first met? How did he account for having two characters and two names, eh? Tell me all about it, lad.”
“I cannot. Believe me, I cannot. Oh, my old captain! My dear old captain! It wrings my heart to refuse you! I would do anything to please you, but I cannot do this which you ask.”
“I don’t understand! I don’t understand! I don’t believe I shall ever understand!” exclaimed the perplexed captain, shaking his gray head.
“Perhaps you never will in this world, but I hope that you will in the world to come, when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed. In the meantime—oh, judge me as charitably as you can!” pleaded Roland.
“Heaven knows that I wish to do so, my dear lad! Perhaps you may answer me one more question—a last one: Why did you drop your lawful name of ‘Roland Bayard,’ and take another by which you are now known—‘Craven Cloud?’ You need not answer if you do not choose?”
“I will tell you. The life of a blockade runner——”
“Blockade runner be blowed!” angrily exclaimed the old skipper. “Pirate, you mean! You can’t blind me with—blockade runner! Not after her taking the _Kitty_, you can’t! Pirate, lad—pirate!”
“Just as you please! The life, I say, on such a ship is uncertain; death often tragic. I did not wish to carry an honest name through such a life, or to such a death. In a word—if those who loved me were destined to hear one Craven Cloud—blockade runner, pirate, slaver, as you please—had been taken and hanged, I did not wish them to know that I was the man. I took an alias, and I made it Craven Cloud because the name suited the case. There! that is all.”
“But, Roland, you are no pirate—no slaver. It is impossible that you should be!” exclaimed the old skipper with the utmost confidence, yet still eagerly, prayerfully gazing into the troubled face of his young mate for confirmation of those words.
But still no such confirmation came.
The door opened and a soldier entered.
“Sorry,” he said, in a serio-comic spirit in which some of the soldiers jested their cares away, “sorry to separate you, but the best of friends must part. Shutting up time has come, and the word is march!”
“Do you mean I must go?” inquired the old skipper.
“That’s about the measure of it, granddad.”
“Good-by, Roland, lad! Mind, I don’t believe any ill of you, in spite of all. I shall come to see you again to-morrow, and bring Rosemary with me.”
“No! no! no! no! Do not bring her! I am parted from Rosemary forever! The sight of her—would unman me!” cried the youth.
“Then—what am I to say to her when I see her?”
“Say—the best you can—the fairest, the most merciful you can!” exclaimed Roland.
The old skipper wrung the youth’s hand and left the room.
He returned to the hotel, but kept entirely out of the way of the Forces. He had not the courage to meet Rosemary.