Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland Volume XV Part 18

The fourteen days were not yet past, when the prison-doors flew open, and the old Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had been at length successful; and, after twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon. He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own house--his family were clinging around him shedding tears of joy--and they were marvelling with grat.i.tude at the mysterious providence that had twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted--and the robber entered. He was habited, as we have before described, with the coa.r.s.e cloak and coa.r.s.er jerkin; but his bearing was above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained Covered.

"When you have perused these," said he, taking two papers from his bosom, "cast them into the fire!"

Sir John glanced on them, started, and became pale--they were his death-warrants.

"My deliverer," exclaimed he, "how shall I thank thee--how repay the saviour of my life! My father--my children--thank him for me!"

The old earl grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his knees; and he burst into tears.

"By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, "shall I thank my deliverer?"

The stranger wept aloud; and raising his beaver, the raven tresses of Grizel Cochrane fell upon the coa.r.s.e cloak.

"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the astonished and enraptured father--"my own child!--my saviour!--my own Grizel!"

It is unnecessary to add more--the imagination of the reader can supply the rest; and, we may only add, that Grizel Cochrane, whose heroism and n.o.ble affection we have here hurriedly and imperfectly sketched, was, tradition says, the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank, and great-great-grandmother of Mr Coutts, the celebrated banker.[2]

[Footnote 2: Since the author of the "Tales of the Borders" first published the tale of "Grizel Cochrane," a slightly different version of it appeared in "Chambers' Journal." There is no reason to doubt the fact of her heroism; but we believe it is incorrect, as is generally affirmed, to say that she was the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank. We may state that the author of these tales received a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John referred to, stating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel connected with their genealogy, but that they were unable to prove such connection.]

SQUIRE BEN.

Before introducing my readers to the narrative of Squire Ben, it may be proper to inform them who Squire Ben was. In the year 1816, when the piping times of peace had begun, and our heroes, like Oth.e.l.lo, "found their occupation gone," a thickset, bluff, burly-headed little man, whose every word and look reminded you of Incledon's "_Cease, rude Boreas_," and bespoke him to be one of those who had "sailed with n.o.ble Jervis," or,

"In gallant Duncan's fleet Had sung out, yo heave ho!"--

purchased a small estate in Northumberland, a few miles from the banks of the Coquet. He might be fifty years of age; but his weatherbeaten countenance gave him the appearance of a man of sixty. Around the collar of a Newfoundland dog, which followed him more faithfully than his shadow, were engraved the words, "Captain Benjamin Cookson;" but, after he had purchased the estate to which I have alluded, his poorer neighbours called him Squire Ben. He was a strange mixture of enthusiasm, shrewdness, courage, comicality, generosity, and humanity.

Ben, on becoming a country gentleman, became a keen fisher; and, as it is said, "a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind," I also, being fond of the sport, became a mighty favourite with the bluff-faced squire. It was on a fine bracing day in March, after a tolerable day's fis.h.i.+ng, we went to dine and spend the afternoon in the Angler's Inn, which stands at the north end of the bridge over the Coquet, at the foot of the hill leading up to Longframlington. Observing that Ben was in good sailing trim, I dropped a hint that an account of his voyages and cruises on the ocean of life would be interesting.

Ah, my boy (said Ben), you are there with your soundings, are you? Well, you shall have a long story by the shortest tack. Somebody was my father (continued he), but whom I know not. This much I know about my mother: she was cook in a gentleman's family in this county, and being a fat, portly body--something of the build of her son, I take it--no one suspected that she was in a certain delicate situation, until within a few days before I was born. Then, with very grief and shame, the poor thing became delirious; and, as an old servant of the family has since told me, you could see the very flesh melting off her bones. While she continued in a state of delirium, your humble servant, poor Benjamin, was born; and without recovering her senses, she died within an hour after my birth, leaving me--a beautiful orphan, as you see me now--a legacy to the workhouse and the world. Benjamin was my mother's family name--from which I suppose they had something of the Jew in their blood; though, Heaven knows, I have none in my composition. So they who had the christening of me gave me my mother's name of Benjamin, as my Christian name: and from her occupation as _cook_, they surnamed me Cookson--that is, "Benjamin the Cook's son," simply Benjamin Cookson, more simply, Squire Ben. Well, you see, my boy, I was born beneath the roof of an English squire, and before I was three hours old was handed over to the workhouse. This was the beginning of my life. The first thing I remember was hating the workhouse--the second was loving the sea. Yes, sir, before I was seven years old, I used to steal away in the n.o.ble company of my own good self, and sit down upon a rock on the solitary beach, watching the s.h.i.+ps, the waves, and the sea-birds--wis.h.i.+ng to be a wave, a s.h.i.+p, or a bird--ay, sir, wis.h.i.+ng to be anything but poor orphan Ben.

The sea was to me what my parents should have been--a thing I delighted to look upon. I loved the very music of its maddest storms; though, quietly, I have since had enough of them. I began my career before I was ten years of age, as cabin-boy in a collier. My skipper was a dare-devil, tear-away sort of fellow, who cared no more for running down one of your coasting craft than for turning a quid in his mouth. But he was a good, honest, kindhearted sort of a chap, for all that--barring that the rope's-end was too often in his hand.

"Ben," says he to me one misty day, when we were taking coals across the herring pond to the Dutchmen, and the man at the helm could not see half-way to the mast-head--"Ben, my little fellow, can you cipher?"

"Yes, sir," says I.

"The deuce you can!" says he; "then you're just the lad for me. And do you understand logarithms?"

"No, sir," says I; "what sort of wood be they?"

"Wood be hanged! you blockhead!" said he, raising his foot in a pa.s.sion, but a smile on the corners of his mouth shoved it to the deck again before it reached me. "But come, Ben, you can cipher, you say; well, I know all about the radius and tangents, and them sort of things, and stating the question; but blow me if I have a multiplication-table on board--my fingers are of no use at a long number, and I am always getting out of it counting by chalks;--so come below, Ben, and look over the question, and let us find where we are. I know I have made a mistake some way; and mark ye, Ben, if you don't find it out--ye that can cipher--there's a rope's-end to your supper, and that's all."

Howsever, sir, I did find it out, and I was regarded as a prodigy in the s.h.i.+p ever after. The year before I was out of my apprentices.h.i.+p, our vessel was laid up for four months, and the skipper sent me to school during the time, at his own expense, saying--

"Get navigation, Ben, my boy, and you will one day be a commodore--by Jupiter, you'll be an honour to the navy."

I got as far as "_Dead Reckoning_" and there, I reckon, I made a dead stand, or rather, I ceased to do anything but study "_Lunar Observations_." Our owner had a daughter, my own age to a day. I can't describe her, sir; I haven't enough of what I suppose you would call poetry about me for that, but, upon the word of a sailor, her hair was like night rendered transparent--black, jet black; her neck white as the spray on the bosom of a billow; her face was lovelier than a rainbow; and her figure handsome as a frigate in full sail. But she had twenty thousand pounds--she was no bargain for orphan Ben! However, I saw her, and that was enough--learning and I shook hands. Her father had a small yacht--he proposed taking a pleasure party to the Coquet. Jess--for that was her name--was one of the pa.s.sengers, and the management of the yacht was intrusted to me. In spite of myself, I gazed upon her by the hour--I was intoxicated with pa.s.sion--my heart swelled as if it would burst from my bosom. I saw a t.i.tled puppy touch her fingers--I heard him prattle love in her ears. My first impulse was to dash him overboard. I wished the sea which I loved might rise and swallow us. I thought it would be happiness to die in her company--perhaps to sink with her arm clinging round my neck for protection. The wish of my madness was verified. We were returning. We were five miles from the sh.o.r.e. A squall, then a hurricane, came on--every sail was reefed--the mast was snapped as I would snap that pipe between my fingers (here the old squire, suiting the action to the word, broke the end off his pipe)--the sea rose--the hurricane increased, the yacht capsised, as a feather twirls in the wind. Every soul that had been on board was now struggling for life--buffeting the billows. At that moment I had but one thought, and that was of Jess; but one wish, and that was to die with her. I saw my fellow-creatures in their death agonies, but I looked only for her. At the moment we were upset, she was clinging to the arm of the t.i.tled puppy for protection; and now I saw her within five yards of me still clinging to the skirts of his coat, calling on him and on her father to save her; and I saw him--yes, sir, I saw the monster, while struggling with one hand, raise the other to strike her on the face, that he might extricate himself from her grasp.

"Brute!--monster!" I exclaimed; and the next moment I had fixed my clenched hands in the hair of his head. Then, with one hand, I grasped the arm of her I loved; and, with the other, uttering a fiendish yell, I endeavoured to hurl the coward to the bottom of the sea. The yacht still lay bottom up, but was now a hundred yards from us; however, getting my arm round the waist of my adored Jess--I laughed at the sea--I defied the hurricane. We reached the yacht. Her keel was not three feet out of the water; and with my right hand I managed to obtain a hold of it. I saw two of the crew and six of the pa.s.sengers perish; but her father, and the coward who had struck her from him, still struggled with the waves. They were borne far from us. Within half-an-hour I saw a vessel pick them up. It tried to reach us, but could not. Two hours more had pa.s.sed, and night was coming on--my strength gave way--my hold loosened.

I made one more desperate effort; I fixed my teeth in the keel--but the burden under my left arm was still sacred--I felt her breath upon my cheek--it inspired me with a lion's strength, and for another hour I clung to the keel. Then the fury of the storm slackened;--a boat from the vessel that had picked up her father reached us--we were taken on board. She was senseless, but still breathed--my arm seemed glued round her waist. I was almost unconscious of everything, but an attempt to take her from me. My teeth gnashed when they touched my hand to do so.

As we approached the vessel, those on board hailed us with three cheers.

We were lifted on deck. She was conveyed to the cabin. In a few minutes I became fully conscious of our situation. Some one gave me brandy--my brain became on fire.

"Where is she?" I exclaimed--"did I not save her?--save her from the coward who would have murdered her?"

I rushed to the cabin--she was recovering--her father stood over her--strangers were rubbing her bosom. Her father took my hand to thank me; but I was frantic--I rushed towards her--I bent over her--I pressed my lips to hers--I called her mine. Her father grasped me by the collar.

"Boy, beggar, b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" he exclaimed.

With his last word, half of my frenzy vanished; for a moment I seized him by the throat--I cried, "Repeat the word!"

I groaned in the agony of shame and madness. I rushed upon the deck--we were then within a quarter-of-a-mile from the sh.o.r.e--I plunged overboard--I swam to the beach--I reached it.

I became interested in the narrative of the squire, and I begged he would continue it with less rapidity.

Rapidity! (said he, fixing upon me a glance in which I thought there was something like disdain). Youngster, if you cast a feather into the stream, it will be borne on with it. But (added he, in a less hurried tone, after pausing to breathe for a few moments), after struggling with the strong surge for a good half-hour, I reached the sh.o.r.e. My utmost strength was spent, and I was scarce able to drag myself a dozen yards beyond tide-mark, when I sank exhausted on the beach. I lay, as though in sleep, until night had gathered round me, and when I arose, cold and benumbed, my delirium had pa.s.sed away. My bosom, however, like a galley manned with criminals, was still the prison-house of agonising feelings, each more unruly than another. Every scene in which I had borne a part during the day rushed before me in a moment--her image--the image of my Jess, mingled with each. I hated existence--I almost despised myself; but tears started from my eyes--the suffocation in my breast pa.s.sed away, and I again breathed freely. I will not trouble you with details.

I will pa.s.s over the next five years of my life, during which I was man-of-war's man, privateer, and smuggler. But I will tell you how I became a smuggler, for that calling I only followed for a week, and that was from necessity; but, as you shall hear, it well-nigh cost me my life. Britain had just launched into a war with France, and I was first mate of a small privateer, carrying two guns and a long Tom. We were trying our fortune within six leagues of the Dutch coast, when two French merchantmen hove in sight. They were too heavy metal for us, and we saw that it would be necessary to deal with them warily. So, hoisting the republican flag, we bore down upon them; but the Frenchmen were not to be had; and no sooner had we come within gunshot, than one of them saluted our little craft with a broadside that made her dance in the water. It was evident there was no chance for us but at close quarters.

"Cookson," says our commander to me, "what's to be done, my lad?"

"Leave the privateer," says I.

"What!" says he, "take the long boat and run, without singeing a Frenchman's whisker! No, blow me," says he.

"No, sir," says I; "board them--give them a touch of the cold steel."

"Right, Ben, my boy," says he. "Helm about there--look to your cutla.s.ses, my hearties--and now for the Frenchman's deck, and French wine to supper." The next moment we had tacked about, and were under the Frenchman's bow. In turning round, long Tom had been discharged, and clipped the rigging of the other vessel beautifully. The commander, myself, and a dozen more, sprang upon the enemy's deck, cutla.s.s in hand.

Our reception was as warm as powder and steel could make it--the Frenchmen fought like devils, and disputed with us every inch of the deck hand to hand. But, d'ye see, we beat them aft, though their numbers were two to one; yet, as bad luck would have it, out of the twelve of us who had boarded her, only seven were now able to handle a cutla.s.s; and amongst those who lay dying on the enemy's deck was our gallant commander. He was a n.o.ble fellow, sir--a regular fire-eater, even in death. Bleeding, dying as he was, he endeavoured to drag his body along the deck to a.s.sist us--and when finding it would not do, and he could move no farther, he drew a pistol from his belt, and raising himself on one hand, he discharged it at the head of the French captain with the other, and shouting out, "Go it, my hearties!--Ben! never yield!" his head fell upon the deck; and "he died like a true British sailor." But, sir, the other vessel that had been crippled at that moment made alongside. Her crew also boarded to a.s.sist their countrymen, and we were attacked fore and aft. There was nothing now left for us but to cut our way to the privateer, which had been brought round to the other side of the vessel we had boarded. She had been left to the care of the second mate and six seamen; but the traitor, seeing our commander fall, and the hopelessness of our success, cut the las.h.i.+ngs and bore off, leaving us to our fate on the deck of the enemy. Our number was now reduced to five, and we were hemmed in on all sides--but we fought like tigers bereaved of their cubs. We placed ourselves heel to heel, we formed a little circle of death. I know not whether it was admiration of our courage, or the cowardice of the enemy, that induced them to proclaim a truce, and to offer us a boat, oars, and provisions, and to depart with our arms. We agreed to their proposal, after fighting an hour upon their deck. And here begins my short, but eventful history as a smuggler. We had been six hours at sea in the open boat, when we were picked up by a smuggling lugger named the Wildfire. Her captain was an Englishman, and her cargo, which consisted princ.i.p.ally of brandy and Hollands, was to be delivered at Spittal and Boomer. It was about daybreak on the third morning after we had been picked up; we were again within sight of the Coquet Isle. I had not seen it for five years. It called up a thousand recollections--I became entranced in the past. My Jess seemed again clinging to my neck--I again thought I felt her breath upon my cheek--and again involuntarily I exclaimed aloud, "_She shall be mine_."

But I was aroused from my reverie by a cry--"A cruiser--a cutter ahead!"

In a moment the deck of the lugger became a scene of consternation. The cutter was making upon us rapidly; and though the Wildfire sailed n.o.bly, her pursuer skimmed over the sea like a swallow. The skipper of the lugger seemed to become insane as the danger increased. He ordered every gun to be loaded, and a six-oared gig to be got in readiness. The cutter fired on us, the Wildfire returned the salute, and three of the cutter's men fell. A few more shots were exchanged, and the lugger was disabled; her skipper and the Englishmen of his crew took the gig, and made for the sh.o.r.e. In a few minutes more, we were boarded by the commander of the cutter, and a part of her crew. I knew the commander's face; his countenance, his name, were engraved as with a sharp instrument on my heart. His name was Melton--the Honourable Lieutenant Melton--my enemy--the man I hated--the t.i.tled puppy of whom I spoke--my rival for the hand of my Jess. He approached me--he knew me as I did him. We lost no love between us--I heard his teeth grate as he fixed his eyes on me, and mine echoed to the sound.

"Slave! scoundrel!" were his first words, "we have met again at last, and your life shall pay the forfeit! Place him in irons!"

"Coward!" I hurled in his teeth a second time, and my hand grasped my cutla.s.s, which in a moment flashed in the air. His armed crew sprang between us--I defied them all--he grew bold under their protection.

"Strike him down!" he exclaimed; and, springing forward, his sword entered my side--but scarce was it withdrawn, ere _his_ blood streamed from the point of my cutla.s.s to my hand.

Suffice it to say, I was overpowered and disarmed--I was taken on board his cutter, and put in irons. And now, sir (continued the squire, raising his voice, for the subject seemed to wound him), know that you are in the company of a man who has been condemned to die--yes, sir, to die like a common murderer on the gallows! You start--but it is true; and, if you do not like the company of a man for whom the hangman once provided a neckerchief, I will drop my story.

I requested him to proceed.

Well, sir (continued he), I was lodged in prison. I was accused of being a smuggler--of having drawn my sword against one of His Majesty's officers--of having wounded him. On the testimony of my enemy and his crew, I was tried and condemned--condemned to die without hope of pardon. I had but a day to live, when a lady entered my miserable cell.

She came to comfort the criminal, to administer consolation in his last hour. I was in no mood to listen to the admonitions of the female Samaritan, and I was about to bid her depart from me. Her face was veiled, and in the dim light of my dungeon I saw it not. But she spoke, and her voice went through my soul like the remembrance of a national air which we have sung in childhood, and hear in a foreign land.

"Lady!" I exclaimed, "what fiend hath sent thee? Come ye to ask me to forgive my murderer? If _you_ command it, I will."