Lost Lenore Part 28

After p.r.o.nouncing this melancholy prognosis, the surgeon took his departure, with a promise to call again in the morning.

I returned to the bedside of my doomed comrade.

He would talk, in spite of all I could do, or say, to prevent him.

"I _will_ talk," said he, "and there's no use in your trying to stop me.

I've not much longer to live; and why should I pretend to be dead, before I really am?"

I saw it was no use to attempt keeping him either quiet or silent. It only excited him all the more; and would, perhaps, do more harm to him than letting him have his way--which I at length did. He proceeded to inform me of all the particulars of the affair. His account slightly differed from that given me by the doctor, who had doubtless heard a one-sided statement, from the friends of the bully.

"I don't know whether I've been sarved right or not," said Stormy, after concluding his account. "I sartinly called the man some ugly names; and every one about here is likely to say that it was right for him to teach me manners. But why did he stab me with a knife? My legs were staggering drunk; and he might have thrashed me without that!"

On hearing Stormy's statement, I became inspired with a feeling of fell indignation against the scoundrel, who had acted in such a cowardly manner: a determination, that my old comrade should be avenged.

I knew it would be idle to go before a magistrate, for the purpose of getting the bully punished, for the two men had come to blows, _before_ the knife had been used.

The affair would be looked upon as an affray--in which either, or both, had the right to use whatever weapons they pleased--and Stormy would be thought deserving of his fate, for not protecting himself in a more efficient manner!

I knew that he was drunk; and that even if sober he would not have used a deadly weapon in a bar-room row; but although I knew this, others would tell me, that my friend's being drunk was not the fault of the man who had stabbed him; and that if he had not chosen to defend himself according to custom, he must bear the consequences.

Impelled by my excited feelings, I left Stormy in the care of a miner who had come in to see him; and stepped over to the tavern, where the horrible deed had taken place.

About forty people were in the bar-room when I entered. Some were seated around a table where "Monte" was being dealt, while others were standing at the bar, noisily swilling their drinks.

Without making remark to any one, I listened for a few minutes to the conversation. As the affair had occurred only that afternoon, I knew that they would be talking about it in the bar-room--as in reality they were. Several men were speaking on the subject, though not disputing.

There was not much difference of opinion among them. They all seemed to regard the occurrence, as I expected they would, in the same light.

Two men had got into a quarrel, and then come to blows. One had stabbed the other--in California an everyday occurrence of trifling interest.

That was all the bar-room loungers were disposed to make of it.

I differed in opinion with them; and told them, in plain terms, that the fight they were talking about had not been a fair one, that the man who had stabbed the other had committed a crime but little less than murder.

A dozen were anxious to argue with me. How could I expect a man to be called hard names in a public room without his resenting it?

"But why did the man use a knife?" I asked. "Could the insult not have been resented without that?"

I was told that men had no business to fight at all, if they could avoid it; but when they did, each had a right to be in earnest, and do all the harm he could to the other.

I was also admonished that I had better not let "Red Ned" hear me talk as I was doing, or I might probably get served as bad as the sailor, who had offended him that same day.

I thus learnt, for the first time, that the man who had wounded Stormy was "Red Ned," and from what I had heard of this ruffian already, I was not the less determined that Stormy should be avenged.

I knew, moreover, that if "Red Ned" was to receive punishment, it would have to be inflicted by myself.

He was not in the tavern at the time; or, perhaps, he might have received it on the instant.

I returned to Stormy; and pa.s.sed that night by his side.

He was in great pain most part of the night. The distress of my mind at the poor fellow's sufferings, determined me to seek "Red Ned" the next morning; and, as Stormy would have said, "teach him manners."

When the day broke, the wounded man was in less pain, and able to converse--though not without some difficulty.

"Rowley," said he, "we must attend to business, before it be too late.

I know I shan't live through another night, and must make up my reckoning to-day. I've got about one hundred and eighty ounces; and it's all yours, my boy. I don't know that I have a relation in the world; and there is no one to whom I care to leave anything but yourself. I can die happy now, because I know that the little I leave will belong to you. Had this happened before our meeting in Sonora, my greatest sorrow at going aloft would have been, to think some stranger would spend what I have worked hard to make, while my little Rowley might be rolling hungry round the world."

At Stormy's request, the landlord of the lodging was called in; and commanded to produce the bag of gold which the sailor had placed in his keeping.

At this the man, apparently an honest fellow, went out of the room; and soon returned with the treasure, which, in the presence of the landlord and a miner who had come in, its owner formally presented to me. It was a bequest rather than a present--the act of a dying man.

"Take it, Rowley," said he, "and put it with your own. It was got in an honest manner, and let it be spent in a sensible one. Go to Liverpool, marry the girl you told me of; and have a home and family in your old age. I fancy, after all, that must be the way to be happy: for being without home and friends I know isn't. Ah! it was that as made me live the wretched roaming life, I've done."

The exertion of talking had made Stormy worse. I saw that he began to breathe with difficulty; and seemed to suffer a great deal of pain. So great was his agony, that it was almost equal agony for me to stand by his side; and I stole out, leaving him with the surgeon--who had meanwhile arrived--and the miner before mentioned.

I stole out _upon an errand_.

Volume Two, Chapter VII.

MY COMRADE AVENGED.

Perhaps ere this my errand may have been conjectured. If not I shall disclose it. I left the bedside of Stormy to seek Red Ned.

I went direct to the tavern--knowing that the bully frequented the place, and that if not there, some one could probably tell me where he might be found.

As I entered the bar-room, a tall, slender man, with red hair, was talking, in a loud voice, to a knot of others collected in front of the bar.

"Let him dare tell me that it was murder," said the red-haired man, "and I'll serve him in the same way I did the other. Murder indeed! Why, there was a dozen men by, who can prove that I listened for ten minutes to the man insulting and abusing me in the most beastly manner. Could flesh and blood stand it any longer? What is a man worth who'll not protect his character? Whoever says I acted unfair is a liar; and had better keep his cheek to himself."

As soon as I heard the speaker's voice, and had a fair look at him, I recognised him as an old acquaintance.

It was Edward Adkins, first mate and afterwards captain of the s.h.i.+p "Lenore"--the man who had discharged me in New Orleans after the death of Captain Hyland--the man who had accused me of ingrat.i.tude and theft!

Yes, it was Adkins, my old enemy.

I knew that _he_ was a coward of the most contemptible kind, and a bully as well.

What I had witnessed of his conduct on the Lenore, during many years'

service with him, had fully convinced me of this. A thorough tyrant over the crew, while cringing in the presence of Captain Hyland--who was often compelled to restrain him, from practising his petty spite upon those under his command. It did not need that last interview I had had with him in Liverpool--in the house of Mrs Hyland--to strengthen my belief that Edward Adkins was a despicable poltroon.

In answer to the question he had put: "What's a man worth who'll not protect his character?" I walked up to him and said:--"You have no character to protect, and none to lose. You are a cowardly ruffian.

You purposely started a quarrel with an inoffensive man; and drew your knife upon him when you knew he was helpless with drink."

"h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation! Are you talking to me?" inquired Adkins, turning sharply round, his face red with rage.

But his features suddenly changed to an expression that told me he wished himself anywhere else, than in the presence of the man to whom he had addressed the profane speech.

"Yes! I'm talking to you," said I, "and I wish all present to listen to what I say. You are a cowardly wretch, and worse. You have taken the life of a harmless, innocent man, unable to protect himself. You, to talk of resenting an insult, and protecting your character--your character indeed!"

Had we two been alone, it is possible that Adkins would not have thought himself called upon to reply to what I had said; but we were in the presence of two score of men, in whose hearing he had just boasted--how he would serve the man who had been slandering him. That man was myself.

"Now!" I cried impatient for action, "you hear what I've said! You hear it, all of you?"