The Gypsy Queen's Vow

CHAPTER XIX.

PLAYING WITH EDGED TOOLS

Miss Petronilla Lawless was an exceedingly precocious, an exceedingly courageous, and an exceedingly self-possessed young lady, as our readers are aware, yet now her brave heart for one moment seemed to die within her, and a terrified shriek arose and was barely suppressed on her lips. The hour, the scene, the darkness, the danger, might have made an older and stronger person quail. Alone in the woods, where no scream for help could be heard, with the gloom of Hades all around, save when the blue blaze of the heat-lightning flashed for a moment through the darkness, helpless and alone, in the power of a fierce, blood-thirsty negro. For one instant, a deadly inclination to swoon came over her; but the next, “coward and boaster,” as she heard the words from Ranty’s lips, came borne to her ear, nerving her heart with new courage and her childish arms with new strength.

“Am I a coward and boaster, as he said?” she mentally exclaimed, while her eye lit fiercely up. “Yes, I am, if I scream and faint; so I won’t do either. It wasn’t for nothing I learned to shoot and carry pistols about, and Ranty won’t call me a coward again, if I die for it!”

All these thoughts had passed through her mind in half an instant, and now the dauntless little amazon sat erect on her horse, and one little brown hand dropped to the pistol she carried in her belt.

The black, meanwhile, had held her rearing steed firmly by the bridle-rein.

“Come, get off with you!” said the negro, gruffly. “I’ll look after you for a few days, Miss Pet. Come; I’ve got a place all ready for you in here.”

Now, Pet was too young and guileless to fear any worse fate than robbery, imprisonment, or, perhaps, death; but as the negro attempted to pass one arm around her waist and lift her from her saddle, her face blanched with horror and loathing, and shrinking back she shrieked:

“Let me go – let me go, I tell you! I’ll kill you if you don’t let me go!”

“Oh come, now, missy – none o’ this. Little kittens spit and snap, but we ain’t afraid of ’em. You’ve got to come! so you may as well come at once.”

“Lift her off, and carry her ’long. No use a-standin’ foolin’ here!” said another deep, guttural voice.

“Let me alone! I tell you let me alone! I’ll murder you, if you don’t!” screamed Pet, passionately, her finger closing hard on the trigger.

“Oh, I’m getting tired of this yer!” exclaimed the black, as he resigned the horse to his companion.

And, going over to Pet, he flung his arm around her and attempted to lift her from her saddle.

A flash of lightning at that instant revealed the black, shining visage plainly to Pet as his face was upraised to hers.

Her teeth were clenched hard, her pistol was raised, one swift short prayer for help, and the brave little amazon fired!

A loud cry, that arose even above the sharp report, burst from the lips of him who held the horse, as he let go the reins and sprung toward his wounded companion.

The frightened Arabian, the moment he felt himself released, bounded madly away, and in five minutes Pet was beyond danger.

The cottage on the Barrens was the nearest habitation; but all was dark there, and the family had evidently retired to rest.

While Pet paused to deliberate a moment whether she would rouse them up or ride home to Heath Hill, she chanced to turn her eyes in the direction of the White Squall – as the old sailor, Admiral Havenful, had named his huge white palace of painted wood – and perceived a long line of red light streaming from one of the windows far over the dry level moor.

“Uncle Harry’s up yet!” exclaimed Pet. “I’ll go there, and stay all night. Gee up, Starlight! You have carried me out of danger once to-night; just take me to ‘Old Harry’s,’ as Deb says, and then you may put your head under your wing and go to sleep as fast as you like.”

As if he had understood her, her fleet steed bounded furiously over the heath; and five minutes later, Pet was standing knocking away with the butt-end of her whip on the door, loud enough to waken the dead.

The terrific thumping brought three or four servants scampering to the door; and close at their heels, holding a bedroom candlestick high over her head, came the “grand seigneur” of the household, himself looking slightly bewildered at this attempt to board him by force.

“Law! if it ain’t Miss Pet!” ejaculated the man who admitted her. “Might ’a’ known ’twar she; nobody else would come thumpin’ like dat. Fit to t’ar de ruff off!”

“Don’t be afraid, Uncle Harry; it’s only me!” said Pet, as she came in dispersing the darkeys by a grand flourish of her whip.

“Port your helm!” exclaimed the admiral, still slightly bewildered, as he held the candlestick aloft and stared at Pet with all his eyes.

“Well, how can I port my helm out here, I want to know?” cried Pet, testily. “Look at these niggers gaping, as if I had two heads on me, and you, standing staring at me, with that old candlestick over your head, that’s got no candle in it. Here! go along with you! Be off with you!”

And again Pet flourished her whip among them, in a way that had the effect of speedily sending them flying to the kitchen regions, while she gave her passive uncle a push that sent him into the parlor from which he had just emerged.

This done, Pet followed him, shut the door with a bang, flung her whip across the room, and dropped, with a long, deep breath of relief and security, into an arm-chair.

The admiral sunk into another, still holding the candlestick in his hand, and never removing his eyes from her face. Thus they sat for some minutes, she gazing on the floor, he gazing in helpless bewilderment on her; and while they are thus engaged, we will take the liberty of glancing round the parlor of the White Squall.

Like the sitting-room of Miss Priscilla Toosypegs, there was a “plentiful scarcity” of the ornamental, and, unlike hers, a great preponderance of the useless. The floor was covered by a thick, dark carpet; the windows were shaded by blue-paper blinds; the walls were as white as the largest possible amount of whitewash could make them, and adorned by pencil draughts of ships, brigs, schooners, corvettes, and every other kind of vessel that ever delighted the heart of a sailor and puzzled an uninitiated female to describe.

Over the mantel-piece was a huge painting of a straw colored and pink man-of-war, on a blue-green sea, blazing away at a terrified-looking little cutter, on whose deck could be seen a gentleman and a lady, both considerably taller than the mainmast. This work of art was the pride and glory of the admiral, and was displayed to every stranger who visited the White Squall as something that might make even the great old masters look to their laurels.

Deer-antlers bristled in various corners, and five or six huge cages, filled with owls, parrots, hawks, and a dozen other strange birds, hung from the ceiling, while the model of a ship, some three feet long, with all her sails set, her cargo and crew most probably under the hatches – for none were visible on deck – and apparently all ready for sea, stood on the mantel-piece, right under the painting.

A huge, wide fireplace, in which, despite the warmth of the evening, a bright fire was burning, occupied one corner of the apartment, and close beside this sat Admiral Havenful, in his elbow-chair, still staring at his niece.

The admiral was a man of fifty or so, short, stout, plethoric, with a rubicund face, a jolly sailor’s swagger, and a simple, good-natured look, naturally, that made every heart warm toward him. Very rich, very generous, and very easily “taken in,” he was the guardian-angel of all the poor in the neighborhood. The admiral had never married, and had only quitted the service a few years before to settle down and end his days in the pride of his heart, his huge, white, eye-blinding “White Squall.” A fondness for whisky-punch, children, and nautical phrases, were the most noticeable traits in the old man’s character. His niece, Pet Lawless, had never ceased to astonish him, from the first moment he saw her, and now he sat hopelessly gazing at her, and trying to make out what could have brought her there at that hour of the night, looking so pale and excited.

Pet, with her dark eyes fixed on the floor, was uneasily wondering whether she had killed the man she had shot at, and shuddering to think what a dreadful thing it was to shed blood, even in self-defense.

“Oh, I hope – I do hope I haven’t killed him!” she exclaimed at last, involuntarily, aloud.

“Killed who? Firefly?” inquired the astounded admiral.

“Uncle Harry,” said Pet, looking abruptly up, “I’ve gone and killed a man!”

This startling announcement so completely overwhelmed the worthy admiral, that he could only give vent to his feelings by a stifled “Stand from under!”

“Yes, I just have; and I expect they’ll hang me for it, now. Ranty said I was to be hung, but who would think he could really tell fortunes?”

“Killed a man! St. Judas Iscariot!” ejaculated the dismayed admiral. “When, Flibbertigibbet?”

“To-night; not fifteen minutes ago. I expect he’s as dead as a herring by this time!” said Pet, planting her elbows on her knees, dropping her chin in her hands, and gazing moodily into the fire.

Admiral Havenful glanced appealingly at the candlestick; but as that offered no clue to the mystery, he took off his hat, scratched his head (or, rather, his wig; for he wore one), and then clapped it on again, and turned briskly to his niece.

“Now, little hurricane! just shake out another reef or so – will you? I’m out of my latitude altogether.”

“Well, I guess you’d have been more out of it, if you had been caught as I was to-night,” said Pet, with a sort of gloomy stoicism. “I was coming through the woods, you know, between Dismal Hollow and the Barrens, when, all of a sudden, two great, big, black niggers jumped from behind the trees, and caught hold of my horse.”

With something like a snort of terror and dismay, the admiral sprung to his feet, and brandished the candlestick fiercely over his head, while waiting for what was to come.

“Body of Paul Jones! And what did you do, whirligig?”

“Why, I told them to let go, and they wouldn’t; and then I took a pistol, and shot one of them!” exclaimed Pet, with flashing eyes.

“Hoorah!” shouted the admiral, waving the candlestick delightedly above his head. “I knew there was some of the Havenful blood in you! Three cheers for Flibbertigibbet!”

“Then my horse started, and ran off, and I came right straight here,” concluded Pet, her cheeks and eyes lighting up at the exciting recollection.

“Hoorah for little Bombshell!” roared the admiral, as he sprung forward, and catching Pet’s hand, gave it a squeeze that nearly crushed the little digits. “You ought to have been a boy, Firefly! By Saint Christopher Columbus! you are a female hero, Pet!”

“Well, but it isn’t nice to kill a man, or even a nigger! I hope he ain’t dead,” said Pet, uneasily.

“Never you mind the monkey! Served him right if he is! I do hope he’s gone to ‘Davy’s locker,’ where he’ll get a warmer welcome. Why, he would have killed you, Pet!”

“I expect he would; though I don’t see where would be the good of killing a little thing like me,” said Pet, thoughtfully humane. “I say, uncle, I’d like to go and see if he’s dead!”

“And may I be swung to the yard-arm if I let you go a step! Does the girl want to get killed again?” said the admiral, puffing up and down the room, with his hands stuck in his pockets, like a stranded porpoise.

“No; the girl doesn’t want to get killed,” said Pet, crossly. “I’m not going to be killed so easily, thank you! But it seems to me you might mount two or three of the servants, and let them come with me; and I will call for Ray Germaine; and we’ll all go together to the woods, and, maybe, catch those runaway niggers that are frightening the lives out of people. I shot one of ’em, I know; and we can track him by his bleeding. There’s a reward offered, too, for whoever takes them up; and who knows but I may get it?”

“Set fire to the reward! That’s a good notion, though, about going in search of them when they’re wounded, Pet. Oh, you’re a jewel, Flibbertigibbet, and no mistake about it! There ought to be a song made about you. I’ll go, too; and there’s no time to lose. Pipe all hands, Firefly, while I go and look for my boots.”

“Now, why couldn’t he say ‘Call the servants,’ as well as ‘Pipe all hands’? which hasn’t a sensible sound at all,” said Pet, as she arose to obey. “Here, you! Jake, Tom, Bob!” she added, opening the door, and shouting at the top of her lungs, “come here as fast as you can. There’s murder in the camp!”

“Tumble up!” roared the admiral, from within.

“Tumble up!” repeated Pet, imitating the old sailor’s gruff roar as well as she could. “Uncle says so.”

Jake, and Tom, and Bob, most probably thinking, from the uproar, the house was on fire, “tumbled up” accordingly, precipitating themselves over one another, in their eagerness to be first on the field of battle.

“Clear out, and saddle four horses, and arm yourselves with boarding-pikes and cutlasses!” commanded the admiral, fastening a rusty sword to his side, and sticking a couple of pistols in his belt. “And then mount, and ride round to the front door, and stand by for further orders. Oh, the blamed black villain! He deserves to walk the plank, if ever any one did!”

All this time, the admiral had been going panting and puffing round, like a whale, arming himself with every conceivable weapon he could lay hands on, and vociferating, alternately, to himself, to “heave to!” and “stand from under!”

Pet had run out, and sprung upon Starlight, while the three alarmed servants rode behind her. And in a few moments the admiral made his appearance, and got astride a solemn, misanthropic-looking old roan, with many grimaces and contortions; for the admiral did not believe in riding himself, and would sooner have faced a tornado, any day, on the broad Atlantic, than ride three yards on horseback.

The night was still intensely dark, but perfectly calm, and by the command of Petronilla, the men had provided dark lanterns. All were now ready; but the admiral, like most generals leading his troops to battle, considered it his duty to make a speech. Short, concise speeches on the eve of a battle are, I believe, most efficacious, and, acting on this conviction, Admiral Havenful’s was brief, pithy and to the point, beginning with an adjuration to his horse:

“Sho, Ringbone, sho! Steady’s the word, and steady it is! You are now going to fight the battles of your country, my boys, under the glorious Stars and Stripes. We ain’t got ’em here, but that’s no matter. The enemy’s before you; give ’em a raking broadside first, and then board ’em, sword in hand. The eyes of all the world are upon you now – or would be only they are sleeping about this time! Clap on all sail; and scud before the wind! Hoorah! Gee up, Ringbone!”

The effect of this spirited address could not be seen in the dark, and resolved at all hazards to practice what he preached, the admiral gave both heels a simultaneous dig into the ribs of his gloomy-looking steed, which had the effect of setting that ominously-named animal off at a shuffling dog-trot, or, rather, something between a trot and a canter, partaking of the nature of both, but being, in reality, neither. Up and down our fat admiral was churned, while groan after groan was jerked from his jolted bosom by the uneasy motion of his steed.

“She – pitches – like – an – old – hulk – on – a – swell!” came churned, word by word, like short grunts, from the lips of the admiral. “Straight – up – and – down – , and – I’ll – be – capsized – directly – by – the – confounded – old – brute!”

“Can’t you hurry, uncle?” exclaimed Pet, impatiently, reining in her fiery horse with difficulty, to the dead march of the admiral. “Here we’re going along like a funeral or a mourning procession, or a pilgrimage, or anything else that’s slow and stupid. Can’t you put some life into that spavined, knock-kneed, ring-boned, wheezy old nag of yours with your whip and spurs?”

“I – I’m – jolted – to – death – already – Pet. Every – timber – in – this – old – hulk – is – sprung. Couldn’t – go-a – step – further – if – old – Neptune – was – to – rise – from the – ocean – and – ask – it – of – me – as – a – particular – favor!” grunted the jolted admiral.

“Well, then, I can’t wait. Starlight won’t be held in,” said Pet. “I’ll ride on to old Barrens Cottage, and wake up Ray. He’ll have time to be up, and dressed, and mounted, before you reach there, at this solemn shuffle.”

And off went Pet. A very few minutes brought her to the cottage. Alighting from her horse, she rapped more decorously than was her wont, fearing to alarm Erminie.

Softly a window was raised above, and a night-capped head and a sooty face was popped out and a frightened voice demanded:

“Who’s dar?”

“It’s me, Lucy – Pet Lawless. Come down and open the door.”

“Golly! – What on yeth brings dat little debbil here, this onsarcumcised hour ob de night?” muttered Lucy, as she popped her black head in again, and shut down the window.

A moment after, and the door was opened by Lucy and Pet admitted. Lucy held a lamp in her hand, which displayed her in her robe de nuit, and showing more black ankles than grace.

“Now, then! Is Ray in bed?” abruptly demanded Petronilla.

But Lucy, who expected this nocturnal visit was to announce some one was dead, or dying, on hearing this indecorous question, set down her lamp in silence, and looked scandalized and indignant.

“Well – don’t you hear me? Is Ray in bed?” repeated our impatient Nimrod, in a higher key.

“Miss Pet Lawsliss,” said Lucy, drawing herself up stiffly, and forgetting that her costume was more light than dignified, “you may t’ink dis yer is mighty fine, to come at de dead hours ob de night, to ax if young mars’r’s in bed, but it’s somefin I wouldn’t do, ef I is brack. Bress my soul! I’s allers tooken care not to be cotched in sich wices; but young ladies, now-a-days, as have no ’spect for demselves, can’t be ’spected – ”

“Why, you hateful old thing!” exclaimed Pet, angrily. “I’dd like to know what business you have lecturing me? Vices, indeed! I declare! I have a good mind to lay my whip over your shoulders! Is Master Ray in bed? Tell me, or I’ll – leave you to guess what I’ll do to you.”

The noise of voices in violent altercation now brought Erminie to the scene of action, looking like an angel in her flowing snowy night-dress.

“Why, Pet, what is the matter?” she asked in alarm.

“Nothing, only I want Ray. Is he in bed? If he is, wake him up.”

“He is not home. He and Ranty went away somewhere, after tea, and haven’t come back. We thought they had gone to Heath Hill. Oh, Pet! has anything happened to them?” said Erminie, clasping her hands.

“Not as I know of. Like as not they’re at Heath Hill. I haven’t been there, myself, since early this morning. Now, don’t get frightened and be a goose, Minnie! I wanted Ray to help me in a splendid piece of – of – mischief; but as he’s not in, it’s no matter. Good-night, and pleasant dreams. I’m off.”

And off she was, like a shot, slamming the door behind her, after her usual fashion, and just succeeded in springing into her saddle as the slow cavalcade came tramping up.

Slowly as they rode, a short time brought them now to the forest-road. Just as they entered it, a figure came rushing out, shouting:

“Help! help! whoever you are, or he’ll bleed to death!”

“Why, it’s Ranty!” exclaimed Pet, in amazement, as she recognized the voice.

At the same moment, one of the men, lifting his lantern, let its rays stream upon the new-comer, and all started to behold a black, shining, ebony face.

“It’s a nigger!” howled the admiral. “Blow him out of the water, boys!”

“It’s not a nigger!” shouted the voice of Ranty. “If this soot was off, I’d be as white as you, if not considerably whiter. Come along; he’ll die soon, if he’s not dead already – poor fellow!”

“Who’ll die? Who are you talking about? Oh, Ranty! who is it?” exclaimed Pet, growing faint and sick with sudden apprehension.

“Why, Ray Germaine, to be sure! You’ll have something to brag of, Pet Lawless, after going and shooting Ray Germaine – won’t you, now? I always knew your lugging pistols round, like a female Blackbeard, would come to no good, and now, when you’re sentenced to State Prison for life, we’ll see how you like it. I wish to gracious there wasn’t a girl in the world!” vociferated Ranty, with a subdued howl of mingled grief and indignation.

For one dreadful moment, Pet reeled and nearly fell from her saddle. Then, with a long, wild, passionate cry, she leaped from her horse, and sped like an arrow from a bow into the woods.

She had not far to go. By one of the fitful flashes of sheet-lightning that at intervals illumined the dark, she saw a dark, slender boyish form lying motionless on the dew-drenched grass. The next instant, she was kneeling beside him, holding his head on her breast, and clasping his cold, stiff form in a wild, passionate embrace, as she cried out:

“Oh, Ray! I never meant it! I never, never thought it was you! Oh, Ray! I shall die if you do!”

“Yes, it’s all very well to take on and make a fuss now,” said Ranty, savagely, giving her a pull away; “but if you kneel hugging him there, and keep ‘never, nevering’ till doom’s day, it won’t bring him to. Get out of this, and if you want to do any good, jump on Starlight and ride off as if Satan was after you (as he always is, I do believe), to Judestown, for a surgeon.”