The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  “Look—look—merciful powers, it is Ralli!” was Lance’s horrified exclamation as he grasped the skipper convulsively by the shoulder and pointed with a trembling hand to the shore.

  Sure enough it was Ralli. The pirates had either not waited to seek him, or had not thought of looking for him in the cottage before setting out on their expedition against the shipyard, and he had consequently been left there. But somehow—doubtless in the desperation of mortal fear excited by the dreadful phenomena in operation around him—he had at last succeeded in freeing himself from his bonds, and was now seen running toward the beach, screaming madly for help.

  The stream of lava was only a few yards behind him, and it had now spread out to the entire width of the very narrow valley. The unhappy wretch was flying for his life; terror seemed to have endowed him with superhuman strength and speed, and for a moment it almost appeared as though he would come out a winner in the dreadful race.

  “’Bout ship!” sharply rang out the skipper’s voice; “he is a fiend rather than a man, but he must not perish thus horribly if we can save him.”

  He put the helm hard down as he spoke, and the schooner shot up into the wind, with her sails sluggishly flapping. But before she had time to get fairly round the helm was suddenly righted and then put hard up.

  “Keep all fast,” commanded Captain Staunton, “it is too late; no mortal power can save him. See! he is already in the grasp of his fate.”

  Such was indeed the case. The fierce breath of that onward-rolling flood of fire was upon him; its scorching heat sapped his strength; he staggered and fell. With the rapidity of a lightning flash he was up and away again; but—Merciful God—see! his clothing is all ablaze; and listen to those dreadful shrieks of fear and agony—Ah! miserable wretch, now the flood itself is upon him; see how the waves of fire curl round him—he throws up his arms with a harsh despairing blood-curdling yell—he sinks—he is gone—and the surging fiery river sweeps grandly on until it plunges with an awful hissing sound into the waters of the bay and the whole scene becomes blotted out by the vast curtain of steam which shoots up and spreads itself abroad.

  “What a night of horror! it is hell upon earth!” gasps the skipper, as he turns his eyes away and devotes himself once more solely to the task of navigating the schooner; “thank God the breeze is freshening, and we may now hope to be soon out of this and clear of it all. Phew! what terrific lightning, and what an infernal combination of deafening sounds!”

  Fortunate was it for the schooner and her crew that the wind was from the southward, or blowing directly down into the bay; otherwise they would speedily have been lost in the thick clouds of steam which rose from the water, or set on fire by the dense shower of red-hot ashes which now began to fall thickly about them. As it was, though the wind was against them, and they were compelled to beat up the bay, the wind kept back the steam, and also to a great extent the falling ashes. But, notwithstanding these favourable circumstances, the crew were obliged to keep the decks deluged with water to prevent their being ignited.

  Gradually, however, the Petrel drew further and further beyond the influence of this danger; and soon the rock at the harbor’s mouth was sighted. Captain Staunton was at first somewhat anxious about risking the passage out to sea, being doubtful whether the explosion of the magazine had yet taken place; but a little reflection satisfied him that it must have occurred, as they had been drifting about the bay for nearly an hour, and he determined to push on.

  Suddenly there was a shout from the look-out forward: “Boat ahead!” immediately followed by the information, “It’s the launch, sir, bottom-up!”

  Such indeed it proved to be when the schooner a minute later glided past it. But where were her crew? They had disappeared, leaving no sign behind them.

  The hoarse angry roar of the breakers outside was now distinctly audible; and in another five minutes’ time the Petrel’s helm was eased up, she was kept away a couple of points, and, shooting through the short narrow passage on the eastern side of the rock, began to plunge with a gentle swinging motion over the endless procession of long slowly-moving swell outside.

  The crew of the schooner had time to note, as they swept past the rock and through the passage, that the battery no longer frowned down upon the bay. In its place there appeared a yawning fire-blackened chasm; and the shipyard was thickly strewed with masses and fragments of rock of all sizes; both whale-boats were swamped; and a solitary gun, with a fragment of its carriage still attached, lay half in and half out of the water. The timbers of the dismembered cradle still floated huddled together like a raft, close to the landing.

  “Now,” said Lance to Captain Staunton, as soon as they were fairly outside of the harbor, “we are free, thank God! and, as there seems to be no immediate prospect of your further needing my help, I will go and look after the wounded and the ladies. Poor souls! what a fearful time of suspense and terror they must have passed, pent up there in the cabin, listening to all these fearful sounds, and not knowing what it means or what will be the end of it.”

  Lance accordingly descended, to find the ladies pale as death, and their eyes dilated with fear, resolutely doing their best with the aid of the steward to assuage the agonies of the wounded. He was, of course, at once assailed with a hundred questions, to which, however, he put a stop by holding up his hand and laughingly saying—

  “Pray, spare me, and show me a little mercy, I beseech you; to answer all your questions would occupy me for the remainder of the night. Be satisfied, therefore, for the present with the general statement that we have successfully launched the schooner—as doubtless you have long ago found out for yourselves; that there has been a terrible earthquake, accompanied by a volcanic eruption which bids fair to completely destroy the island; that we are now in the open ocean, having made good our escape, and that there is at present nothing more to fear. Where is May?”

  “She is asleep in that berth,” answered Mrs Staunton, “so I hope the worst of the poor child’s pain is over.”

  “No doubt of it,” answered Lance; “the fact that she is sleeping is in itself a sufficient indication of that. And now, let me first thank you for your care of my patients here—to whom I will now myself attend—and next order you all three peremptorily off to bed. Away with you at once to the most comfortable quarters you can find, and try to get a good night’s rest.”

  Utterly worn out, the ladies were only too glad to obey this order; and they accordingly forthwith retired to the cabins which the steward had already prepared for them.

  The more severely wounded were then speedily attended to, their injuries carefully dressed, and themselves comfortably bestowed in their hammocks; after which came the turn of the others.

  By the time that Lance had fully completed his arduous task the first faint streaks of dawn were lighting up the eastern horizon; and he went on deck to get a breath or two of fresh air. He found the schooner slipping along at a fine pace under every stitch of canvas she could spread, including studding-sails, with the breeze about two points on the starboard quarter, a clear sky above her, and a clear sea all round. Away astern, as the light grew stronger, could be seen a dark patch of smoke low down upon the horizon, indicating the position of “Albatross Island;” but the land itself had sunk below the horizon long before.

  My story is now ended; very little more remains to be told, and that little must be told as tersely as possible.

  The Petrel made a very rapid and prosperous passage home, and in due time arrived at Plymouth—long before which, however, the wounded had all completely recovered. Here the passengers landed; whilst Captain Staunton proceeded with the schooner to London, where the craft was safely docked and her crew paid off. The skipper then made the best of his way to the office of the owners of the Galatea, where he was received with joyous surprise, his story listened to with the greatest interest, and himself congratulated upon his marvellous escape from the many perils which he had encountered. And, best of all, befor
e the interview terminated, his owners showed in the most practical manner their continued confidence in him by offering him the command of a very fine new ship which they had upon the stocks almost ready for launching.

  I must leave it to the lively imaginations of my readers to picture for themselves the rapturous welcome home experienced by the other personages who have figured in this story, merely remarking that it left absolutely nothing to be desired, its warmth being of itself a sufficient compensation for all the hardship and suffering they had endured.

  The gold which Bob’s forethought had been the means of securing was duly divided equally between all who could fairly be regarded as entitled to a share; and, though it certainly did not amount to a fortune apiece, it proved amply sufficient to compensate the sharers for their loss of time.

  On the receipt of his moiety, Bob gave a grand supper to all his friends in Brightlingsea, the which is referred to with justifiable pride by the landlady of the “Anchor” even unto this day.

  It was whilst this eventful supper was in full swing that Lance Evelin unexpectedly made his appearance upon the scene. He was enthusiastically welcomed by Bob, duly introduced to the company, and at once joined them, making himself so thoroughly at home with them, and entering so completely into the spirit of the affair, that he sprang at a single bound into their best graces, and was vehemently declared by one and all to be “a real out-and-outer.”

  The next day found him closeted for a full hour with old Bill Maskell, after which, to everybody’s profound astonishment, the pair left for London. Only to return next day, however, accompanied by a fine tall soldierly-looking old man, to whom Bob was speedily introduced, and by whom he was claimed, to his unqualified amazement, as an only and long-lost son. Sir Richard Lascelles—for he it was—was indebted to Lance for this joyous discovery; and it was almost pitiful to witness the poor old gentleman’s efforts to adequately express his gratitude to Evelin for the totally unexpected restoration of his son to his arms.

  Bob, now no longer Bob Legerton but Mr Richard Lascelles, was speedily transferred to his father’s house in London; and, according to the latest accounts, he is now busy qualifying himself to enter the navy.

  Poor old Bill Maskell was in a strangely agitated condition for some time after the occurrence of these events, being alternately in a state of the greatest hilarity at Bob’s return home, and despondency at the reflection that henceforth the remainder of their lives must be spent apart. Sir Richard has, however, done what he could to console the poor old man by purchasing for him a pretty little cottage and garden in the most pleasant part of Brightlingsea, supplementing the gift with an allowance of one hundred and fifty pounds a year for the remainder of his life.

  Some two months or so after the arrival home of the Petrel a notice appeared in the Morning Post and other papers announcing a double marriage at Saint George’s, Hanover Square; the contracting parties being respectively Launcelot Evelin and Blanche Lascelles; and Rex Fortescue and Violet Dudley; there is every reason therefore to suppose that those four persons are at last perfectly happy.

  It has been whispered—in the strictest confidence, of course—that there is some idea of fitting out an expedition to the South Pacific, for the purpose of ascertaining whether “Albatross Island” is still in existence, and, if so, whether there is any possibility of working the enormously rich gold mine, the strange discovery of which is recorded in these pages.

  Should the expedition he undertaken and carried out with results worthy of note, an effort will be made to collect the fullest particulars, with the view of arranging them in narrative form for the entertainment of such readers as are sufficiently interested in our friends to wish for further intelligence about them.

  THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND, by Howard Pyle

  It is not so easy to tell why discredit should be cast upon a man because of something that his grandfather may have done amiss, but the world, which is never overnice in its discrimination as to where to lay the blame, is often pleased to make the innocent suffer in the place of the guilty.

  Barnaby True was a good, honest, biddable lad, as boys go, but yet he was not ever allowed altogether to forget that his grandfather had been that very famous pirate, Capt. William Brand, who, after so many marvelous adventures (if one may believe the catchpenny stories and ballads that were written about him), was murdered in Jamaica by Capt. John Malyoe, the commander of his own consort, the Adventure galley.

  It has never been denied, that ever I heard, that up to the time of Captain Brand’s being commissioned against the South Sea pirates he had always been esteemed as honest, reputable a sea captain as could be.

  When he started out upon that adventure it was with a ship, the Royal Sovereign, fitted out by some of the most decent merchants of New York. The governor himself had subscribed to the adventure, and had himself signed Captain Brand’s commission. So, if the unfortunate man went astray, he must have had great temptation to do so, many others behaving no better when the opportunity offered in those far-away seas where so many rich purchases might very easily be taken and no one the wiser.

  To be sure, those stories and ballads made our captain to be a most wicked, profane wretch; and if he were, why, God knows he suffered and paid for it, for he laid his bones in Jamaica, and never saw his home or his wife and daughter again after he had sailed away on the Royal Sovereign on that long misfortunate voyage, leaving them in New York to the care of strangers.

  At the time when he met his fate in Port Royal Harbor he had obtained two vessels under his command—the Royal Sovereign, which was the boat fitted out for him in New York, and the Adventure galley, which he was said to have taken somewhere in the South Seas. With these he lay in those waters of Jamaica for over a month after his return from the coasts of Africa, waiting for news from home, which, when it came, was of the very blackest; for the colonial authorities were at that time stirred up very hot against him to take him and hang him for a pirate, so as to clear their own skirts for having to do with such a fellow. So maybe it seemed better to our captain to hide his ill-gotten treasure there in those far-away parts, and afterward to try and bargain with it for his life when he should reach New York, rather than to sail straight for the Americas with what he had earned by his piracies, and so risk losing life and money both.

  However that might be, the story was that Captain Brand and his gunner, and Captain Malyoe of the Adventure and the sailing master of the Adventure all went ashore together with a chest of money (no one of them choosing to trust the other three in so nice an affair), and buried the treasure somewhere on the beach of Port Royal Harbor. The story then has it that they fell a-quarreling about a future division or the money, and that, as a wind-up to the affair, Captain Malyoe shot Captain Brand through the head, while the sailing master of the Adventure served the gunner of the Royal Sovereign after the same fashion through the body, and that the murderers then went away, leaving the two stretched out in their own blood on the sand in the staring sun, with no one to know where the money was hid but they two who had served their comrades so.

  It is a mighty great pity that anyone should have a grandfather who ended his days in such a sort as this, but it was no fault of Barnaby True’s, nor could he have done anything to prevent it, seeing that he was not even born into the world at the time that his grandfather turned pirate, and was only one year old when he so met his tragical end. Nevertheless, the boys with whom he went to school never tired of calling him “Pirate,” and would sometimes sing for his benefit that famous catchpenny song beginning thus:

  Oh, my name was Captain Brand,

  A-sailing,

  And a-sailing;

  Oh, my name was Captain Brand,

  A-sailing free.

  Oh, my name was Captain Brand,

  And I sinned by sea and land,

  For I broke God’s just command,

  A-sailing free.

  ’Twas a vile thing to sing at the grandson of so misfortunate
a man, and oftentimes little Barnaby True would double up his fists and would fight his tormentors at great odds, and would sometimes go back home with a bloody nose to have his poor mother cry over him and grieve for him.

  Not that his days were all of teasing and torment, neither; for if his comrades did treat him so, why, then, there were other times when he and they were as great friends as could be, and would go in swimming together where there was a bit of sandy strand along the East River above Fort George, and that in the most amicable fashion. Or, maybe the very next day after he had fought so with his fellows, he would go a-rambling with them up the Bowerie Road, perhaps to help them steal cherries from some old Dutch farmer, forgetting in such adventure what a thief his own grandfather had been.

  Well, when Barnaby True was between sixteen and seventeen years old he was taken into employment in the countinghouse of Mr. Roger Hartright, the well-known West India merchant, and Barnaby’s own stepfather.

  It was the kindness of this good man that not only found a place for Barnaby in the countinghouse, but advanced him so fast that against our hero was twenty-one years old he had made four voyages as supercargo to the West Indies in Mr. Hartright’s ship, the Belle Helen, and soon after he was twenty-one undertook a fifth. Nor was it in any such subordinate position as mere supercargo that he acted, but rather as the confidential agent of Mr. Hartright, who, having no children of his own, was very jealous to advance our hero into a position of trust and responsibility in the countinghouse, as though he were indeed a son, so that even the captain of the ship had scarcely more consideration aboard than he, young as he was in years.